Chapter 5
Istart by trying to make sense of the chaos. The office is colder than the corridors, and every surface is dusted with a thin film of frost. I breathe out, rubbing my gloved hands together, then set to work.
First the boxes.I stack them against the far wall, sorting them by size, by weight, by any scrap of labeling I can find. Some are marked with dates I cannot decipher, others with symbols I do not understand. Still, I push them into neat rows.
Then the papers.I sweep them into piles, separating loose sheets from bound ledgers, shaking off snowflakes that seem to appear from nowhere.
A few pages crumble in my hands, frostbitten by neglect, but most are legible enough.
Contracts. Deeds. Tax collections. Lists of ore delivered from the mines.
Next the dust.I drag a cloth across every shelf, every corner, scattering grey plumes into the air. Beneath the grime I discover something unexpected. A small hearth tucked behind a stack of warped ledgers, its grate rusted, its stone dark with age.
Hope sparks in my chest.
It takes some effort, but eventually I coax a flame to life. I feed it with scraps of broken crates and brittle parchment no longer usable, and slowly the fire begins to burn steady and bright. Warmth creeps into the room like a timid animal, hesitant at first, then bolder.
I drag the chair closer.For the first time, the office looks like a place someone could work in.
I sit heavily and pull the nearest ledger toward me.
Hours pass as I read line after line, my cramped handwriting filling page after page of my own notes.
Frostwyn accounts, debt tallies, mine shipments, trade agreements, uncollected payments.
More taxes owed than I care to think about.
More expenses than any one person should manage alone.
My eyes blur, but I keep going.
Some entries stretch back decades. Some centuries. Some, impossibly, millennia. My father always told me the Fae kept records of everything. Now I believe him. Pity they are atrocious at keeping it organized.
The light outside shifts as snow darkens from silver to blue, then sinks into the inkiness of night. My eyes burn, and my head tips back, my neck stiff from hours bent over the desk. The fire crackles softly. Papers rustle as a draft slips beneath the door.
Only now do I realize how dark it has become outside.
My sore eyes widen.
Lord Luceran’s supper.
He does not like it cold.
I shove back from the desk and leap to my feet. The chair screeches across the stone as I sprint for the door, throw it open, and hurtle down the spiral stairs. By the time I reach the bottom, my breath is ragged and I no longer know which direction I am facing.
Left. Right. Past the forbidden door. Past the windows overlooking the rose garden.
I skid into the galley.
As always, my arrival is far from graceful. I crash into the counter, sending two pots clattering to the floor and a ladle spinning away like a startled bird. I wince, praying no one heard.
But of course he did.
“You are late,” Lord Luceran booms from the dining hall.
I swallow hard. “I apologize, my lord,” I say as I crouch to gather the pots, stacking them neatly in my arms. “I lost track of time.”
I scan the galley desperately until my gaze lands on a pot perched above a dead hearth, steamless and abandoned. I rush to it, gripping the ladle jutting from a thick brown stew brimming with potatoes, carrots, and onions.
I stir. Or try to.
The ladle barely cuts through it. The stew is as thick as mud. I lift the ladle and dab a finger into it, flinching at my own recklessness. If he saw me taste it, I would be lucky to be merely scolded.
It is bone cold. Not just because it has been sitting out, but because nothing warm survives long in this castle. The air devours heat faster than fire can make it.
“Damn it,” I mutter as I crouch to check the hearth. The last ember has shriveled into a black husk. There is no saving it, not in time.
“Neve Devlin,” Lord Luceran calls, his voice rolling through the walls like distant thunder. “If I have to wait a moment longer…”
My stomach flips.
I have no choice.
I take a bowl and fill it with the stew. It looks delicious. It smells delicious. Maybe he will overlook the fact that it is cold. Or maybe he will murder me on the spot.
I balance the bowl carefully between my hands, praying the stew does not slosh or drip. At the doorway I stop, glance around, then snatch a sprig of parsley from a clay jar. I crumble it and sprinkle it on top, hoping the bright green will distract him from the temperature.
I draw in a steadying breath and step toward the dining room.
