Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Katria
The knock came before the light. Three measured taps—polite, inevitable. Maeryn entered without waiting for leave, her usual calm frayed. “The Frostfather commands your presence,” she said, her voice higher than usual. Was that fear in it?
Those words should have meant nothing, but they rooted cold in my chest all the same.
She carried a bundle of white and silver cloth. “Wear this. The court values presentation.”
“The court values cruelty,” I said, though I took the gown anyway. The fabric was heavier than it looked, threaded with something that hummed faintly when it touched my skin. Not silk—something living once, now frozen still.
Fenrir whined low from his corner. I knelt to steady him, my fingers tangling in his thick fur. “Stay here,” I whispered. He pressed his nose to my wrist, refusing.
Maeryn’s eyes flicked toward the door. “If he follows, no one will stop him. But if he growls, half the hall will draw blades. Keep him silent if you can.”
“As if that’s possible.”
She almost smiled. “Then keep yourself silent instead.”
The walk to the Hall of Frost felt longer than the corridors allowed. Guards fell into step behind me—two, then four, until their boots beat a rhythm like a drum for the condemned. Frostlight burned in the sconces above, each flame locked inside its crystal cage.
The doors at the end of the hall opened with a sound like ice cracking across a lake.
The chamber beyond doused most light, and the Frostfather’s throne rose from the floor itself, carved out of the same black ice as the walls. Around him, nobles stood in concentric arcs, their eyes glittering and faces smooth as masks. No one spoke. The silence had already rendered its verdict.
Kaelith stood to the right of the throne, clothed in armor, polished black veined with frostlight. A ribbon of steam coiled where his breath met the air. When our gazes met, he didn’t move—but the light tracing his glove brightened once before settling back to its disciplined pulse.
I lowered my head just enough to look obedient.
The Frostfather’s voice carried without effort. “Mortal healer of Hollowmere,” he said, “you have been brought before the Court of Winter to answer for the disturbance between worlds.”
“I caused no disturbance,” I said, the words leaving my mouth before I could soften them. “The ground shook. I only stood on it.”
A ripple of sound passed through the chamber—half gasp, half hiss. Kaelith’s jaw tightened.
The Frostfather leaned forward slightly. The silver glow behind his pupils flared, unnatural. “Your tongue is sharp for one who begs mercy.”
“I haven’t begged,” I said quietly, wishing I could simply shut myself up.
Another murmur. One councilor—tall, draped in robes traced with runes—stepped forward. “The hound’s loyalty marks her. No mortal could bear the touch of frost without binding.”
Fenrir, who had followed despite my warning, padded into the circle of light and sat beside me, massive and silent. His breath plumed against the floor.
The councilor recoiled a fraction. “See? Even now the creature guards its master.”
“I am no one’s master,” I said. “He chooses where to stand.”
The Frostfather’s gaze slid to Kaelith. “And do you choose, my son, to defend this mortal’s insolence?”
Kaelith’s answer came measured, each word carved from ice. “I choose to obey the evidence, not assumption.”
For an instant, the room seemed to contract around him. The Frostfather’s fingers flexed on the throne’s arm; frost spread beneath his touch.
“Then you doubt your king.”
“I doubt coincidence,” Kaelith said evenly.
The temperature plummeted as frost bloomed across the floor in a widening circle that stopped at my feet. The Frostfather’s eyes gleamed brighter, unfocused. “If warmth will not confess, it must be broken to silence.”
Gasps again—this time from the nobles.
Maeryn’s warning echoed in my head: Omen or scapegoat. The ending seldom differs.
The Frostfather raised one hand. The runes on the walls flared in answer, blue to white. “Prepare the chamber.”
Guards moved instantly. Kaelith’s expression didn’t change, but I saw his fingers curl, glove tightening until the frostlight flared bright through the seams.
I didn’t know if that meant anger or control—or both.
