The Frost King breaks the spell, striding forward with purpose. Grabbing a pillow from the mattress, he tosses it in my direction. “You can sleep on the floor.” He then proceeds to turn down the blankets, his back to me.
I gape at him, the pillow crushed between my palms, as his comment stirs in my memory. I spoke those exact words to him on Midwinter Eve.
“You bastard.” I heave the pillow at the back of his head. It hits and falls harmlessly to the ground. “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”
The king makes a soft sound. At first, I think it’s a scoff, yet his shoulders tremble, his head drops forward, hair swinging to curtain his face. And then he turns, and I’m at a loss for words.
The North Wind islaughing.
And it is absolutely devastating.
His teeth are perfectly straight, perfectly bright. The edges of his mouth stretch and his eyes crinkle with merriment. It completely transforms his face. In this moment, he is not the prickly, aloof immortal I’ve come to know. He is my husband.
A pulse of pleasure quickens my blood. Against my better judgment, my mouth pulls. I snort at the absurdity of whacking a godwith a pillow in a moment of irritation. “We’ll share the bed like last time,” I state.
Boreas smiles, and it is free. “As you wish… Wren.”
When light dies to the west, a bell clangs throughout the camp. Boreas rises from where he’s been reading documents at his desk to tug on his boots. “Dinner,” he announces.
I straighten in my chair, setting aside my pencil as he ties the laces up his calf. “Isn’t the staff going to bring you the meal?” I assumed that’s why Orla and a handful of the other maidservants accompanied us.
“Everyone eats in the mess tent.” He glances over in curiosity at what I’ve spent the last hour sketching. His eyebrows hitch upward. “Cake?”
“What?” I clutch the drawing of the elaborately decorated dessert to my chest. “So you’re fine sharing dinner with the non-divine?”
“The soldiers work hard to protect my realm,” he says, as if that’s answer enough. He pushes open the tent flaps. “Coming?”
Every time I think I have Boreas figured out, he proves me wrong. He has sentenced these men to eternal subjugation, but if they take up arms, he respects them. Does he understand this is their cage? A life of servitude to the king, whatever form that might take.
I haven’t the energy to question the arrangement, so I let the subject drop. The long journey has made me hungry and sore, with no room for combative inquiries.
The Frost King leads me to a long, rectangular tent located on the other side of camp. Inside, soldiers gather at scuffed tables constructed of uneven planks of wood. My nose wrinkles. Thousands of unwashed bodies shoved into a small space? It stinks. I’m sure I smell less than delightful as well, after a day spent in the saddle.
According to Boreas, the new recruits will rest tonight before heading into battle at dawn, refreshed and clear-headed, able to replace their exhausted comrades. As he and I take our places in line forthe meal, the boisterous conversation dies. Wood creaks as men shift in their seats for a better view.
“People are staring,” I mutter, bristling.
“Yes,” he says. “At you.”
He’s right. The soldiers watch me, not the king. Despite wearing a tunic and trousers, I stand as a woman in a man’s world, boots sinking into soil soon to be soaked with blood. My attention locks on a man whose stare has slipped into leering territory.
“What?” I snarl. “You’ve never seen a pair of breasts before?”
Boreas sighs. The soldier looks away. Smart man.
The line moves quickly after that. When we reach the front, a man offers me a bowl of hot stew and a piece of crusty bread with a murmured, “My lady.”
I accept it with thanks and follow the Frost King to an empty table. Eventually, the men return to their meals, despite their inability to taste anything. I focus on eating. It’s simple fare, but I inhale it eagerly. The taste reminds me of home.
“Boreas.” A young man with dark facial hair and long, curling eyelashes takes a seat on the bench across the table. “Glad you could make it.”
Boreas?No one in the citadel addresses the king so informally.
The man studies me curiously. His attention doesn’t linger on my scar, which I appreciate. I’m sure he has his fair share of them.
I kick Boreas under the table. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
He mutters a few choice words that I choose to ignore. “Gideon, this is my wife, Wren. And before you say anything, I’d advise you to mind your tongue.”
