Chapter One
A Fortress of Ice - Wrenora
There’s nothing I hated more than the fucking cold.
I hated it more than never getting to see my parents again or spending the remainder of my existence toiling through menial labor to make the lives of my enemies easier.
Those things I’d come to grips with, but the cold?
I couldn't get used to that. It soaked into my bones and froze my will to live, turning my thoughts into desperation—a madness festering in my soul.
I was constantly overcome with the need for nothing but warmth. Not food. Not water. Just heat.
Then there were the shackles. They were a constant, chafing reminder of my stupid decision to join the war in the first place.
I could be in my home village in Kaldaira, making bread in my father’s bakery, enduring my imbuing master’s lewd comments.
Finally falling in love. But instead, I was enslaved to the elves after the abysmal loss of the human army in the war, standing in the massive kitchen of my newest assignment, wishing I could bathe, sleep, or both.
I traced my fingertips over one of my shackles, trying to find a seam in the material—a weakness, a means by which to free myself.
But they’d been welded shut around my wrists with magic designed to suppress my own power.
The metal was unfamiliar, a dark, shimmery bronze material made up the solid bands.
There was no chain between them, because the elves were confident that we were terrified enough not to run or fight back.
Their only purpose was to suppress our magic, because the elves didn't fear our pathetic human strength, but our gods-given magic was different.
We were told the shackles were impenetrable and could never be removed, meaning I’d be a slave for the rest of my life. Or at the very least, I would bear the physical reminder of being one.
“You will report daily before sunrise,” Lady Magdala—a mature-voiced elven woman—said, greeting us before ushering us through a side entrance.
We weren’t to be seen, the filthy humans that we were.
We were the spoils of war. Our lives were spared in the final battle, just to be forced to endure a grueling life of servitude.
The word the elves used for us was thrall—a derogatory term for worthless—and every time I heard it spoken, a shiver crept up my spine at how casually it slipped from their lips.
Magdala went through all the requirements.
So many rules. There were always a lot, but here there were even more.
It made sense. This was the Ice Fortress—the proper home of the banished Prince Callan Vostbain.
It was as far from the human population as physically possible, nestled between the frozen Breven Mountains and Neeva—the northernmost city on the continent.
“Once the breakfasts have been completed, you'll be assigned to either clean up or to prepare for the midday meal. Those of you who are not given an assignment in the kitchens will report to laundry.”
Laundry. My least favorite of all the tasks, but at least it was warm.
Which was more than could be said about anywhere else in this place.
I wasn’t sure the fortress had a proper laundry facility; the washing vats might be too warm for this place.
We were currently on the lowest level, surrounded by dingy walls made of snow that looked as though it had been walked over by hundreds of boots.
But on the floors above us, the fortress was crafted from pristine enchanted ice which, from the exterior, looked like a gigantic crystal with spires twisting up to stab the snowy clouds.
The whole place was massive, and since the crew of new slaves and servants had only just arrived, we hadn’t yet seen the upper levels.
I’d come with several other slaves and a half-dozen paid servants.
Most of the servants had already been sent to their respective areas within the fortress, but the slaves…
we were usually given to whomever needed the most grueling labor performed.
I was honestly shocked I was standing in the kitchens and not shoveling shit somewhere.
“You…” Magdala snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Pay attention.”
Fucking Nine Hells.
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. At some point I’d gotten lost in my own thoughts.
I was usually careful not to draw attention to myself.
I learned in the war that to stand out was a massive liability.
Hide beneath the sea of other humans and away from trouble.
Swing your sword well enough to save your own neck, but not well enough to draw challengers.
Lady Magdala’s eyes held mine longer than I liked.
“There’s to be no talk of rumors about His Highness. I’ve heard them all, and I can assure you he is not cursed, he has not been banished for harsh conduct in the war, and he is not a vampire. He looks perfectly normal for a frost elf. All the rumors are exactly that. Rumors and nothing more.”
And yet, we all knew the truth. Maybe cursed was the wrong word, but it was the prince’s fault we lived in endless winter.
His magic was the catalyst. Curse or not, he was to blame for this blight upon the continent—a seasonless snow creeping farther each year—that left entire regions locked in perpetual winter.
No crops could grow in the fields. No fish could be caught in frozen water.
Natural resources dwindled, and each year, people of all races were forced to venture farther south to find the bare minimum to live.
And if it continued, the war the humans lost against the elves would only be the beginning.
“He has created this home as a sanctuary for his solitude, and you are to go nowhere near him.” She crossed from one side of the room to the other as she spoke.
“Thralls may not venture to the upper levels of the fortress unless given a specific assignment by me and me alone. There is zero tolerance for this.” Her eyes found each of us, taking in our unmistakable round ears and shackles.
She stopped in front of me. “Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, Lady Magdala,” we intoned as one.
“To your tasks, then,” she said, her brilliant blue eyes still holding mine for another few seconds before turning away.
I took a deep breath, my posture relaxing before I was herded into the storeroom with two others to begin the day’s assignment of hauling sacks of dry goods from the pantries to the individual workstations.
“You.”
I slung a sack of flour over my shoulder and turned, nearly running into Lady Magdala in my haste to complete my task.
“I'm addressing you,” she snapped.
“Forgive me, my lady, I wasn’t aware you were speaking to me,” I said, trying my best to curtsy with the weight on my shoulder.
“What's your name?”
I hesitated. Most of the masters I’d served in the last few months hadn’t cared to know anything about me. The fact that she did was…strange. I was a human slave. She was an elf—a high elf, based on her alabaster complexion, blue eyes, and gorgeous, shiny, black hair. Elves and humans did not mix.
“Wrenora Falon,” I said, trying not to let confusion color my tone. I didn’t need to get into trouble on my first day.
