The scents hit first—rich, spiced, layered with something wild and unfamiliar. The dishes looked almost too perfect to eat.
Slender cuts of venison glazed in frostberry wine, their surface shimmering with a faint blue sheen. Roasted fowl with skins dusted in edible silver, stuffed with herbs that glowed faintly when sliced. Shaved roots and winterfruit arranged in fractal spirals, each slice identical, impossible. Bowls of deep-blue broth that smoked like mist, its aroma sweet and sharp enough to sting. And at the center of the table, a whole white stag laid upon a bed of black ice, its antlers wound with tiny flickering runes.
I’d seen feasts in the mortal realm—harvest festivals, wedding tables—but nothing like this. This wasn’t food; it was art, or ritual, or both. The fae didn’t eat for hunger. They consumed to remember what power felt like.
Kaelith lifted his goblet without looking at me. The Frostfather mirrored him, and the Court followed like a single body.
“To Winter’s unbroken rule,” the Frostfather said.
A hundred voices answered.To Winter.
The sound struck like a blade of ice through the air.
I raised my own glass out of reflex. The wine inside shimmered faintly, turning from silver to blue as I tilted it. It tasted like nothing I’d ever known—cold and bright, leaving a sweet ache at the back of my throat. When I set it down, frost traced the outline of my fingertips on the glass.
Fenrir shifted beside me, a low growl rumbling through his chest. I followed his gaze to the nobles on the opposite side of the table—the noblewoman who had mocked me at the last feast, Lady Calenne, among them. Her smile was small, polite, and full of teeth.
“Be careful, mortal,” she called, her tone silk-wrapped steel. “The wine here bites back.”
Soft laughter followed, rippling through the hall like wind over snow. I forced a smile. “So I’ve heard. I’ve always been a fast learner.”
Her expression flickered—just briefly—and I felt a quiet, stubborn satisfaction take root. I wasn’t here to win, but I refused to lose easily.
The music swelled again, delicate and cold. Dancers began to move between the tables—frostlight shifting with their every turn, garments made of snowflakes that didn’t melt. Even the air sparkled.
And for a moment, I forgot to breathe.
It was too perfect, too polished. The beauty here had an edge. I could feel it pressing against my ribs, waiting to draw blood.
Conversation drifted through the hall like music—soft, precise, calculated. The Frostfather’s laughter rang once, low and sharp, a sound that cut through everything else.
Kaelith sat beside him, posture carved from discipline, but I saw the tension in the small things: the way his gloved hand gripped the stem of his goblet too tightly, how the frostlight along his armor’s edges pulsed out of rhythm before stilling again. Every motion was controlled, and yet … not entirely.
I hadn’t noticed him look at me since the procession, but I could feel it—the weight of his gaze like cold sunlight, always near, never direct. I told myself I imagined it, that it was the Court’s scrutiny making my skin so aware, but when I dared glance toward him, his eyes were already there.
Gray, clear, and far too knowing.
I froze. He didn’t look away.
It was the same look he’d given me last night—when his restraint had broken, when his lips had met mine against the frost pillar and melted the air between us. My breath caught. The memory rose too easily: the shockof heat against cold, the sound of his breath trembling against my mouth, the way the frost had dripped like tears around us.
My fingers brushed my lips before I could stop them.
His jaw flexed. Just barely, but enough.
He turned away, raising his glass as if to hide the motion, but the faint tremor in his hand betrayed him. The gesture shouldn’t have meant anything. To anyone else, it would’ve looked like composure. But I’d felt that control before—how close it was to collapse.
He’s made of winter,but the cracks are showing.
A soft voice pulled me back. “The mortal looks pale,” Lady Calenne said, her tone delicate and cruel in equal measure. “Perhaps she’s not accustomed to such refinement.”
Laughter rippled through the nobles around her. A few looked my way, pretending pity. I lifted my goblet and smiled faintly. “Perhaps I’m only overwhelmed by the beauty of it all.”
“The feast,” she said, “or the company?”
“The restraint.”
Her eyes flashed, sharp and cold. The nearest nobleman choked on his wine. Kaelith’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, quickly buried. The faintest flicker of warmth touched my chest before I could remind myself it was foolish.
