Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Katria
The world wasn’t made of frost this time.
It was softer—an endless field of light that moved like grass in a wind I couldn’t feel. The horizon glowed violet and silver, and each step I took sent ripples of gold blooming beneath my feet.
I knew I was dreaming, but that knowledge didn’t help. It only made it worse.
The air shimmered with faint music—no melody, just a hum that shifted when I breathed. Somewhere far off, I thought I saw the outline of trees, their branches bending and unfolding like hands. When I blinked, they were gone.
I turned, and a figure stood in the distance. Too tall, too still to be human. The air warped faintly around him, as though light refused to touch.
“Who are you?” I called, my voice low and uncertain.
The answer came not as words but sound—soft, melodic, achingly familiar.
My mother’s lullaby.
I froze. The same one she used to hum on winter nights, when the snow pressed thick against the shutters and the world went quiet. The sound shouldn’t have reached me here. She was gone.
The voice hummed the final note, then spoke.
“You walk where the Veil thins.” The tone was neither male nor female but something vast and echoing between the two. “You were never meant to.”
I swallowed. “I didn’t choose this.”
“No one ever does.”
The light brightened suddenly, flaring gold. I threw up a hand to shield my eyes—and when I looked again, the figure was closer. I could make out a face now, or almost: eyes that shimmered like starlight through water, a mouth that didn’t quite move when it spoke.
“You carry warmth in a place that forgets it,” the voice said. “Even frost remembers what it hates.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Not want,” it murmured. “Remember.”
The sound cracked, like wind through crystal. The figure stepped forward, and for a heartbeat, the shape of him—of it—seemed familiar. A tall frame, a glint of dark hair, eyes that could have been Kaelith’s.
I blinked, and the image dissolved.
The field shattered. Light turned to frost, frost to shadow. I fell through it, airless and weightless, until the hum bled into silence.
When I woke, my room was glowing.
The frost around the bed had melted into faint golden veins that pulsed softly beneath the floorboards. The air still hummed—the same tone from the dream, low and distant.
I pressed a hand to the ice and felt warmth under my skin.
It vanished as soon as I realized it was there.
When I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet met not cold, but warmth.
The frost at the floor’s edge had melted, leaving behind a faint gold shimmer that pulsed once, then stilled. I knelt to touch it, and the glow receded into nothing, like a secret closing itself.
A soft knock followed before I could think too hard about it.
“Enter,” I said, though my voice came out rough.
Maeryn slipped through the door, carrying a folded bundle of dark linens and a basin that steamed faintly. Her silver hair was bound high, her expression as calm as the frostlight itself.
“You’re awake early,” she said, setting the basin down.
“I didn’t sleep well.”
Her eyes flicked toward the floor—just for a heartbeat—but she said nothing of the melted frost. Instead, she adjusted the linens on the chair and gave me that practiced, unreadable smile.
“I thought you might want fresh water. And company. Both can do wonders in this place.”
“Thank you,” I said, quieter than I meant to.
She poured the warm water over a cloth and handed it to me. I pressed it to my hands, trying not to look at where the gold shimmer had been.
Maeryn studied me for a moment, then asked, “Tell me something. Mortals have faith, do they not? A belief in higher beings who watch and judge?”
The question was so casual it startled me. “You don’t?”
“We have Courts,” she said simply. “Kings and queens. Power, not prayer. We do not ask favors from what we already serve.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I’d never thought of belief as something strange before.
“Humans pray,” I said at last. “Mostly when they’re desperate. They light candles and whisper to empty air. Sometimes it makes them feel better.”
“But not you?”
I shook my head. “I believe the priests use their religion as a form of their own power.”
Maeryn tilted her head, eyes soft but thoughtful. “Control and care are often twins. Power doesn’t always choose between them.”
“That sounds like something a fae would say.”
She smiled faintly. “It is.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just curious. Maeryn moved to the window and drew back the curtain. Beyond it, the courtyard glimmered with pale frostlight. For the briefest instant, I thought I saw a shadow cross it—a tall figure striding toward the northern wing. Kaelith, maybe.