When the guards reached me, Fenrir stood first. The growl that left him rolled like thunder, deep enough that the crystal sconces shuddered. Kaelith spoke once, low and sharp in the fae tongue, and the hound stilled but did not move away.
“Take them,” the Frostfather said. “We’ll begin the Trial of the Thaw.”
As they led me toward the stair spiraling down into the ice below, I looked back once. Kaelith hadn’t moved, but his gaze followed me until the doors closed, the frostlight on his hand still flickering like a heartbeat that refused to die.
They led me down stairs carved from living ice.Each step hummed faintly beneath my boots, as if the palace itself objected to what waited below.
The air grew thinner, sharp with mineral frost. No torches adorned the area, only veins of light running through the walls, like frozen lightning trapped mid-strike.
At the base, the corridor opened into a cavernous hall, where a ring of pale stone cut into the floor broke the uniform black of the ice. Inside the circle, runes glimmered faintly, feeding off the frostlight suspended above. It looked less like justice than containment.
Kaelith stood at the circle’s edge, helm under one arm, expression unreadable. Two councilors flanked him; behind them, guards lined the walls in disciplined silence. Fenrir strained against the chain they’d fastened around his neck—a token restraint, useless if he chose otherwise.
A tall woman announced, “The Trial of Thaw begins. The mortal will step inside the circle.”
My stomach turned as I moved forward until my boots met the line of etched stone. The moment I crossed it, the temperature plummeted. The frostlight gathered at my ankles, brightening like coals under ice.
Kaelith’s gaze never left the floor, but the tendons in his throat tightened. He raised one gloved hand. The frostlight that traced his fingers pulsed once—signal, command—and the runes awakened.
Cold hit like impact. I gasped as my breath crystallized before me. The ice crawled upward in delicate lattices, slow at first, then faster, tracing the path of my pulse. My knees locked to keep from trembling. The first rule of surviving panic: don’t let them see it.
One councilor’s voice cut through the silence. “If her heart is true, the frost will halt. If deceit hides there, Winter will claim it.”
The ice climbed past my calves. Every nerve screamed then went numb. I fixed my eyes on Kaelith. He stood rigid, the line of frostlight along his glove stuttering with each beat. A tremor, subtle but visible, ran through his left hand.
Another voice—male and thin with age—spoke. “Ask your questions, Frostbound Heir. Let her answers seal her fate.”
Kaelith hesitated. “Do you serve the Dreamkeeper?”
“I don’t even know him,” I said. My voice shook with the cold. “I serve no one.”
The frost hesitated at my knees, then began climbing again.
“Do you seek the Dreamstone?”
“I don’t seek anything but to go home,” I gasped.
The ice paused. A murmur ran through the councilors.
“She lies,” one said.
“She doesn’t,” Kaelith replied, too quickly. The sound of it startled even him. The frostlight on his glove flared and dimmed again. His composure cracked along the edges.
The ice reached my ribs. Breathing became an act of will. Each inhale burned. I tried to move my hands, but the frost had pinned them in place. Fenrir’s growl rose low and deep, echoing through the chamber.
“Contain the beast,” someone ordered.
Kaelith turned sharply. “Leave him.”
The command froze the guards mid-movement. He faced me again, eyes like storms held behind glass. “Breathe slowly,” he said under his breath, so low I barely caught it. “Don’t fight the frost.”
“I’m not—” My voice broke. Ice climbed to my collarbone. The world narrowed to the sound of cracking. It wasn’t the floor—it was me.
Then something gave way.
The frostlight above the circle flared white, then red, then gold. A sound like glass shattering filled the chamber. The cold recoiled in a single violent wave, throwing several councilors backward. Heat—impossible, searing heat—burst outward from the circle’s center.
I screamed. Not from pain but from shock; warmth flooded through me like breath after drowning. The ice melted in seconds, turning to steam that rose around us in thick coils, and the runes underfoot blazed, melting their own grooves.
Fenrir tore free of his chain, bounding to my side. His fur glowed where the light touched it, frost turning to droplets that hissed against the floor.
