Chapter 4 - The Frozen Prince
Wrenora
My vow lasted a total of twelve hours. Magdala seemed determined to put me directly where I shouldn’t be.
She chose me to feed the cat after he’d followed me around most of the morning, which apparently required not only venturing to one of the upper levels, but near the entrance to the prince’s study.
Because I hadn’t made myself extremely memorable already.
Fynn, as she called him, was an apparently picky creature, and where he ran from most people, he had attached himself to me—an honor even she didn’t possess.
There were several occasions where I’d nearly tripped over him as he tangled himself around my ankles, but I wasn’t complaining.
His companionship was a warmth I desperately craved, though his timing was abysmal.
“Fynn is to be fed at the entrance to His Highness’ study.” Magdala handed me a bowl of meat scraps and pointed toward a corridor that led back to a dark staircase. “And for the love of the Gods, don’t go into Prince Callan’s study. Leave the bowl and hurry back.”
I shivered. The prince had said no thralls on the upper levels of the fortress. Not to mention she didn’t know I’d had another encounter with him earlier that morning.
“It’ll be fine so long as he doesn’t see you. And he’s been sulking all day. I doubt he’s left his bedchamber.”
Sulking? Brooding was more like it.
My curiosity got the better of me. “Is that common for him?”
She glanced at me, putting a hand on her hip. “Never you mind.”
I took the bowl from her hands and fled.
I hadn’t been at the Ice Fortress long enough to know where the stairs to the prince’s study were, but before I could ask, the cat guided me.
He meowed loudly at me before prancing off, his tail curved over in a hook.
He led me to a different servants’ staircase, out of the way of the rest of the lower level, beyond the barracks and down a dark corridor, lit with a single wisplight.
Every few steps, Fynn would peek behind to ensure I was still following before he continued ahead of me, his meows of excitement echoing off the ice.
“I’m coming as fast as I can,” I said, trying to keep pace with the excitable creature. “You could go a little slower if you were so concerned.”
The stairs were steep. What would possess someone to put their study at the top?
How did they manage to get any kind of furnishings into it in the first place?
But the Ice Fortress had been crafted using magic, so it wasn’t such a stretch for the things in it to be fashioned in the same way.
The real question was why this cat had to be fed at the top instead of somewhere more practical—like in the alcove at the bottom.
When I reached the landing, Fynn had disappeared. There was only one direction he could have gone...into the room. I’d been told I wasn’t to go into the prince’s study, so I stooped to set the bowl on the ground next to a water dish that looked as though it had recently been refilled.
“Fynn?” I whispered, unsure if the prince was on this level and uninterested in running into him. I’d already given him enough reasons to kill me; I didn’t need to give him another.
The cat didn’t appear. He’d been so excited for his meal that I found it strange he’d abandon it now.
I leaned to look through the doorway, and instead of a normal room, I was met with a strange shimmering mass that filled the entire entry.
It looked almost liquid as it shifted in space—metallic and amorphous compared to the sharp, faceted walls of the fortress.
A smarter girl would have backed away and left. I’d fed the cat. I’d done what I’d been told to do. But my curiosity outweighed any intellect I might have had. I reached a hand to the surface of the mass, jerking back when my fingers eased through it without any resistance.
I inspected my hand. Nothing had changed. It was the same one I’d had my entire life, only stained and calloused from wielding weapons and manual labor.
This time, I put my hand through to my forearm. The air on the other side was...warm.
I stepped closer, taking a deep breath. I’d been told not to go into the prince’s study, but this was too unusual for me not to at least take a peek. I wouldn’t go all the way in. I’d start with my head, then once I’d seen the other side, I’d leave, just as Magdala said.
I’d call for Fynn and go.
Nothing more.
When I stuck my head through, I was looking into a dark alcove at the end of a long hallway lit every few paces with wisplights.
I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
There was no sign of Fynn or a study. So, if I went through, I wouldn’t be breaking Magdala’s rule.
I was only stepping into another hallway, and she said nothing about hallways.
I shivered as I passed through the shimmering barrier. It was cold against my skin, contrasting with the warmth on the other side.
“Fynn?” I asked in a tight whisper, but still, there was no sign of the cat.
I took a few more steps into the hall, looking over my shoulder to check where the alcove was so I could find my way back, before I stalked toward an open doorway at the other end.
The walls here were made of dense, opaque ice—soft blue in tone like they had been pressed into shape with an immense weight—and so different from anything I’d seen in the rest of the Ice Fortress.
The doorway at the end of the hall opened to another corridor with doors at either end.
One side was dark with the absence of wisplights, the shadows sending a shiver through me.
I made the sensible choice to turn the opposite direction.
The other door was made of the same blue ice as the walls with an etched filigree handle in the center of a silver metal bracket.
Wisplights happily flickered on either side without a care in the world.
I reached for the handle, but before I could turn it, the door swung open on its own, revealing a massive room lined with tall, dark wooden bookcases.
There were no windows, and what little exposed wall wasn’t hidden behind the shelves was etched with a beautiful geometric snowflake motif.
The ceiling was constructed of translucent ice, allowing a blurry view of the cloudy sky overhead.
A worktable occupied the center of the space, covered with manuscripts and glass canisters of purple stones.
The bookcases were bursting with scrolls, books, and trinkets.
In one corner was a leather armchair and a small side table, a half-consumed glass of white wine perched atop a stack of books.
There was a large, tufted, blue velvet sofa on the other side, a pillow on one end and a lavishly embroidered violet blanket draped over the back.
