Chapter 5
Chapter five
Katria
The knock came softly this time, almost apologetic. Fenrir’s ears twitched, but he didn’t rise.
When I opened the door, the girl waiting on the other side wasn’t armored. She carried a tray of silver dishes and a thin, flickering light cupped in her palm.
“Lady Katria?”
Her voice was light, almost musical, the edges of each word faintly strange. I nodded. “That’s me.”
She curtsied—quick, practiced. “I am Maeryn. His Highness assigned me to your service.”
“Service,” I repeated. “That sounds formal.”
“Everything here is.” She crossed the room and set the tray down on a small table near the unlit hearth. The food steamed faintly, though when I touched the edge of the plate, it was cold.
Fenrir lifted his head, watching her. She smiled at him, the expression quick and genuine. “He likes you. That’s rare.”
“So I’ve gathered.”
Maeryn hesitated before speaking again. “You should know how things work here, at least enough to keep you from offending anyone important.”
“Such as?”
“The Frostfather rules through the Frostbound Heir, though it’s said the crown still speaks to him directly.
Every word carries the weight of the Veil.
The courtiers repeat those words whether they understand them or not.
” She looked down, lowering her voice. “You should never contradict him in public. Or the heir.”
I folded my arms. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“And if they say nothing,” she added softly, “that is when you should worry most.”
Her gaze flicked to the mirror, still faintly misted from earlier. “The palace sees more than it shows. Try not to speak secrets aloud.”
I followed her eyes. “You mean it listens.”
She gave a small, careful smile. “Everything in Winter listens, my lady. We’ve simply grown used to it.”
Maeryn set the small vessel of frostlight on the table. The flame inside wasn’t blue so much as translucent, like breath captured in glass. It gave off no warmth, but its glow softened the edges of the room, as though it meant to make the cold easier to look at.
“You said everything listens,” I said. “Does it ever answer?”
Her hands paused over the tray. “Sometimes,” she murmured. “But not to everyone.”
I caught the caution in her tone and leaned against the table. “Then maybe you could tell me who it favors.”
Maeryn smiled faintly. “If I knew that, I’d be wearing silver instead of linen.”
She began to unpack the tray: translucent bread that cracked instead of tearing, pale fruit that glittered like frostbitten jewels, a cup of something clear as water but thicker, leaving a faint shimmer on the rim.
“The Courts each have their own language,” she said while she worked. “Spring sings, Summer shouts, and Autumn bargains. Winter listens. That’s why silence matters here. You can speak your mind in any season but this one.”
I tasted the liquid. It was cold, flavorless, and left my tongue tingling. “So listening is power?”
“It’s safety,” she corrected. “Our rulers understand patience. The Frostfather has ruled longer than the river has frozen. He’s seen what noise can destroy.”
There was reverence in her voice, but something else underneath—carefully folded fear.
“And the Frostbound Heir?” I asked. “Does he listen, too?”
Maeryn hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the mirror before returning to me. “He listens when it suits him. He learned the art of silence early, but he doesn’t always trust what it says.”
“That sounds almost … human.”
Her lips curved, brief and knowing. “Careful, my lady. Here, that’s not a compliment.”
We fell quiet for a moment. The frostlight fluttered in its glass bowl, casting patterns that crawled along the wall like veins of ice. Maeryn reached to steady it, her expression thoughtful.
“There’s one more thing,” she said softly. “You’ll hear of the Veil—some call it the border, others the wound. It lies between our world and yours. The Frostfather believes it’s thinning. That’s why the Dreamstone matters so much. They think it can mend the breach.”
“They think I know where it is.”
She didn’t confirm it, but her silence said enough.
At last, she gathered the empty dishes. “You’re different, Lady Katria. Most mortals shake until they break. You only look like you’re thinking of how to fight back.”
“Would that be unwise?”
Her faint smile returned, sad and knowing. “Everything is unwise here.”
When she left, the door sealed itself again with a soft hiss. The frostlight burned low, steady and cold. Fenrir opened one pale eye from where he lay near the hearth.
“Everything’s unwise,” I whispered. “That’s the first thing I agree with.”
He closed his eye again, unconcerned, and the frostlight dimmed until only a trace of its glow remained—like a single held breath refusing to fade.
Morning never quite looked like morning here. The light that slipped through the window wasn’t sunlight, only a dim, white shimmer that seemed to come from the ice itself. I couldn’t tell whether hours had passed or only minutes.
Maeryn arrived without knocking. The door simply breathed open, a sigh of frost. She carried a bundle of pale linen and another vessel of frostlight that painted the room in silver hues.
“Good morning, Lady Katria.”
“Is it?” I asked.
Her smile was small. “Close enough. The court calls this hour first glimmer. It serves the same purpose.”
She set the bundle on the bed and unfolded a gown the color of clouded glass. Tiny runes traced the hem, flickering when they caught the frostlight. “I am here to prepare you for breakfast.”