The hall is vast, lit by low-burning candles in gold sconces and the faint glow of moonlight pushing through the windows. Lord Luceran sits at the far end of the impossibly long table, a solitary figure in a space made for feasts and courts.
His hair is tied back, a stark white ponytail trailing down his back like a ribbon of snow.
His heavy fur coat hangs over the back of his massive chair.
Tonight he wears a powder blue shirt, the top buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of the runes etched into the pale skin of his chest. They pulse faintly, a quiet, dangerous heartbeat of magic.
With every step I take, I feel myself walking deeper into his aura.
It prickles along my skin like icy sparks, tightening the air around me until my breaths grow shorter, thinner.
For a moment, Luceran’s eyes flick toward me.
Then, just as quickly, he looks away, his gaze distant, fixed on something far beyond the walls of this castle.
I wonder if his thoughts wander as much as mine do, if he thinks of anything beyond frost and authority and the weight of his own solitude. If he was watching me in the reflection of that silver plate. Then, I remind myself who he is. What he is. Fae.
He has his choice of flawless, ageless females with skin like starlight and eyes like cut gems. I am nothing to him. Just a human girl with windburned cheeks, chapped lips, and a braid tied too quickly in my rush to survive tonight. Disgusting, perhaps. Certainly beneath him.
The closer I get, the more I feel it. His power. His presence. A current running through the air, like the whisper before a storm. I swallow hard and pray I do not drop the bowl.
I set it before him with shaking hands. Before I can pull away, his fingers close around my wrist.
I gasp.
“What took you so long?” Luceran’s voice is low, but there is no mistaking the threat inside it. “Did Atilia not explain your duties?”
I nod quickly. “She did. I was cleaning my workroom and organizing the papers. I am sorry.”
His grip tightens.
Pain shoots through my arm, a biting pressure that seems to sink straight into bone.
“You will be where you are meant to be, when you are meant to be there. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I manage, wincing as his hold sharpens. “I understand. Please…”
His fingers clamp harder. A hot sting races across my skin, sharp and cold at the same time.
“Living within these walls is a privilege,” he says. “If you continue to disappoint me, you can repay your debt in the mines. Just as your father would have.”
My breath catches. Tears gather, warring with the pain. I nod harder. “I understand, Lord Luceran. Please let me go.”
A low sound vibrates in his chest. Then, suddenly, he releases me.
I stumble back, clutching my wrist. A red ring marks my skin, angry and raw.
Luceran wrinkles his nose. “Go clean that. I do not want the smell lingering.”
Humiliation burns in my throat. I bow quickly and turn to leave, hurrying for the exit before my tears spill.
“Wait.”
His voice snaps through the room.
I freeze, breath stopping, every muscle locked. I do not turn. I brace myself.
“Is this… parsley?”
“Yes, my lord,” I whisper.
A long pause.
Then, flat as stone, “This soup is as cold as the lake. Why are you serving me cold food?”
I swallow, throat tight, wrist throbbing, wishing I had any answer other than the truth.
Because it was all I had.
Because the fire had gone out.
Because this place kills warmth faster than I can make it.
Because you terrify me.
But I keep my back to him, staring at the door, unable to speak at all.
“Let me guess. You lost track of time. You were distracted,” he mocks.
I tremble. “Yes, my lord.”
The silence that follows is far worse than his anger. It stretches thin and tight, until it feels like something inside me might snap. I close my eyes, but dread coils through me. I do not want to see his expression. I do not want to see what comes next.
I do not have to.
A violent gust slams into me and pins me against the wall. The breath leaves my lungs in a strangled cry. My tears spill over and freeze against my cheeks before they fall.
Luceran’s footsteps echo across the room.
Slow. Purposeful. Certain.
He has all the time in the world. I have none.
I struggle for breath as he stops before me, gaze trailing over my restrained form. I grit my teeth, refusing to break, even as pain and fear surge through me. The response seems to interest him.
“First you hide yourself in a wardrobe,” he says quietly.
“Then, like all frail humans, you fall ill and require attention. Then you are late with my dinner, and as a final insult, you serve it to me cold.” His eyes narrow, glittering.
“You have not even been here a week. So tell me, Neve Devlin, why should I allow this farce to continue? Why should I not send you and your father to the mines for no other reason than that it would bring me pleasure?”
