“Thanks, Day,” I reply, taking the warm drink.
I’ve seen Dayton and Ezryn, but where are?—
I follow the tug of my heart and tilt my head up. Through the wisps of morning fog, I spot two figures seated on a roof overlooking the square, a large tartan blanket wrapped over them.
Farron gives me a wave, and Caspian nods. Whatever Kel has planned, they didn’t want to miss it. And it’s not as if the Prince of Thorns has turned his reputation around to be welcomed at a celebration like this. My heart stutters with gratitude. Farron knows I wouldn’t want Cas to be alone for the holiday.
Keldarion leads me up the steps and helps me into the warm, plush throne before throwing the blanket over my lap. Then he turns and walks to the front of the stage.
The crowd’s murmur quiets as he looks down at them. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, letting the silence settle, thick with anticipation. Then his deep, steady voice cuts through the cold air.
“People of Winter,” he begins, his gaze softening as it sweeps over them, “today under the light of the solstice sun, we gather not merely to mark the turning of the season but to celebrate something far greater: stories.”
A ripple of curiosity runs through the crowd. Like me waking up this morning to the Winter Prince’s smile, I think they too have not seen this side of their prince in a long time.
“Stories are the lifeblood of our world,” he continues. “They weave us together, past and present, young and old. They teach us who we are and remind us of who we can be. And today, we honor those stories—and the one who has inspired this festival.”
His gaze turns toward me, and my heart leaps into my throat. For a fleeting moment, I think I might burst into flames under the weight of his eyes, so full of affection and something deeper—something unspoken but unmistakable.
“Welcome to the first annual Festival of Tales!” he declares. “This festival is dedicated to my mate, the Golden Rose. To the one who taught me to see the beauty in the stories of others, in the lives we live and the love we share. Rosalina, you are the light that has thawed my frost, the love that has breathed warmth into this realm.”
A wave of gasps and cheers rises from the crowd. I sense their joy, their approval, as they call out my name with delighted smiles. Dayton hoots, pumping his fist into the air, Ezryn claps his hands, and a bright spray of purple and orange sparks flies above the roof over Cas and Farron. My cheeks burn, and I clutch the fur stole around my shoulders tighter, wishing I could hide. But Keldarion’s gaze anchors me, steady and unwavering.
“This festival belongs to all who carry tales in their hearts.” He gestures to the stage, his expression lightening with a rare, playful smile. “Come forward. Share your stories—old and new, great and small. This day, the Winter Realm celebrates you, your lives, and the tales that bind us as one. There is nothing my Rose loves more than a grand story, so let us enchant her if we can.”
The cheers that follow are deafening. People clap and shout, stamping their boots against the frost-glazed cobblestones. The energy is electric, a pulse that vibrates through the square like the beating heart of the realm itself.
“The Winter Prince and the Golden Rose!” someone shouts, and soon the chant is picked up by others. My breath catchesat the sound of it, a mix of awe, love, and fierce loyalty in their voices.
My heart is ready to beat out of my chest. I can’t believe Keldarion planned this for me. I can’t wait to hear these stories. But something even greater lights my heart watching him. I know he’s doing this for me, but it’s also for the people of Frostfang. I always knew he carried the utmost love for his people. Do they see it, this new side of him? The kind and generous high prince?
Keldarion moves to stand beside me. “Shall we begin, Rosalina?”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, and place my hand in his. The crowd erupts again.
The Festival of Tales comes alive, the citizens of Winter eager to tell their stories. Keldarion welcomes each person to the stage, introducing them by name with his booming voice. And to my surprise, he knows most of their names already or is eager to learn the names of the younger fae.
From commoners to high council members, the stories they share are each so special. Before noon, I’ve already cried from laughter and heart-wrenching sadness. For lunch, Dayton brings me an enormous plate of potatoes covered in thick, warm cheese, and it chases away any chill as an act I’ve eagerly been waiting for bounds up on the stage.
Billy and Dom step onto the platform, grinning like mischievous sprites. “We’ll tell our tale in song and dance!” Billy announces, flinging his arms wide.
Dom produces a lute that looks far too battered to play, but somehow the first strum is clear and bright, setting the crowd clapping along. Their story—a ridiculous, rollicking ballad of a beautiful red-headed druid who could speak to animals—has the square roaring with laughter. Their dancing is even moreabsurd, with Billy slipping at least twice on the frosted wood and Dom twirling until he crashes into a row of lanterns.
Keldarion watches with an arched brow but finally lets out a reluctant chuckle.
Then comes Papa, his voice booming. He tells stories of adventures in far-off lands, which I’m sure the fae think are all made up. While I know the Himalayas are a real place and the beautiful woman he went caving with is in fact their queen, Papa is such a natural storyteller, such a fantastical tale could only be fiction. He earns tremendous applause from the crowd.
Dayton takes the stage next, shoulders squared and voice deep with gravitas as he starts a tale about the great sea kings of old. His storytelling is powerful—too powerful. The tale stretches on and on, his words droning like waves against cliffs. At one point, I glance over to see Marigold nodding off against Eldy’s shoulder and Billy stifling a yawn behind his hand.
“Dayton!” Keldarion calls, his tone sharp. “Your epic could use a bit of brevity.”
Dayton scowls and mutters something about “no respect for the classics,” but he steps down, his cheeks tinged red as the spectators chuckle fondly.
Then, as if summoned by the quiet that follows, an old fae makes her way to the stage.
Keldarion glances at the sky, and I realize dusk is already approaching. “This will be the last story of the evening. I want to make sure you all have time to spend with your families this solstice.”
The old fae woman leans on her crystal staff. “My name is Eryndel Gelidorn,” she says, her voice scratchy. “And this is a story my mother’s mother told us, so you know it’s a good one.”