Through the haze, I saw Kaelith move—swift, precise, the only still point in chaos.
He reached the circle, arm raised to shield his eyes.
The gold light painted his armor in impossible color.
His lips moved; I couldn’t hear the words over the roar, but the frostlight on his glove pulsed furiously, as if fighting to survive.
Then everything stopped.
The heat vanished. The light fell away. I was still standing, drenched and shaking, as steam rose from my sleeves. Around me, the circle smoked; in the center, faint traces of warmth clung to the stone, glowing like embers trapped under snow.
Kaelith lowered his arm, and for a moment, his expression was raw with astonishment, fear, and something else I couldn’t name. Then he looked toward the councilors, voice cutting through the fading hiss of steam.
“The trial is ended.”
For a long breath after the light died, no one moved.
Steam hung thick in the chamber, curling around the pillars like ghostly fabric. My pulse still hammered in my ears, too fast to be real. Beneath my boots the stone hissed, water freezing again in crooked patterns.
Then the first voice broke the silence—high and shaking. “She turned the frost!”
Another answered, “No mortal could—”
“Witchfire!” someone shouted, and the word tore through the hall like a blade.
Fenrir snarled. The sound swallowed the rest of their accusations. Every guard took a step back; even the councilors flinched. His breath misted in hot clouds that refused to freeze. He looked larger in the steam, primal, ancient.
I could barely feel my legs. The heat that had saved me now left my skin cold again, clammy beneath the soaked fabric. My vision flickered—white, then gold, then the black of closing eyes.
Through it all, Kaelith’s voice cut clear. “The trial is ended,” he repeated.
A councilor found his courage. “Your Highness, she—”
He turned his head, just enough for the frostlight on his armor to flare. “Do you question Winter’s heir?”
Silence. Even the frostlight in the sconces steadied. The air trembled as if the whole palace considered its next breath.
“Remove yourselves,” Kaelith said. “All of you.”
They hesitated. Then, one by one, the councilors withdrew, robes whispering over wet stone. Guards followed. When the last footstep faded, only Fenrir, Kaelith, and I remained.
The quiet pressed in until I could hear the faint drip of melting ice. My knees gave. Kaelith crossed the distance between us before I hit the floor.
The world tilted—his arm catching my weight, his armor cold against my cheek. Frostlight pulsed at his wrist again, brighter this time, but it didn’t freeze me. It warmed.
“Easy,” he said, low, steady, the voice of someone commanding himself as much as me. “Breathe.”
“I’m trying.” My teeth chattered around the words. “That was your test?”
“That was not my intention.”
“What was?”
“To keep you alive.”
I laughed weakly; it sounded like breaking glass. “You’re terrible at it.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “You’re welcome.”
Fenrir pressed his head beneath my hand, whimpering once. Kaelith shifted, helping me sit against the circle’s edge. His glove hovered near my shoulder, uncertain whether to touch. I could see droplets sliding down the black of his armor, catching the last glow of the runes before freezing again.
“Does it always do that?” I asked, nodding toward the frostlight still flickering across his fingers.
He looked down at it as if noticing for the first time. “No.”
“Then what does it mean?”
“It means something changed.”
His tone made it sound like an accusation against himself.
I wanted to ask more, but the exhaustion hit all at once. My body felt hollow, bones filled with the echo of that impossible warmth. The room swayed.
Kaelith rose and spoke softly in the fae tongue. Fenrir obeyed, stepping aside. Then he bent, one arm beneath my knees, the other supporting my back. I tried to protest, but he lifted me as though I weighed nothing.
“You don’t have to—”
“Apparently, I do,” he said. “The Frostfather will have his questions, and I need you alive long enough to answer them.”
That should have sounded cold. Instead, it felt like a promise.
As he carried me toward the corridor, I turned my head just enough to see the circle one last time. The stone still smoked faintly, glowing gold beneath the frost as if the warmth refused to die.