Chapter Three
The journey has been brutal. Even accustomed to the frigid climate, the face-numbing cold deep within Tundrayn chills the very marrow in my bones.
Outside the small window set into the carriage door, the landscape hasn’t changed for days—bleak, white snow, framed by snowcapped pine trees. No sign of civilization.
Luckily, no sign of rebels either.
Now, the Tundrayni palace looms ahead, and despite myself, my mouth parts in surprise.
It’s a work of art. Ice gleams in the sunlight like shimmering glass, reflecting off crystal turrets and frosted towers.
Sculptures of snowbeasts—polar bears, wolves, reindeer—are carved into the walls at evenly spaced intervals, so life-like they appear ready to open their eyes and roar.
Guess waterwielders are good for more than just killing.
Our party dismounts, carriages lined up neatly in the icy courtyard—three large royal carriages and a smaller one that I specifically requested. A massive fountain sits in the center, adorned with an ice sculpture in the shape of a snarling wolf standing on its hind legs.
Tension brackets my shoulders as a large group of fur-clad warriors approaches, pale faces pinched with disdain.
I’m sure a similar expression is reflected on mine.
My soldiers tighten their grips on their pommels.
I was able to pull only fifty men from their posts for this trek—we’re far outnumbered within Tundrayn’s icy capital.
“Commander Zevayr,” one man bites out, teeth bared in a snarl fiercer than the wolf sculpture. His breath mists in the frigid air. “We weren’t expecting you.” Cold hatred frosts his icy blue gaze.
Perhaps I’ve faced him in battle.
Or killed someone he loved.
Or both.
It might be the result of a paranoid imagination since we’re deep in enemy territory, but I swear phantom shards of ice rise up beneath the soles of my boots, tilting me off balance. I shift my weight and—crunch.
Fuck.
Definitely not my imagination. I need to retrieve the princess and leave. Immediately.
The man sneers and crosses his arms, beaded braids clinking. My fingers twitch with the urge to strangle him with them.
Reaching deep, deep, deep inside myself for a shred of diplomacy, I plaster a smile that I hope looks friendly. “My brother was unable to attend. I am here in his stead.”
The man regards me silently for what feels like minutes, then grunts and waves us forward.
My boots sink into the pristine snow as we trek through the courtyard, the large ice doors swinging open soundlessly.
My hand doesn’t stray from my sword. Alliance or not, there is enough bad blood between our kingdoms to paint the tundra red.
We pass through carved ice hallways with vaulted ceilings, and as much as I want to admire the fascinating architecture, I don’t let my eyes stray from the warriors flanking us. Our group halts outside two doors made of solid ice. A servant pulls them open to reveal a large, circular hall.
Let’s get this over with.
I march in, back ramrod straight. Chairs and sofas line the room, spilling over with what I assume to be Tundrayni nobility. Curious glances quickly morph into open animosity when they realize who I am.
The Dark Commander, they call me. Even the muffled whispers are choked with hostility.
In the center of the room, two ice thrones sit on a large dais. In one of them sits Tormik. I’ve never seen him before, but arrogance settles across his shoulders like a well-worn cloak—much like my father. A king is a king in any land, I suppose.
Beside him is his daughter. Princess Mayah.
Beautiful is the only word that comes to mind. Pale, creamy skin and bright blue eyes like sunlit ocean waves. Dark hair frames her face, loose curls brushing her shoulders. Her rouged lips curve down in a fierce scowl as she watches me.
Perhaps her enormous betrothal ring will coax a smile.
Our gazes lock briefly before her eyes drop to my chest plate. Her shoulders stiffen, mouth parting with surprise—she’s realized I’m not her intended. And she does not look pleased.
Will she throw a tantrum, or has her father taught her some diplomacy?
I reach the dais, and Tormik regards me with a disdainful look. “Prince Zevayr. We weren’t expecting you. Has Prince Faramir been delayed?”
“Faramir sends his regrets.” His fingers tighten on the long staff clutched in his grasp. “I’ll perform the ceremony in his stead and deliver his betrothed to Arbinj for the wedding.”
The princess stiffens.
Tormik’s scowl somehow deepens. He’s worse than my father. “It is beyond insulting that Varad expects me to betroth my heir via proxy.”
I give him a one-shouldered shrug, and a wave of outraged murmurs sweeps through the hall.
“Prince Zevayr,” the princess says sharply, commanding my attention. “Recently, several warriors returned severely injured from the border. After the ceasefire was negotiated.”