He steps closer. Close enough that his belt brushes my stomach, close enough that I can feel him even through my panic.
“I deserve pleasure, do I not?”
My whole body shakes. “I… I…” The words are trapped, strangled by terror. I cannot even lift my chin.
He waits. Long enough that the silence becomes unbearable. Then he rolls his eyes, bored with my fear, and turns away.
With a flick of his wrist, the force holding me evaporates. I collapse onto the stone floor, limbs trembling uncontrollably.
“That will be all for the night,” he sighs as he walks back to his chair. “This time, try not to freeze to death before morning.”
I drag myself upright on shaking legs, forcing air into my lungs, forcing my heartbeat to slow. There is no time to gather myself. No time to think.
I run.
Through the hall, through the corridor, down the cold passageways until I reach my room. I slam the door shut, lock it, and drop to my knees. The sob breaks out of me before I can swallow it down. Then another. And another.
What have I done? How can I survive this? How do I live under the rule of a creature who enjoys making me break?
I clutch my arms around myself, rocking as tears fall hot and fast.
I could run. I could end this. I could vanish into the snow. But then what would happen to my father?
How could I abandon him? How could I abandon everything for one night of fear?
One night. Only one and I have done nothing yet to pay off even a coin.
Coward, I scold myself. You cannot fall apart now.
But still I cry, curled on the cold floor, because courage feels impossibly far away.
The warmth of my bed soothes me enough to quiet my doubts, and eventually I slip into sleep. But sometime between dusk and dawn, I hear my name.
At first I think Lord Luceran has work for me. Or wishes to torment me further. Either possibility drags me upright, heart pounding, vision blurred. I look to the door, expecting his silhouette.
Nothing.
No shadow.
No sound.
Then I hear it again, clear as glass, floating in from the balcony.
My name.
I throw back the heavy blankets, warmth from the hearth brushing over my skin.
My nightgown is thin and sheer, clinging to one shoulder while the other lies bare.
The fabric trails behind me as I rise, whispering against my legs with each step.
My braid hangs loose and frayed down my back, strands of red catching the firelight and glowing as though they belong to the flames themselves.
I cross the room slowly, my toes curling into the thick, plush rug. Half-asleep, I rub my eyes, the world swimming in soft edges and shadows. Then I reach the balcony, fingers brushing aside the billowing, pearlescent curtains.
The cold hits me like a slap.
Whatever magic warms this chamber stops at the threshold. My skin chills instantly, goosebumps rising as I wrap my arms around myself and step onto the balcony.
Again, I hear it. My name.
Carried on the wind. Threaded through the falling snow. A whisper so soft it should vanish into the night, yet it fills my mind completely.
I move without thinking. My fingers touch the balcony rail, frost nibbling at the tips.
The sound comes from the lake. I know it. I feel it. A pull rolling across the frozen surface, curling toward me like a beckoning hand.
Neve. Neve. Come to me, Neve.
I take another step, and the railing stops me.
I gasp, jolting back to myself. What am I doing? I do not remember crossing the balcony. I do not remember leaning forward, as if I meant to climb or fall or obey the voice.
A chill deeper than the night settles over me.
What magic is this?
The whisper fades. The pull loosens. The presence recedes like a shadow slipping beneath the ice.
I turn to retreat inside, but movement in the garden below halts me.
Luceran.
His chest is bare beneath the fur coat, runes blazing bright blue across his pale skin. Ivory hair streams behind him like a banner as he stands motionless, his gaze fixed on the lake. He is no longer singing, no longer wandering the rose rows as he did before.
He watches.He waits.For what, I cannot imagine.
And I am not about to linger and find out.
I tiptoe back inside, wincing at every tiny creak. The moment I reach the bed, I leap into it, burrowing beneath the covers, curling tight. My breath comes fast, too loud, and I slap my hand over my mouth.
I do not want him to know I saw him.I do not want him to come to my room again.And though curiosity presses hard against my ribs, why he haunts the garden each night, why my name echoes through the valley in the dark, I will not dare ask.
This is no longer just a bargain.It is survival.
And right now, the only thing I care about is staying alive.