Frederick created a small spout of water, his version of anger, but even that small display exhausted him. He sank back into the bowl, bubble shrinking.
Briar looked at the trays of food. Her stomach rebelled at the thought, but if she didn't eat, Thaine and Karse would starve. She forced herself to take a piece of bread, though it tasted of nothing and sat heavy in her stomach.
Outside the sealed windows, night had fully fallen. Somewhere below, Karse was freezing in a cell while Thaine tried to keep them both alive. She pulled the bowl with Frederick closer, his small presence the only comfort in the beautiful prison of her room.
Consciousness returned slowly, warmth on one side from dying embers, cold seeping through from everywhere else. Briar's neck ached from sleeping propped against the chair, and her dress was wrinkled beyond repair. Something was wrong—the quality of light, the sense of being observed.
She opened her eyes to find three servants standing near the door, trays balanced in their hands. They'd entered while she slept, silent as shadows. Behind them, Malachar stood in the doorway, today wearing deep burgundy that made his white hair seem to glow.
"Good morning." His tone carried that same false pleasantry. "Though it's nearly noon. You've slept half the day away."
She straightened, wincing at the protest from her stiff muscles. Frederick's bowl was still beside her, and she could see him floating weakly, bubble barely maintained. One of the servants—a young man with bark-textured skin—moved toward it.
"I'll clear this—"
"No." She grabbed the bowl, water sloshing dangerously. Frederick sank to the bottom, trying to hide.
Malachar's interest sharpened immediately. He raised a hand, and the servant stepped back.
"What have we here?" He moved into the room with predatory curiosity. "Something precious, clearly."
She held the bowl against her chest, but he was already close enough to see. His remaining eye studied Frederick with genuine surprise.
"A water sprite. In my domain." He laughed softly. "It must be suffering terribly in this cold. How did it even survive the journey?"
"Leave him alone."
"Him?" His amusement deepened. "You've named it. Of course you have." He gestured to the servants, who began setting out breakfast on the small table. "Bring the bowl. And yourself. You're going to eat."
It wasn't a request. She stood on unsteady legs, Frederick's bowl clutched carefully. Malachar had already seated himself, pouring tea from a silver pot that steamed in the cold air.
"Sit."
She set Frederick's bowl on the table's edge, as far from Malachar as possible, then took the only other chair. The food spread between them looked beautiful—pastries dusted withsugar that sparkled like snow, eggs prepared with herbs she didn't recognize, meat that smelled rich and wrong somehow.
"You didn't eat yesterday. Not properly." He selected a pastry, setting it on the plate in front of her. "That ends now."
"I'm not—"
"Hungry? No, I imagine not. But you'll eat anyway." He leaned back, studying her appearance with critical assessment. "You look terrible. Hair unwashed, dress ruined, sleeping on floors like an animal. Is this how the Forest Court taught you to present yourself?"
Heat crept up her neck, but when anger tried to rise, the collar drained it. She picked up the pastry with trembling fingers.
"Smaller bites," he instructed. "You're not a starving peasant."
The pastry tasted of nothing. She chewed mechanically while he watched, occasionally correcting her posture, the angle of her wrists, the way she held her cup. Each correction came with subtle threats—mentions of Karse's deteriorating condition, Thaine's frostbite spreading, how much colder the dungeons could become.
"Better." He pushed another plate toward her. "The sprite is watching you."
She glanced at Frederick, who had indeed risen slightly in his bowl, eye-spots focused on her. Worried, even in his weakened state.
"Touching, really. Such loyalty from something so insignificant." Malachar's finger traced the rim of his teacup. "I could freeze that bowl solid in an instant. Would it shatter, do you think? Or simply... stop?"
Her hand stilled on her fork.
"Eat," he commanded softly. "And I'll leave it alone."
She ate. Every bite felt like surrender, but Frederick floated there, vulnerable and trusting, and she couldn't risk him. Malachar watched her consume everything he selected, occasionally reaching across to adjust her hair, to straighten her collar where the bells had tangled. Each touch made her skin crawl, made the warmth in her chest contract with revulsion.
