Chapter 22 Keldarion
Keldarion
Astride Arktos, the massive reindeer gifted to me by the Kryodian Riders, I patrol the grounds within Keep Wolfhelm.
Once, this keep bustled with activity: traders from other realms, staff carrying out daily work, noble visitors come to meet with my parents.
Now, it feels empty. Traders don’t make the journey.
Many of the staff have left for other Winter cities.
And I don’t exactly get a lot of guests.
The weight of Arktos’s stride mirrors the heaviness in my chest. The air bites, sharp and cold, but I barely feel it; I’ve grown numb to Winter’s unrelenting chill. Or perhaps I’ve just grown numb.
Beside me, Eirik Vargsaxa rides his moose, the animal’s antlers adorned with silver caps that catch what little light filters through the overcast sky.
Eirik, the leader of Winter’s legendary Kryodian Riders, has proven himself a reliable steward.
Though isn’t that what I once said about Perth Quellos? No one can be trusted, not truly.
There’s an unmistakable tension in his voice as he speaks. “The walls are strong, High Prince, but the rest of Frostfang is vulnerable. If the Below chooses an all-out assault as they did against Coppershire or Hadria, Keep Wolfhelm may hold, but the people outside will be defenseless.”
The people outside. I cast a look to the wall that surrounds the keep—a colossal structure of ice and stone, shimmering under the dull gray sky.
My parents built it after their failed attempt to retrieve the rose from the Below.
It was their way to shield Keep Wolfhelm from Sira’s retaliation.
But what good is a shield that only protects the few?
“Frostfang has persisted for centuries,” I reply, my voice even, practiced. “It will persist again.”
A safe answer. The kind my father would have given. It sounds convincing enough, but as I say it, I feel the fissures—not in Father’s wall but in myself. Sira’s watching me, waiting for me to give her any opening. Every decision I make teeters my realm on the edge of war.
Eirik glances at me, his sharp eyes narrowing beneath his light blond brows. “And what of those beyond the wall, my lord? What happens to them when the enemy comes?”
I’ve asked myself the same question countless times, but the answer eludes me. Or perhaps I’ve simply avoided it.
“The wall is their safeguard as much as it is ours,” I say, words hollow. “I’ll give the order to retreat into Keep Wolfhelm before danger arrives.”
Eirik’s lips press into a thin line. He knows it’s not that simple.
So do I. The keep isn’t large enough for all Frostfang’s citizens.
But this is how it has always been done.
My parents built the wall to protect what they deemed most vital: the heart of Winter.
Its fortress. Its heir. Everyone else was expendable.
I glance up at the wall again. Is it mocking me, this monolith of ice and stone? Another legacy of my parents that I cannot escape.
“I’ll gather reinforcements from the outer settlements. The Tundrafolk may rally with us,” Eirik says, his tone conciliatory. “We can—”
His words fade as my thoughts shift to Rosalina. I should ask her what she would have me do to prepare for this war. She who defeated Perth Quellos, who escaped from the Nightingale, who saved the people of Hadria. My mate.
Rosalina’s face drifts into my mind’s eye.
She has a warmth this realm has never known.
Not that I have been graced with it of recent days.
The image of her sweet smile and shining brown eyes twists into a scowl.
Every time I think I’m getting through to her, that this strain between us is easing, she goes and gets mad at me.
For protecting her. For choosing her. For not wanting her to make the same mistakes I did.
I take a shaky breath. I wish it would go away—this gnawing fear that eats at me every moment of every day.
But it can’t. Because I’ve lived this all before.
Caspian will sink his claws into her as he did me.
Twist her, manipulate her, until she is a shell of who she once was. Until she is lost to me forever.
I tighten my grip on the reins. A better man—a man like Ezryn or Dayton or Farron—would try to cherish her in spite of it. And I try. But all I end up doing is driving her away.
If only…if only! If only Caspian would get out of my damned head. I hate him. Every nerve in my body resents him. I know what he’s capable of, and for good reason, I fear it. And yet…
When I sat at his bedside as he slept in the medical ward, all the moments we’ve spent together played across my mind.
His very presence is a blade against my heart, cutting me open with moments of tenderness twisted into pain, promises broken so effortlessly they made me doubt they ever existed at all.
