Chapter 6 #2
The corner of his mouth twitched—the ghost of a smile, or the thought of one. His gloved hand flexed once on the frost map; the surface hissed softly beneath his touch, a thin mist rising where heat met ice.
He noticed it too late. The frostlight pulse brightened in an uneven rhythm before fading again. I might have imagined the sound it made—like a second heartbeat, faint and disobedient.
“You shouldn’t linger here,” he said, voice regaining its calm, every syllable pronounced. “The council will call soon. If you’re wise, you’ll let Maeryn instruct you on how to answer.”
I didn’t move. “And if I’m not wise?” I just couldn’t stop myself from goading him. It wasn’t like I had chosen this, and I had nothing left to lose.
“Then I will instruct you myself,” he muttered, and this time the words landed differently—threaded with something that wasn’t entirely threat.
He turned away before I could answer, and the frost that had crept across the map’s edge retreated with him, leaving only a faint shimmer behind.
At the door, he paused. “For what it’s worth,” he said without looking back, “I don’t care what they say.”
“About me?”
He hesitated. “About why the hound chose you.”
“And what do you think?”
He finally turned then, slowly, as though measuring the risk. “I think he recognizes something I can’t yet name.”
The words hung between us, colder than threat, warmer than a promise. Before I could ask what he meant, the frostlight above us flickered—one long pulse, then silence. He took it as a signal—or an excuse.
“Your escort waits outside.” And with that, he left.
I stood there long after the door closed, staring at the space where he’d stood. The frostlight on the table pulsed once more, echoing his rhythm, before fading to stillness.
Fenrir was waiting when I returned to my chambers, pacing near the window. He sniffed the air, then pressed against my leg in quiet agitation.
“It’s fine,” I told him, though my voice didn’t sound like mine. “He’s only curious.”
Fenrir huffed, a sound almost human in disbelief.
“Fine,” I whispered. “So am I.”
Outside, the aurora bent low over the frozen palace, its light spilling through the frost like veins of color. I watched it until my reflection blurred in the glass and looked like someone else entirely.
Night—if night existed here—fell like a slow breath. The corridors dimmed until only the frostlight remained, thin ribbons of blue trailing along the walls. Maeryn appeared as silently as always, her steps no louder than snow.
“His Highness dismissed you early,” she said while relighting the sconces. “That is unusual.”
“I suspect I’m an unusual problem,” I said.
Her smile was brief. “Problems rarely leave the Hall of Frost alive. So perhaps you are something else.”
Before I could ask what, she held out a fur-lined cloak. “Come. The sky is clear enough to see the stars tonight.”
We walked through narrow corridors that curved upward until the air thinned and brightened.
The silence here felt different—expectant, almost tender.
A final door opened into a chamber of glass and ice: the observatory, the Hall of Frozen Stars.
The ceiling was a dome so pure I could see the heavens through it.
Color rippled across the sky—green, violet, gold—dancing like reflections on water.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.
“It is our reminder,” Maeryn said. “That even in Winter, light endures.” She leaned against the railing that circled the room. “Some say those are souls caught mid-fall—beings who slipped between realms when the Veil first tore. The Frostfather claims he hears them sing.”
I watched the lights twist together, graceful and terrible. “And what do you believe?”
“I believe the Veil breathes,” she said after a moment. “And that lately, it has begun to breathe faster.”
A tremor passed through the floor—so slight I might have imagined it. The frostlight in the sconces flickered. Far below, Fenrir’s distant howl rose and fell, echoing up through the palace bones.
Maeryn stiffened. “Do you feel that?”
“Yes,” I said. “What is it?”
“The Veil, perhaps.” She gripped the rail. “When it shivers, Winter listens.”
The lights above us flared once then dimmed, leaving faint afterimages dancing across my vision. The frost beneath our hands had warmed—not melted but alive.
“When the frost forgets its song,” Maeryn murmured, “something terrible wakes to remind it.”
I turned toward her. “What happens if the song doesn’t come back?”
“Then all of us will learn what silence truly means.”
For a while, we stood without speaking. The aurora moved slower now, as though exhausted. My reflection hovered faintly in the glass—half light, half shadow.
“I don’t think it’s the frost that’s afraid of melting,” I said quietly. “I think it’s everything that lives inside it.”
Maeryn gave me a strange, sad look. “Then perhaps it already knows your name.”
The frostlight steadied again, but the air hadn’t settled. Something unseen had shifted—a rhythm out of place, a heartbeat too strong for the silence around it.