The door thuds shut behind me.
Hundreds of ice sculptures line the vast room, tall statues of men and women that no longer tread the snows. Icicles hangfrom the high, vaulted ceiling, casting long shadows across the carved faces—some are still sharp, though others bear features blunted by time.
“Honored ancestors,” I whisper, my breath misting in the cool air. “Today is my betrothal. I seek your blessing and wisdom.” I clasp my hands together and bow my head before weaving a path through the aisles. Though I stop briefly at each statue, there is one in particular I seek.
Turmah. My grandmother.
I crane my head, eyes squinting against the filtered sunlight. Her features are still crisp, not yet weathered by the years. Turmah appears regal and serene. In the straight bridge of her nose and smooth curve of her chin, I see Father.
Her ice robes are cold beneath my reverent fingers.
I’m not the first Tundrayni princess that was sent to Arbinj with the hope of peace. My grandmother made the journey decades before me. Her marriage lasted only three months—three months of agony and humiliation and abuse—before a group of Tundrayni warriors rescued her.
I trail my fingers higher until I reach Turmah’s sleeve. The ice here is sharp, jagged, where a piece of the sculpture was hacked off.
Because when Turmah returned, she was missing her left hand.
Before she escaped, her Arbinji husband had chopped it off, along with her betrothal ring. After she returned home, Turmah married one of the warriors who had rescued her, later giving birth to my father. According to stories from white-haired servants, she was never the same after her ordeal, always easily startled. Haunted.
The war with Arbinj has escalated since then, claiming more lives on both sides with every passing season.
I swallow around the lump in my throat and pray my marriage yields better results for my kingdom than Turmah’s, even as icy dread chills my heart.
With one final look, I briefly greet the remaining sculptures, then leave the Hall of Ancestors behind.
There is no statue of Mama.
The ice throne isfreezingbeneath me. My delicate betrothal gown is beautiful, but Tides, what I wouldn’t give to be wearing something warmer. My pajamas, even.
The murmurs of the assembled Tundrayni nobility, all dressed in their finest blue and white furs, ripple through the Great Hall. Even with such short notice, the servants managed to ready the large, circular room for the ceremony.
In the center, where I sit shivering, is a large dais made of solid ice. Beside me is another ice throne, gleaming in the sunlight seeping in through the large windows. The twin seats were carved specifically for the ceremony and are smaller than Father’s majestic seat that sits in the Throne Room.
Father enters shortly thereafter, dressed in formal sapphire furs, his white beard gathered together with a thin blue ribbon. On his head sits the ice crown, its sharp, translucent spears rising toward the heavens. The echoing stamp of boots rumbles through the hall as the nobility rises to greet their king as he sits beside me. Father appears at ease, raising a regal hand to the assembled guests, but tension lines the set of his jaw.
Does he regret his decision? Sending his only child into the arms of his enemy? Especially given what King Varad did—
No. No, Imuststop thinking this way. Father is doing this for Tundrayn. For its safety and future. And I must do my part. Iwantto do my part.
Minutes pass, but it feels like time has stopped.
My hands are clasped tightly in my lap, knuckles flaring white. Father strikes his staff repeatedly against the floor of the dais, the rhythmictap, tap, tapechoing the beat of my heart.
The door swings open.
The hall goes silent.
There’s no sound save for the thud of heavy boots in formation.
Arbinji soldiers, clad in dark leather and armored chest plates march into the Great Hall.
My breath catches.
I’ve never seen an Arbinji soldier before, but I’ve heard enough tales of their prowess—and their cruelty. And I’ve certainly treated enough wounds inflicted by storm- and earthwielders for dread to pool in my lungs at the sight of so many of them within my palace.
They march closer.
At the head of the line is a towering, muscular man. A metal helmet conceals the entirety of his face. Except his eyes. They’re gray—like thunderclouds just before the rain starts—and calculating as they sweep across the room, scanning every face before settling on me.
