Chapter 15
When we reach Castle Frostwyn, there is no one waiting to help me.
No guards. No servants. No steady hands to take his weight.
For a heartbeat, panic threatens to choke me, but the sprites are already moving. Tiny bodies, wings flashing as they swarm the carriage, bracing themselves beneath Luceran’s unconscious form. Together, they can carry a hundred times their own weight.
They haul him out, one gripping an arm, the other a foot. They surge through the doors and up the first flight of stairs, wings beating furiously, but even with their combined strength they falter. Twice they nearly lose him, their small backs bowing dangerously under his weight.
We won’t make it to his chambers on the next floor.
But my room is just around the corner.
“This way,” I say, already running ahead.
I wrench the doors open, holding them wide as the sprites stagger through and lower him onto the bed. They drop him with the last of their strength and collapse beside him, groaning in unison, wings twitching weakly.
I don’t waste a second.
I sprint for the kitchens.
My hands move on instinct. Roots, dried leaves, crushed bark, the sharp tang of spirits stinging my nose. I prepare the concoction quickly, efficiently. It’s saved my father’s heart more than once.
I make a triple batch.
Luceran is… large.
I rush back upstairs, cursing under my breath every time the liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
When I reach my room, I don’t hesitate.
I sit on the edge of the bed, lift his head into my lap, tilt his chin. Then I pour.
He fights me at first, gurgling, choking, trying weakly to turn away. I pinch his jaw between my fingers, forcing his mouth open, and make him swallow what’s left.
When the bottle is empty, his face twists in pain. He grimaces, a broken sound tearing from his throat, then suddenly goes limp.
I freeze.
I watch his chest, barely daring to breathe myself. Seconds stretch. A terrible, endless waiting. Then he bolts upright with a sharp inhale and collapses back onto the bed.
This time, when I press my fingers to his chest, there’s no tightness. His breathing evens out, slow and steady, soft curls of frost escaping his lips with each exhale.
My shoulders sag.
Relief crashes through me so hard I have to bury my face in my hands just to stay upright.
After a moment, I manage to pull the blankets over him, arrange his body carefully, prop his head so his airway stays clear. Only then do I sink into the chair beside the hearth.
I sit there and watch him sleep.
All I can do now is hope that I have done enough. He is Fae, after all, and I have no idea whether one of my tonics will affect a magical creature the way it would a human. It could make him worse. He could have a reaction. I am not even certain his body works like ours.
I suppose I will find out soon enough.
The days bleed into one another, and still he does not wake.
I keep giving him the tonic. He doesn’t implode. At first it helps, his breathing steadies, the pain eases, but with each dose its effect lessens. He grows colder. No matter how much I stoke the fire, no matter how many blankets I pile over him, his body refuses to warm.
I don’t know what to do.
I can’t eat. I can’t drink. I can barely think.
How am I meant to keep him alive?
I’m not a healer. I don’t understand the intricacies of whatever curse coils around his heart. I balance numbers. I read storybooks. I don’t bring Fae lords back from the brink of death.
Where is Atilia?
The thought echoes through me like a plea flung into the dark.
And then, one day, as if she heard it…
She appears.
She barges into my room, her hair tightly braided down the length of her back, eyes wide with panic.
“What happened?” she demands, already crossing the room.
She goes straight to the bed, takes his hand in both of hers, and her expression tightens. “He’s freezing. Put another log on the fire.”
I do as she says, though I know it won’t help.
“There was a cave-in,” I tell her. “At the Aurevault. He fell.” My voice catches, but I force myself to go on. “Then he turned into a wolf and climbed out. When he reached the top, he collapsed. That was four days ago.”
“I should have been here,” she says, panic threading her words as her thumb strokes over his knuckles.
“The moment news of the collapse reached my estate on the far side of the mountain, I came as fast as I could. I have my people at the Aurevault now, stabilizing the tunnels, tending to the injured.” Her jaw tightens.
“Luceran would never accept my help. But now he has no choice.”
I frown, the pieces refusing to fit. “Your estate?”
How would a servant have an estate? Why would her people be dispatched to the Aurevault?
“Who are you?” I ask.
It isn’t a question anymore. It’s long overdue.
Atilia doesn’t look at me. Her hand continues its steady, soothing motion over Luceran’s cold fingers.
“I am his mother,” she says quietly.
And suddenly I see it. The sharp lines of the face, the set of the jaw, the same unmistakable presence I somehow overlooked.
