Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Callan
The palace had never felt so small. Not when I was a boy hiding from my father’s rages.
Not when I was a young prince expected to smile at foreign dignitaries while my father threatened their emissaries behind closed doors.
Not even seven years ago, when Aurelia had broken our engagement and I’d returned home without a bride or the promise of another kingdom to rule over.
But today? Today, the marble halls of Grey Oak felt like a coffin built expressly for me.
I stood at the balcony overlooking the courtyard as soldiers—her soldiers—marched beneath me in orderly rows. Obsidian helmets glinted like beetle shells in the thin autumn light.
The air smelled faintly of frost.
In the palace garden, decorations for the celebration were underway despite Heliconia not setting a date yet.
White roses in full bloom. Ice sculptures in the shape of Aqras and other mystical creatures.
The obsidian stonework was a lovely touch.
Really warmed the soul. I gripped the railing until my knuckles bleached white, trying not to think about what would come after I spoke my vows.
If I’d even live long enough to attend the party in the garden or if I’d already be dead then.
Farther out near the stables, a few Autumn soldiers caught my eye.
They steered clear of the Obsidians, huddling with one another as if there would be any strength in numbers.
A couple of them stole glances up at me, their faces pale with fear.
I forced a smile. Lifted a hand in a small, confident wave.
The Autumn king, unbothered, unconcerned, unshaken.
Inside, I was shaking hard enough to rattle bones.
“You should not be out in the open,” Lemuel said sharply behind me. “Any one of her soldiers could decide to make themselves king with a single arrow.”
“Ah, Lemuel,” I sighed. “Must you always ruin a perfectly good panic attack?”
He stepped beside me, arms folded. His robe sleeves frayed where he’d tugged them raw over the years. “I ruin nothing. You stand in full view where a single shot could end both your rule and your life.”
“That’s the point,” I said lightly. “If they see me, they assume I am powerful enough to be unconcerned with the risk.”
He paused, looking visibly shaken at my words. “And are you?”
“Unconcerned with risk?” I flashed him a grin. “Always.”
His lips compressed into a thin line. “You played a dangerous game with her yesterday.”
Played. Past tense. As if the game had ended. Heliconia likely thought it had. Likely thought she’d won.
Lemuel lowered his voice. “Majesty, the real throne cannot stay hidden indefinitely. If she discovers where you moved it—”
“She won’t.”
“I hope you’re right,” Lemuel said. “There are a lot of lives counting on you.”
“Maybe they shouldn’t,” I said. Lemuel’s brow went up. “The Autumn fae counted on my father, and look where it got them. Drained and halfway to the Afterlife.”
“Your father made many mistakes,” Lemuel said. “I hope you do not repeat them.”
“My dear Lemuel,” I murmured, “my father would never have survived the day Heliconia walked into his hall.”
“Survival is not victory.”
I opened my mouth, some witty retort half-formed—when the temperature dropped. A suffocating chill slid around my throat like a gloved hand. The air turned brittle, crystalline. Frost spidered along the marble railing beneath my fingers.
She was here.
I didn’t turn. I did not give her the satisfaction. “Your Majesty,” I called over my shoulder. “Isn’t it bad luck for me to see the bride before the wedding?”
Heliconia’s voice drifted from behind us, smooth and deadly as a drawn blade. “I’d wager your luck has run out, whether you look at me or not.”
I turned then.
Her gown today was a sheet of winter—white, silver, and crystalline layers that rippled like snowdrifts. Her hair fell like a spill of ink against all that white. Her eyes were pale and sharp, glinting like frost-rimmed glass.
She looked… amused.
Which was probably not quite as bad as if she were angry, but it felt dangerously close.
“You look radiant,” I said, sweeping an exaggerated bow. “Frostbite truly brings out the glow in your complexion.”
Her lips curved faintly, but her words dripped with acid. “Charming until the end.”
Lemuel stepped between us. “Your Majesty, might I remind you—”
Magic struck Lemuel, knocking him clean off his feet. His knees hit the marble with a sound that made me flinch. Frost rimmed the stone beneath him, spreading like veins, creeping toward his body.
“No!” I called. “Heliconia—”
She lifted one pale hand, stopping me mid-step with a ripple of cold. “He forgets his place.”
“He was only—”
“Afraid,” she finished. “And rightfully so.”
Lemuel struggled to sit up, breath frosting into the air. “Your Majesty,” he rasped to me, not her. “Do not—bend.”
Heliconia’s gaze sharpened. “Bend?”
She drifted forward. Like mist over ice.
“How about break?” she purred.
Lemuel scrambled backward until his spine hit the stone pillar. But the ice reached him. Touched his hand. Raced up his arm.
His scream was thin and small.
I lurched forward. “He’s harmless.”
“On the contrary.” Her voice was almost kind. “Loyal men are always the most dangerous. They make kings believe they have something worth fighting for.”
She held out her palm and blew. A puff of icy air shot straight into his face.
The frost took him instantly.
A single, awful crunch as his entire body froze.
Then silence.
My breath hitched. Something in me twisted.
Heliconia stepped over his frozen body like it was a stray log in her path. She touched my cheek. Her fingers were so cold they burned. “You look pale, Callan. I do hope you find some color before our big day.”
“And what day is that? I have an opening in my schedule a week from tomorrow—”
“Sunset tomorrow,” she said, tone sharpening. “You will stand beside me as we are bound before your people. And then I will be crowned and set upon the Harvest Throne.”
“Tomorrow?” I repeated, incredulous. “Bit rushed, isn’t it?”
“We do not have the luxury of time,” she said coldly.
“What could possibly—”
“That little bitch thinks she can burn my soldiers and get away with it,” she said darkly. “But I will show her just what her little trick will cost her in the end.”
The blood drained from my face.
Aurelia.
She’d managed to get into the camp. Maybe even rescue her Aine friend. And now Heliconia would take out her wrath against my people.
I bowed, masking the tightening in my chest. “As you wish.”
She studied me, her expression unreadable. “Remember this, Callan. When you stand beside me tomorrow, your realm survives. Resist me…” Her gaze drifted to Lemuel’s frozen body. “…and Autumn will fall before the moon has set on its lands.”
Then she left.
A sweep of ice in her wake, a cold so deep the candles guttered.
When the doors shut behind her, I stood there, unmoving. Lemuel’s cracked, iced-over face stared up at me from the marble. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.
“You idiot,” I whispered. “You should have kept your mouth shut.”
But grief crept in anyway. Grief and guilt. He’d died trying to save me.
I crouched beside him. Reached out. My fingers hovered above the frost but didn’t touch.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Then I stood. Steadied myself. Straightened my coat.
And walked away.
I didn’t stop until I reached the hidden door in the back of the hall. Down the spiraling stairs. Into the cold, stale depths beneath the castle.
My footsteps echoed as I approached the small chamber.
And there it sat. The true Harvest Throne. Alive with power. Pulse slow and steady under the veined gold. I sat and rested my palm against its armrest. Warmth thrummed beneath my skin.
“Tell me how to stop her,” I whispered. “Tell me how to save my people. Tell me how to be different than him.”
A faint pulse answered.
Soft.
Warm.
Steady.
Not a promise. A reminder. You already chose differently.
I closed my eyes.
“I know,” I breathed. “Now tell me what choice I make next.”
No answer.
Because that was the cruelest truth of all. The throne could not rule for me. My father’s crown could not protect me. Heliconia would not spare me. And Aurelia—the one person who might have stood with me—was gone.
Above, the palace groaned under the tightening grip of winter. And far north, the smoke of my own scorched army still curled into the sky.