A sob breaks through the quiet. I try not to let my gentle heart hurt for the soul being tortured here, forcing my attention to the matter at hand. Surely, whatever this man did to land himself in the dungeon, it is deserved. It must be to earn such punishment.
As I peer around the corner, surprise hits me.
The man is bound between two thick chains, arms spread wide, and his clothing is mostly gone. For most people, that would be a death sentence in and of itself with how cold it gets down here, and throughout the Frostlands, but he doesn't seem to care about that. His teeth don't chatter, and he doesn't shiver from the cold.
There are marks across his skin, red slashes that register as abuse a moment later. His hair is shaggy and white, his eyes a piercing blue. They are more oceanic than mine, which are frost blue like the icy cold of this land.
In front of the prisoner, instead of the Head of the Royal Guard, stands the King.
Father.I suppose if I want to get technical, he’s the former king or King Emeritus. I’m still grasping at the specifics when I’m supposed to be ruler of the land, and until tonight, I had no idea the King got his hands dirty.
He's grasping a long iron poker, the end tinged red. His opposite hand holds a sharp icicle, also painted in crimson, and his usually pristine white and blue clothes are speckled with burgundy.
He's the one torturing this man, Mother standing to the side, indifferent. Her frozen posture makes her almost look like an ice sculpture, her eyes taking far too long to blink. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be able to contribute to what’s happening here unless she plans to kill us all.
Her powers are out of control, but her focus is laser sharp on the bleeding man in front of Father.
“How did you gain the gift of the moon?” Father spits, his usually emotionless voice filled with rage. “What specialty does a peasant boy offer to the spirits?”
The man coughs, spitting red blood out onto the floor. I think he should be in a great amount of pain, but even when he speaks now, there’s no tremble in his voice. “I’ve told you, I have no idea why I was gifted. I woke up this way.”
Oh, he even has a nice voice. Silky and laced with sarcasm. He’s not cowering and whimpering like most men laid bare at Father’s feet, and his piercing blue eyes are fierce as he stares at the King Emeritus.
Dropping my gaze again, I acknowledge that he has an amazing upper body too, which is a highly inappropriate thought for this instant, not to mention my new position. As Princess, I never saw a lot of men, the ones I did being suitors from Ander Son’s Way, Camelot, and Neverland, who all cowered when they witnessed my powers. None of them ever looked as unbotheredas this man does, and he’s shackled in the palace dungeons, being tortured by my father.
He sneers at my parents, and I study the strength in his jaw. He really is too handsome for his own good, and I am ashamed when I wonder why any of my past suitors couldn’t have looked like that.
“You lie,” Mother snarls, moving closer, snapping me from my thoughts. None of them seems aware that I’m here, eavesdropping, and I press myself further into the wall to try and keep it that way. I’m surprised Mother can move at all. I thought with the stiffness in her body and her lack of breathing, that she was too far gone into her curse to move.
Mother’s voice grows louder, echoing in the quiet dungeon, like the volume will get her point across. “Merchants said you fell from Icicle Pass. Your body should be broken on the icy grounds below or sucked beneath the waters of the frozen lake. You shouldn’t be alive, peasant boy.”
“I’m aware,” he says dryly, and I have to admit, I expect him to have a little more self-preservation. He’s shown no respect for my parents’ royal status, and I don’t foresee that changing. If he is a peasant boy, he might not yet be aware that I’ve taken over the throne, depending on what part of the Frostlands he hails from.
“I didn’t ask for anything,” the man continues in a bored tone, and I peek back around the corner. I’m the Queen for Gods’ sake, and I should be able to walk in and announce my presence. But this interrogation will likely shut down if my parents know I’m here, and I want to be informed before acting. “Falling from the pass wasn’t part of my plan.”
I grasp onto that, wondering what plan he might mean, when Father lashes out. The King Emeritus’s dark hair swishes as he dives forward, forcing the sharp tip of the icicle into the man. Finally, that sarcastic facade fades. The unimpressed lookon the stranger’s face turns to one of pain, and the cries I heard before fill the room again.
He’s the one suffering. He’s tied up, yet my parents are interrogating him like he’s done something wrong. He has white hair and a distinct tolerance to the cold…
My eyes swivel to Mother, who moves stiffly. Her curse is slowly working its way through her body. I’ve heard of Mother’s insane musings for years, the things she whispers to Lady Hartsell when she believes I’m not listening, but surely that can’t be why they brought him down here themselves?
“Perhaps we could harness what the moon gave to him,” Mother says in a cold, calculating tone. “He could be a vessel, Andor.”
“He is nothing but a burden, Sned,” Father argues, shaking his head. “So long as he has the gift, you cannot. If we must cut it from his flesh and blood, so be it.”
“Cutting could damage the gift,” Mother snarls. “I need the ice magic and all its strength. This is a pointless pursuit otherwise.”
Father turns all his attention toward her, leaving the icicle protruding from the man’s arm. “I will not allow you to harm Neve. If this is the only other alternative, we will take it by whatever means necessary.”
Stiffly, Mother lifts her hand. I’m still trying to process what he said. Why would Mother wish to hurt me?
In her hand, she holds something I can’t quite see. Father hisses a breath, but that’s all I can make out.
“A spinning needle?” the man asks, spitting as he speaks. He’s bleeding, but it doesn’t seem to be causing him any more pain than before. His body doesn’t appear to be giving into the pain, which is… strange. “Are you planning to sew the Queen a new dress?”
Aneedle?
Father growls, raising the stained poker. He slashes it across the man’s chest instead of stabbing it into his flesh like the icicle, which remains eerily in place as the seconds tick by.