“But why?” I ask, reeling. “Why don’t you live here with him at Castle Frostwyn? Why pretend to be his servant?”
“I did not pretend to be anything,” she says coolly. “You assumed. I did not correct you.”
I shake my head. “That does not explain this.” I gesture helplessly. “You cook for him. You tend to him like a servant. Nothing you do is how a Fae noble would behave.”
Her chin dips, her shoulders sagging just slightly.
“When Luceran’s wife died, his grief was immeasurable,” she says at last. “Unlike anything I have ever witnessed, and the circumstances of her death…” She trails off. “He descended into a despair so deep that no one, not even his mother, could reach him.”
She swallows.
“I could not help him, and I could not endure another century watching him suffer. So I left Castle Frostwyn. I lived alone.” Her voice softens. “But I could not abandon him entirely. I returned when I could. Took care of him. Hoped that each time I came back, something in him would have changed.”
Her gaze lifts to meet mine.
“It never did,” she says quietly, “until you arrived.”
She brushes her hand along his cheek, and Luceran murmurs faintly in his sleep.
“Yes, you infuriated him,” she continues. “But before you, he felt nothing at all. I would call that an improvement.”
I step closer to the bed, my chest tight.
“What is wrong with him?” I ask.
“It is his heart,” she says. “His Fae gift is frost and ice. He is the Winter Lord, as you already know, but that power is a remnant of a union between houses long ago. It is not natural to us. We are Fae of creation and invention.”
She exhales slowly.
“Only Luceran can wield the cold as he does, and he has no true control over it. The more he used his gift, the sicker he became.” Her gaze darkens. “It worsened after Aluna died.”
She dips her chin. “She was Luceran’s wife.”
I nod, though I’m not sure why the sound of her name makes my hands tremble, fingers picking at the loose threads of my sleeve.
“When he is under great strain or stress, the pain in his chest worsens, and when he sleeps, he loses what little control he has left over his own temperature. That is why he is growing colder.” Her voice lowers. “Until he recovers, he will continue to freeze.”
She turns back to him, and for the first time I see the cracks in her composure. The iron-hard mask slips. She looks like a mother watching her child slip away.
Then, abruptly, she straightens and strides toward the door.
I arch a brow. “Where are you going?”
“To my home. I will bring help back with me.”
I rush forward, reaching out. “Wait!” She pauses, hand on the door. “What do I do?”
“You are already doing it,” she says simply, and it feels like the greatest compliment she has ever given me. “Continue the tonic. Keep him warm. Keep him safe. I will return soon.”
And then she is gone, the door closing softly behind her.
When the room settles into silence again, the sprites cautiously peer out from the wardrobe.
“Are you scared of her?” I ask.
One shakes its head firmly.The other nods with enthusiastic agreement.
I begin to pace, my eyes never leaving Luceran. I do exactly as Atilia instructed. I stoke the fire. I add another blanket. I brew tonic after tonic, but nothing changes.
If anything, he’s colder.
Eventually, my legs give out and I collapse into the chair, thoughts racing. Who knows how long it will take Atilia to return? What if we don’t have that long?
Then my gaze drifts to the bedside table.
To the key Luceran gave me.
Of course.
I may not have all the answers, but I have access to a grand library. One that must hold something. Anything.
Still, leaving him, even for a moment, is not an option.
I turn to the sprites.
“Do you know how to read?”
This time, the other one nods and the first shakes its head vehemently.
I frown and cross the room, scoop the key from the table, and toss it into the air.
One of the sprites catches it with both hands, swaying under its unexpected weight.
“I need any books you can find about surviving the cold. Anything at all. Can you do that?”
They answer in a rush of chattering, full, rapid sentences I don’t understand, though that doesn’t seem to bother them in the slightest. A moment later, they zip out the door.
I pace while I wait, unable to sit still. My steps carry me back toward the bed just as Luceran stirs in his sleep, turning onto his side. His hair spills over his eyes.
I hesitate.
Then I reach out, cautious, fingers trembling as I tuck the strands back behind his pointed ear. He’s so cold beneath my touch, but smooth, impossibly so.
He shifts again, the blanket snagging and slipping lower, baring the rippling muscle of his abdomen and the hard line of his hips.
My breath shudders.
I pull my hand back, my fingers grazing his shoulder as I retreat and the sprites return with a clatter.