I rake my gaze over her, schooling my face into impassivity, though surprise sparks inside me.
I’d not expected her to be so bold. The surprise quickly morphs into anger—my father had explained the miscommunication in his letter.
Why bring it up again, especially right before the betrothal? Is this some political maneuver?
My stormwielding responds to my rising temper. The sunlight dwindles, and a rumble of thunder threatens of the storm to come. I fill my lungs with air, soothing the angry beat of my heart.
“My apologies, Princess,” I finally manage. She’s gone pale, eyes darting to the windows. “We had reason to believe that particular battalion was planning an attack. I only received notice of the ceasefire afterward.”
She seems surprised by my apology, dipping her chin in the faintest nod, which is more than I expected.
“Shall we begin the ceremony, King Tormik?” I ask, turning to her father.
The arrogant asshole doesn’t respond, but at least he vacates the throne and descends the dais.
I climb the steps, not missing how the princess cranes her neck to look up at me.
She’s a tiny wisp of a thing. Faramir is going to break her in half.
A surge of sympathy crackles through me before I can shove it down.
Enemy. She’s my enemy. Daughter of Tormik, murderer of Lev.
I don’t care what happens to her.
Deftly, I unstrap my helmet for the ceremony, setting it down beside the throne and raking a hand through my matted hair. Princess Mayah’s gaze is riveted to my face, lips parted and eyes wide.
I smirk at her. Undoubtedly, she expected the Dark Commander to look monstrous.
She doesn’t avert her gaze or blush as I expected. Instead, her blue eyes narrow into a defiant glare. My smile slowly fades as I study her—she’s not afraid of me. Interesting.
Tormik clears his throat, and she tears her gaze away.
I drop my voice, addressing only her. “Before the ceremony, I need a demonstration of your powers.” Retrieving a dagger from my belt, I cut a deep slash into my palm. If Tormik lied about her healing affinity, I’m going to be really fucking pissed.
Bright red blood oozes from the wound, dripping onto the icy dais. The princess purses her lips. And if I left you bleeding? her eyes seem to say.
Such a tiny thing with such a ferocious temper.
I arch my brow in challenge.
She sighs loudly, then reaches for my hand. A spark skitters across my skin. Despite all the disdain she’s shown me, her touch is surprisingly gentle—must be her healer’s training.
Her hand begins to glow with white light, and she passes it over my cut. Within seconds, the wound heals. My skin mends itself together, the gash vanishing, leaving my palm seamless. Not even a scar left behind.
I exhale sharply. Envy burns hot in my blood—these people have waterwielders and healers. They can cause terrible, unthinkable pain while healing away their own.
A pained, garbled moan.
Snatching back my freshly healed hand, I retrieve Faramir’s ring from my cloak. In the dark velvet box is a massive black diamond ring. It’s just like Faramir—hideous but outrageously valuable. I’d expected Mayah’s eyes to go round with delight, but she frowns instead, brows pinched.
“Princess Mayah of Tundrayn, on behalf of my brother, Crown Prince Faramir of Arbinj, I accept you as his betrothed. I vow to protect you from all harm and deliver you to him safely. Lightning strike me should I fail.”
I reach for her hand when—
“It is customary in Tundrayn for the man to kneel before his intended when accepting her as his betrothed,” Tormik drawls, arms crossed over his chest.
My neck prickles. Lying bastard. His staff dangles loosely from his fingers, and I want to shove it down his throat. My hands curl into tight fists, and a powerful rumble of thunder shakes the hall.
“Would you dishonor my daughter?” Tormik demands when I don’t kneel.
My jaw clenches. He intends to humiliate me. But what the fuck can I do without revealing my truthwielding? Without breaking the fragile alliance?
“I would never dishonor my brother’s intended,” I bite out.
Before I can change my mind and incinerate everyone in this skiesdamned hall, I drop to my knees and grab the princess’s hand, keeping my gaze fixed to hers.
Her eyes are wide—I like it more than I should, that I keep surprising this princess who thinks me a monster.
Slowly, I slide my brother’s ring onto her finger. She stares at her hand as though she can’t believe it’s real, a myriad of emotions tumbling through her blue gaze. I rise, pulling her up along with me, thrusting our joined hands into the air.
“The new princess of Arbinj!” I announce.
I’m met with silence.
My grip tightens around her hand. Tormik ascends the dais, joints cracking, and embraces his daughter, but I still don’t relinquish my hold. I’m not entirely sure why. It’s a fleeting moment between them—a cold, stiff hug, Mayah’s one hand still clasped in mine.