“Well, Wrenora, deliver this.” She motioned to the sack still slung on my shoulder. “Then I’m sending you to polish the floors before His Highness returns.”
I’d polished floors before. If it was anything like what I’d done previously, I’d make quick work of it, and other than sore knees the next day, I’d be happier for it, too.
Being thrust up to the main hall was jarring.
For the first several minutes, I struggled to keep my eyes on my task.
Every wall was made of massive sheets of frigid glass fused together by icicles the size of tree trunks.
Not glass, I reminded myself. Ice. Faceted, frosted panels were etched for privacy between rooms, with sweeping patterns of snowflake-like, six-sided structures.
The ceiling of the grand two-story hallway had no floors above it and was translucent, allowing for distorted views of the snowy sky.
The ambient light from the sun made the entire fortress glow with perceived warmth, though I could still see my breath.
Instead of soap, I was given clean, scalding water with a ladle and a polishing rag that fit over my hand like a glove.
The water melted the ice, and the rag burnished it before it refroze mirror smooth.
I had to work fast or warbly streaks would show, and Magdala said this was unacceptable, and I’d have to do it again until it was perfect.
It was tedious and frigid work. My knees ached from the cold after crawling around on the icy surface, plus after a few moments, my pants were soaked through, making me even colder.
I worried I’d freeze to the floor if I didn’t keep moving.
Channeling my discomfort into determination, I managed to polish the first half of the hall in a few hours.
I leaned back on my knees to inspect my progress, marveling at how smooth and beautiful the ice was after I’d burnished it.
It glittered in the eerie light of the enchanted sconces embedded into the walls.
When I glanced back at what I had left to do, however, my heart sank.
There was so much left, and the midday meal had come and gone.
At this rate, I wasn’t going to make it to the evening meal either, and a night with an empty stomach was never easy.
The main doors of the fortress were thrown open, a blast of wintery air slamming into my back as five figures stepped in, armor rattling as they walked.
They were in formation with two walking side by side in front of and behind a central figure.
As they moved down the hall, the four guards peeled away, all ducking into the same room as the fifth man continued toward me.
His armor was mesmerizing, made entirely of opalescent ice, making him look like a knight cut from quartz crystal.
He was completely concealed behind an armet-style helm, adorned with long, sharp shards on either side which fanned out like wings of icicles.
As he approached, I straightened my posture.
I didn’t need to bother. I was a thrall, and he was clearly someone of importance. And I was invisible.
Or was I?
He stopped, stone still, the visor of his helm pointed directly at me. I held my breath, unsure if I should apologize for being in the way or if I should bow, though I was already on my knees.
“Forgive me.” It was Magdala sprinting down the hall toward us. “You weren't supposed to return until tomorr—”
“I sent a messenger ahead to announce my early return.” His voice was smooth and cold—colder than the fortress. Colder than the air that blasted down the hall at his back.
I shivered as he turned to face Magdala. She slid a hand to my shoulder, applying firm pressure to keep me in place on my knees. She curtsied deep, bringing her eyes to my level.
“I’m so sorry, Highness, but no was message delivered.”
Highness. This was the prince? Goosebumps bloomed down my arms.
His hatred for humans was renowned. He’d sent more heads back on pikes than he’d taken prisoner.
Yet, there hadn’t been a single living human to see him draw his sword.
Anyone who had was dead. The banished Frozen Prince—the one whose very existence had changed the tide of the war.
Though we’d been told not to talk about him, I’d heard so many rumors already.
I’d thought he’d be bigger from the stories.
Eight-feet tall and monstrously huge. Instead, he was closer to a respectable six-and-a-half feet with a muscular build.
His broad shoulders tapered to a trim waist. He was no bigger than any other elven warrior I’d met on the battlefield, and yet something so foreboding seemed hidden in the way he carried himself with endless confidence.
With eerie slowness, the armor around him melted away, drawing back from his face and chest and up his arms until disintegrating into a shimmering mist wafting to the ceiling.
I couldn’t stop staring; I’d never seen a frost elf in person.
They were rare, incredibly powerful, and dangerously beautiful.
His skin was the color of a cloudy winter sky—a pale, cool gray—that looked even colder against his pure white hair, which was pulled back from his face in a loose bun at the nape of his neck.
And his face…most of it was covered by a mask over his nose and mouth, but what I could see was all hard angles.
The sharp contour of his jaw was visible beneath the fabric, along with a slender nose.
He wore a stormy blue formal doublet with silver embroidery and lacing.
White pants were tucked into pristinely clean white boots.
I saw all of those details, but they washed away when his eyes met mine, leaving my head completely empty.
They were a shade of lavender I’d never seen before—so pale they seemed to glow.
His eyebrows were furrowed in absolute loathing, and I feared my life was about to come to an abrupt end, though I’d been careful to follow all the rules.
“Why is a thrall in my fortress?” His gaze touched my shackles before making the journey back to my face.
“I had need of—”
“I’ve no time for excuses, Magdala. We’ve discussed this. There are to be no thralls in this fortress.” He pinned her with his glare. “At the very least, not on the upper levels.”
“Of course, Highness. Forgive me, it won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.”
He stormed away, taking the cold chill of the hall with him. After several seconds, Magdala let out a deep breath.
“I’d say he gets nicer, but truth is, he only gets worse.
” She glanced down at me with what I’d come to know as her usual authoritative expression.
“I guess one of the servants will need to complete the polishing.” She sighed long and slow before continuing, “A shame. You’ve done such a lovely job of it so far. ”
I stood to follow her, scooping up my steaming pail and plopping the polishing rag into the water.
I’d survived my first encounter with the prince, but based on his demeanor, I wouldn’t survive another.
Continue reading FATED TO THE FROZEN PRINCE by CIARA HARTFORD