My throat tightens.
“One where I wasn’t promised to the enemy,” I say softly.
He doesn’t respond for a long time.
Then—“You’re more than just a promise to me, Mayah. My heart is yours.”
A beat. And then he pulls back, just enough to see my face in the dim light. His blue eyes are aching with all the words we never dared say.
“I love you,” he whispers, finally letting them crystallize.
I blink. The words land somewhere deep inside me, like a drop of warm water in an endless, frozen sea.
“I love you, too, Daak.” My voice is soft, as if saying the words too loud will shatter the precious moment around us.
“I know,” he whispers back. “I’ve always known.”
Another beat of silence.
“I’llalwayslove you, Mayah. And I’ll find you.”
The words linger between us—fragile, final.
Fleeting.
A sudden boom of thunder rattles the icy walls of my chambers, and I gasp, instinctively burying my face in his chest.
There hadn’t been a storm in weeks.
Daak tightens his hold. “It’s just noise,” he says, but he knows it’s more than that. He’s seen what it does to me.
Thunderstorms used to be rare in Tundrayn, but they’ve grown more frequent in the last two decades. And every single one steals the air from my lungs. They reduce me to a child again—small, sniveling, helpless.
What will I do in Arbinj, the land of brutal stormwielders and their violent thunderstorms?
“Mayah,” Daak says, gently tilting my chin. His forehead presses against mine. “You’re going to survive this. You’re going to do what you’ve always done. You’ll create a better future for all of Tundrayn. And you’ll do it with that stubborn fire in your chest that terrifies half the palace. And me, if I’m being honest.”
I laugh, but it’s watery. “You make me sound like a force of nature.”
“You are.”
Another rumble shakes the windows. I flinch, and Daak holds me tighter.
“I’ll see you again,” he says, voice fierce in the dark.
He holds me until I fall asleep, the storm raging around us.
Chapter Three
DaakisgonewhenI wake, but I’m not surprised. A flock of servants rush in and dress me for the betrothal ceremony.
By the end, I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. My dark hair is left loose, gentle waves cascading down my back and a few loose curls framing my face. Dark kohl lines my blue eyes, and the effect is so dramatic they appear almost too large for my face. My lips are dotted with rouge, a soft pink against my pale skin. Snowpowder, dusted across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose, conceals my faint freckles.
Servants lead me through the corridors, three carrying the train of my gown, until we arrive at the Hall of Ancestors. They form a neat line outside the towering double doors, arms folded and heads bowed.
Only Tundrayni royalty may enter the Hall of Ancestors.
I steel myself with a deep breath.