These days, I don’t even recognize myself in the mirror. I’m merely the remnants of the man I used to be. There is Keldarion before Caspian and Keldarion after. No wonder the wolf’s presence is so strong, I can’t fight it anymore.
The pieces of Keldarion, High Prince of Winter, have been scattered to the wind. Yet the beast remains whole.
Eirik’s voice pulls me back to the present. “What do you think, High Prince?”
I blink, forcing my thoughts away. “Do what you think is best,” I say, my tone colder than I intend. “Strengthen the wall. Prepare an envoy trip to the Tundrafolk. You and I will go together. If the Below comes, Frostfang will stand.”
Eirik nods, but there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He knows as well as I do that I’m deflecting. But if I falter now, so will the entire realm.
I must be like my father. Like the wall. Let all feelings of weakness hide beneath layers of ice and snow. I only pray the cracks don’t show.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a shadow darting through the fir trees, heading to the back of the keep. I pull to a stop. There are no deer within the keep. Children no longer play. It seemed too fast, too fluid for a soldier.
“My lord?” Eirik says.
A sense of unease shivers up my spine. “Double the guard,” I say. “Now.”
Eirik nods. He heads toward the gates, shouting orders. I don’t wait to see them carried out. My reindeer lurches forward as I kick it into motion, following the trail of that shadow.
A scent lingers on the air, cool and sharp, like wet soil mixed with the tang of rotting leaves. The smell of frozen foliage beginning to thaw.
It is not a scent known to Winter.
It churns my stomach as I push onward, weaving through the outskirts of the keep. The shadow appears again, just a flicker against the snow, speeding toward Perth Quellos’s old workshop.
George. He’s been in there every day, obsessing over the rose. A fool’s errand, perhaps, but I keep faith in him. If anyone can piece it back together, it’s George O’Connell.
I push Arktos harder, breath steaming in the air as we race toward the workshop. The shadow’s lost from sight, but it doesn’t matter. I need to get to George. In a single leap, I dismount and sweep open the door.
George is at his bench, hunched over the remnants of the rose, his hands steady and sure. He looks up, unbothered, a small smile forming.
“Kel! Nice to see you—”
“Watch out!”
A shadow falls from the rafters. Time slows as I see it—not a shadow at all but a fae man.
At least I think he is fae. His skin is icy pale with a bluish tinge.
He wears long robes the color of olive and slate, resembling clothing from history books.
The way the sleeves hang down, the pleats of the pants—it’s an ancient style. And his head…
Two long, curling horns jut from his forehead like a bull’s. This is no fae I have ever seen the likes of before.
The horned man draws twin, obsidian knives, the blades long as my arm. He moves with deadly precision, striking toward George.
The Sword of the Protector is in my hand before I register drawing it. I leap forward, intercepting the assassin with a clash of steel. “Run, George! Run!”
George stumbles back, then sets his gaze in a fiercely determined expression, one that has often made me exasperated at Rose. He leaps forward, gathering up the remnants of the rose in a cloth, then bolts out the door.
The horned man looks to follow, but I swing at him instead. He blocks, his knives dancing through the air, faster than I expect. Every strike I make is met with a fluid counter, his movements as effortless as water flowing downhill.
I thrust forward, but he twists aside with a grace that seems unnatural.
Refusing to let up, I swipe again. He doesn’t just block my attacks; he redirects them, the force of my strikes deflected back toward me.
Each movement of his knives leaves the air humming, their edges close enough to kiss my skin.
“Who are you?” I growl, sweeping the blade in a wide arc. Whoever trained him is talented. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m not going to be able to rely on my strength with a blade to win this battle. I kick him in the chest, giving me a moment to back up.
The air thickens around me as I call upon Winter’s blessing. Icicles spread over the floor, jagged shards rising like teeth to slow his advance. Snow gathers in the air, and I thrust my hands forward, blowing a snowstorm toward him.
But he doesn’t hesitate. He moves through the frost and snow as if they’re nothing, his knives cutting through the icy wind.
I lunge, sending a spike of ice shooting up from the ground straight at his chest. He twists, the motion seamless, and the spike shatters against the edge of his knife.
His free blade lashes out in the same breath, grazing my shoulder.
The cut burns, the sting far sharper than I expect, and I stagger back.