I took a step in, trying to focus on all the...
stuff. It was so different from the rest of the fortress.
A sanctuary of parchment and soft fabrics.
And then, my eyes fell to the one thing I hadn’t wanted to find.
He was on his knees, one hand propped up while he leaned heavily on the other elbow.
His white hair had been swept to the side so he could see whatever it was he worked on.
It was a huge sheet of paper sprawled out over the ground—clearly too big for the worktable—and it looked like some sort of map with diagrams and notations scribbled all over.
Not two feet from him was Fynn, sitting patiently and looking directly at me as his tail swished back and forth.
Prince Callan was shirtless, leaving so much pale skin visible when he usually took extravagant measures to ensure he was covered from head to toe.
I assumed his skin would be the same color as his face, but what I hadn’t been prepared for were the scars—so many crisscrossing his flesh.
A massive one, darker than the others, ran along his ribcage.
He seemed so at ease as he worked, his mind lost in whatever he was writing.
There were no harsh expressions or furrowed angry brows, just calm concentration, which left me entirely too much leeway to admire the sharp lines of his arms and the contour of his shoulders.
I was suddenly very distracted by his strength on display.
While anyone could see how trim he was when fully clothed, I hadn’t expected the definition of his muscles.
The rumors that he had been on the front lines of the war were making significantly more sense.
I’d seen him in his armor, but the scars were further testament.
There was something humbling about them.
He hadn’t just sat on a horse watching his people fight; he’d fought beside them.
He looked away, checking something in the manuscript left open beside another half-empty glass of wine. After a moment, he pushed back to sit on his heels, inspecting his work with hands resting on his thighs.
I took a slow step back. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to take my eyes off him long enough to pay attention to where I was stepping. I smacked into the end of the door, making the loudest crack I’d ever heard and sending Fynn scurrying under the sofa for protection.
“The fuck...” Prince Callan was on his feet in an instant, his eerie violet eyes burning into me as he drew his ice blade. “What are you doing here?”
For a long moment, he stared, eyes wide with shock, every muscle in his neck and shoulders taut as he heaved massive breaths in and out of his lungs.
My gaze was locked on his, unable to look away.
He looked terrified. His blade materialized in his hand as he took a few strides in my direction.
I leaned back as far as I could, pressing the edge of the door between my shoulder blades as he neared, the tip of his sword resting at the corner of my jaw.
“I’m not sure where you acquired the audacity to think you were exempt from rules.” He reached to take my arm, pausing when he was a few inches away. His slender fingers hovered near my skin before he closed his hand into a fist and pulled back. “No one is to be up here.”
He clenched his teeth as he hesitated, drawing my attention to two long scars stretching down the right side of his cheek and over the ridge of his jaw.
The skin there was darker, like the scar on his ribs— ones he’d likely sustained in the months since the war.
The need to ask about them burned through me, pressing against the inside of my teeth.
It didn’t help that his stare was unwavering—a combination of frustration and curiosity—while his haunted violet eyes almost glowed.
Like I’d seen something I shouldn’t have. And honestly, I probably had.
I had never seen his hands without gloves or his face without a mask.
I had never seen so much of him. The strong line of his jaw drew my eyes to the column of his throat and down.
Every muscle in his chest was taut as he stood as frozen as the fortress itself.
Elves were a naturally handsome race, but Prince Callan was my first experience with frost elves.
There was something about his white hair and unusual skin tone that made him even more striking.
He stared and stared before he stepped closer, the edge of his blade kissing the soft flesh of my neck as the tip slid past and into the door.
“I’ll ask again. What...the fuck are you doing here?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but I had no words. Nothing at all. The thoughts I might have had floating around between my ears had abandoned me at the sight of him.
“I know you speak. I heard your voice last night.”
“I’m...I—”
“Why do you keep showing up where you shouldn’t be?”
“I was...feeding Fynn.”
His eyes grew round. “Fynn?”
“The cat.”
The prince glanced down at the dastardly creature who had chosen that moment to rub along my legs.
I pried my eyes from Prince Callan and glanced past at the massive map he’d been hovering over.
So many notes were scrawled in the margins with arrows and sketches and runic symbols I couldn’t read.
It was the work of hyper fixation I’d seen at the academy when I’d first gone to learn imbuing magic.
I’d known that passion. One where you were close to figuring out what you’d been working so hard toward, driving you to the brink of madness with lack of sleep and mental strain.
“What are you working on?” The question forced itself from my throat as I tried my best to ignore the razor-sharp blade still pressed to the side of my throat.
His attention snapped back to me, but instead of anger in his eyes, there was something else. Curiosity?
“Leave.” He took a cautious step back from me, taking his sword with him as it melted into the air. “Before you can’t anymore.”
“If you’re just going to kill me publicly tomorrow—”
“I’m feeling lenient,” he said, his voice deep and smooth—not angry, but something scarier. “For the cat’s sake.”
I swallowed, wrapping my fingers around one of my shackles. It drew his eyes down to them, a moment of confusion smoothing over his expression before he snuffed it out.
“Leave. Now.”
He turned so quickly, I flinched. And I didn’t have good enough self-control to not let my eyes drag down his back as he walked away, the shadow of scars doing nothing to diminish the perfectly honed muscles.
Why were the most beautiful men the most dangerous?
And in his case, the reason I was a slave.
“Send Magdala to me,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll spare you an execution this time, but if you step foot in my study again, I’ll turn you into a permanent ice sculpture.”