“I thought I was a prisoner,” I said. “Not a guest at breakfast.”
“You are both.” She glanced up at me. “It is better to look like one than the other.”
I sighed, running a hand over the fabric. “And where does this breakfast take place?”
“In the east hall. The Frostbound Heir presides, though he rarely eats.” Her tone softened. “You will sit near the end of the table, opposite the mirrors. If you are addressed, answer plainly. If you are not addressed—”
“I should keep quiet.”
Maeryn hesitated then nodded. “Here, we call it the Law of Silence. To interrupt a superior is to challenge them. Most challenges end poorly.”
“Sounds civilized.”
She winced at the sarcasm but didn’t scold me. “The Law began long ago, when Winter nearly fractured itself with arguments. They learned that words could wound deeper than blades.”
I met her eyes. “And now they prefer the blades?”
She folded the last corner of the gown with careful precision. “They prefer peace. The form it takes does not always look kind.”
Fenrir stirred near the hearth, his breath frosting the floor. Maeryn’s gaze flicked toward him then back to me. “He will not be allowed in the hall. Leave him here. He will wait.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I murmured. The snowhound hadn’t left me since I walked the garden.
When Maeryn finished arranging my hair—pulled back, no ornament, nothing to catch light—she stepped back to study me. “You look almost calm.”
“I’m very good at pretending.”
“That will serve you better than truth,” she said softly then offered her arm as if we were equals. “Shall we?”
The corridor outside gleamed like a frozen river. Maeryn walked half a step behind, voice low enough that only I could hear.
“If anyone at table asks about Hollowmere,” she said, “speak of the cold and the harvests, not the people. Do not mention your herbs. The council watches for any sign of mortal craft.”
“I thought healing wasn’t forbidden.”
“It is not,” she said, “until someone decides it is.”
We reached the archway that opened into the hall. The air beyond shimmered with pale light and the sound of distant, perfect music—a melody built entirely of ice and wind. Fae voices murmured beneath it, smooth and careful.
Maeryn touched my sleeve before I stepped forward. “Remember, Lady Katria, speak only when spoken to and never louder than the frost.”
Then she released me, leaving the rest of her warning unspoken.
The east hall was already full when I entered, though no one spoke.
Dozens of fae sat in two perfect rows along a long, narrow table of ice, their reflections running the length of it like a river of light.
Silver dishes waited before them, untouched.
The sound I’d mistaken for music was only the wind threading through high crystal arches.
Kaelith sat at the head, flanked by two empty chairs—the Frostfather’s absence a silence heavier than the rest. His armor had been traded for black cloth banded with faint runes that pulsed once every few heartbeats.
When he looked up, the movement of every other fae in the room seemed to pause, as if even their stillness deferred to his.
Maeryn’s hand brushed my back in quiet reminder, and I followed her lead to the lower end of the table. A seat waited there, smaller, without ornament. My reflection in the ice looked pale and blurred, as if even the mirror didn’t know who I was supposed to be.
When Kaelith spoke, his voice carried effortlessly. “Begin.”
No one moved until he reached for his own cup. The rest followed in precise unison—glasses raised, bites taken, a ritual of motion so exact it felt rehearsed for centuries. No one chewed loudly. No one cleared a throat. The only sound was the faint crackle of frostlight burning in its sconces.
I tried a sip of the clear liquid Maeryn had poured for me. It tasted like snowmelt and left a cool ache behind my teeth. Across the table, a fae woman in silver silk lifted her eyes toward me, studied, and looked away as if touching a dangerous thing with her gaze.
The longer the silence lasted, the louder my thoughts became. I wondered if they could hear them—if in this place, thinking too loudly counted as speaking.
At the far end, Kaelith set down his cup. “Our mortal guest adapts quickly,” he said, not looking at me. “Hollowmere breeds endurance.”
The courtiers inclined their heads, a gesture somewhere between agreement and obedience. I managed to answer evenly. “Endurance is all Hollowmere ever gave us.”
A faint hum rippled through the hall—approval or warning, I couldn’t tell. Kaelith’s gaze flicked toward me then, sharp and unreadable. “You’ll find endurance is currency here as well.”
No one else spoke. The silence folded back over us, complete and deliberate.
When the meal ended, every fae rose at once, their chairs gliding soundlessly across the floor. Kaelith didn’t move until the last of them had gone. Only then did he turn his head slightly, enough that I saw the line of his jaw and the faint light running beneath his skin.
“Lady Katria,” he said without looking directly at me. “If you intend to survive this court, remember: The frost listens longer than you do.”
Then he left through the northern arch, leaving the hall empty except for the whisper of melting air where he had passed.
Maeryn appeared beside me a moment later, her face carefully blank. “You did well,” she murmured. “No one died of offense.”
“High praise.”
“In Winter,” she said, “it is.”