RIVEN
The Frost Arenais like a crown of winter carved from a frozen lake, the smooth ice reflecting the sun’s rays with blinding brilliance.
Guards escort Sapphire and me through the entrance tunnel, Ghost and Nebula walk beside us.
“Remember your promise,” Sapphire says as we reach the point where we’re told to separate.
“I will,” I promise, inhaling the steady pull of her magic—the warmth of her skin, and the heartbeat that grounds me. “I love you.”
She tightens her grip on my hand, frost—myfrost—crackling at her fingertips. “I love you, too. And I need you to fight like the man I fell in love with—not the prince your father tried to carve you into. Because you’re stronger than him, Riven. Don’t ever let him make you doubt that.”
I exhale slowly, the weight of her faith settling onto my chest like armor.
“He rules with fear,” I tell her, but even though my voice is low and steady, inside I’m a blizzard held barely in check. “I’ll win because I don’t need fear. I have purpose. I haveyou.”
A guard approaches, breaking the moment. “Princess, this way to the royal viewing box,” he says, motioning to where she’ll be heading—a box I’ve sat in many times, shielding my heart with ice as I watched countless displays of horror and bloodshed.
Sapphire gives my hand one last squeeze. “Don’t let him get in your head,” she reminds me, and then she follows the guard to the box.
Ghost and Nebula follow at her heels.
Alone now, I walk to the center of the arena, every step measured, every movement deliberate as I study my surroundings.
Walls of ice stretch toward the sky, circling the sunken combat floor. Tiered seating accommodates nobility in the lower stands, and commoners in the upper ones. At the highest points of the structure, massive ice sculptures of past Winter Kings loom over the battlefield, their frozen eyes following my every movement.
This isn’t just a fight. It’s a spectacle. A ritual as old as our court itself. And my challenge has drawn every winter fae who can squish their way into the stands from their homes to watch as father fights son—king against prince.
Across from me, my father enters, controlled, cold, and cruel. He doesn’t stop until he stands ten paces away, chin lifted, eyes full of disdain.
He unsheathes his sword and examines the blade.
The Master of Ceremonies stops the chatter, his voice loud enough to fill the arena from the box across from Sapphire’s.
“The Winter Court bears witness!” he says, his arms raised in excitement. “King Nivian Draevor and Prince Riven Draevor are bound by blood and now separated by challenge. The Trial of Frost and Blood has been invoked and accepted!”
My father’s eyes remain on mine as he takes his position opposite me. There’s no warmth there—no acknowledgmentthat I’m anyone of note to him. There’s only cold calculation and the madness that’s consumed him for far too long.
“You were always weak, boy,” he says, his laugh low and mocking. “Did you really think you’d become anything more than a trembling shadow at my feet?”
I stand strong, refusing to let him get to me.
“I challenged you so you can prove you’re fit to rule, and to convince you to accept the clarity I’m offering you,” I reply evenly. “Not to take your crown.”
Ice shoots up along my father’s blade.
Chatter sounds from the audience.
“The rules of combat are thus,” the Master continues, silencing them. “Magic and weapons only. Both contestants are to stay inside the fighting ring. The trial ends with surrender or death.” He pauses, his eyes meeting mine with something like pity. “May the coldest ice withstand the thaw.”
The crowd repeats his final sentence, he strikes his staff against the ground, and the trial begins.
My father’s first attack comes with no warning—a blast of razor-sharp ice shards that explode from the ground at my feet.
I leap sideways, summoning a shield that deflects the worst of it. But one shard grazes my cheek, drawing first blood.
“Too slow,” my father taunts, circling me with predatory grace. “Will you cower behind your shield forever? Or will you fight like the warrior I trained you to be?”
I launch my first attack, and from there, he fights like a hunter cornering prey. Methodical, patient, and cruelly precise. He deflects my frost-covered blade with insulting ease, barely moving as his magic responds to his will.