The thought made my chest tighten in a way I didn’t care to name.
Maeryn let the curtain fall. “Eat something,” she said. “And keep your thoughts light. Winter listens when the mind wanders too far.”
“I’ll try.”
“Try harder than that.”
Her tone was so perfectly dry I almost laughed, and she gave me a small nod before leaving, the door whispering shut behind her.
For a long time, I just sat there, watching the last traces of gold fade from the floor.
They hadn’t been a dream. Not entirely.
By midday, I needed air—or whatever passed for it in a place that didn’t breathe properly.
The corridors of Skadar Hold were never still. Frost shifted along the walls in quiet patterns that vanished when I looked directly at them. Sometimes, when I walked, I felt a faint vibration beneath my boots, as though the keep itself was murmuring beneath the surface.
The longer I stayed, the more convinced I became that the castle was actually listening, like everyone kept warning me.
I passed an archway carved with runes that pulsed faintly in rhythm with my heartbeat. The sound wasn’t a sound exactly—more the sensation of one, low and constant. I tried humming under my breath to test it. The frost brightened, then dimmed again.
“Noted,” I muttered. “No singing in the hallways.”
The air didn’t appreciate the joke.
Beyond the northern arch, the corridor opened into a courtyard dusted in fresh snow. The sky above was pale and sharp, like frozen glass. The air smelled faintly metallic—snow and starlight and something faintly floral, like memory.
I wasn’t alone.
Kael stood near the far wall, watching the frost swirl over a sculpture of interlocked wings. His clothing was lighter than his brother’s—bronze and pale gold threaded with faint runes. The faint gleam of copper in his dark hair caught the light as he turned.
“Braving the cold?” he asked. “You’re either bold or foolish.”
“Maybe both,” I said.
He smiled, slow and easy. “Then you’ll fit right in.”
“I doubt that.”
“Give it time. The Court warms to novelty. Eventually, they’ll forget to pretend they hate you.”
“I’ll mark that as encouragement.”
“You should. It’s rare around here.”
He brushed a patch of snow from the sculpture’s base, eyes following the faint shimmer of runes there.
“This one’s older than the Hold itself. The runes keep the frost from ever melting.
The Court likes to pretend it’s symbolic—eternal strength and all that.
But really, it’s vanity. Winter doesn’t like to see itself age. ”
I glanced up at him. “And what about you? Do you age?”
He tilted his head, considering. “Slower than mortals, faster than myths. Somewhere in between. You?”
“Too fast.”
His grin softened into something fonder. “Then you’ll have to make it count.”
We walked a few paces in silence. The snow underfoot made no sound—just that faint, living hum again.
Kael’s tone grew quieter. “You’ve become properly acquainted with my brother now.”
“If you mean being interrogated in front of a throne room full of fae, then yes. Properly.”
That earned me an honest laugh. “That sounds like him.”
“He’s … difficult,” I said carefully.
“He’s Winter.” Kael’s smile didn’t fade, but something thoughtful flickered behind it. “Every breath here costs him more than he admits.”
“I thought he was born to it.”
“Even so. Cold cuts both ways.”
I didn’t know how to answer that, so I didn’t.
He glanced sideways at me then added, “You’d like the others better. Spring sings instead of whispers. Summer bleeds warmth from every wall. Autumn…” He smiled crookedly. “Autumn lies beautifully.”
“And the Dream Court?”
“Dream,” he said, almost reverently. “Dream never lies, but it never tells the whole truth either. They’re half here, half gone, living between thought and memory. I’ve only seen one of them once. Or maybe I dreamt it.”
I looked out across the courtyard, the snow swirling faintly in the breeze. “And which Court do you belong to? Truly.”
“I was born to Summer,” he said easily. “But I’ve spent too long going back and forth between there and Winter to remember what warmth feels like.”
There was a flicker of melancholy in his eyes, so brief I almost missed it.
“You still sound like warmth,” I said before I could stop myself.
He looked at me, amused. “Careful, little flame. I might take that as flirtation.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Then I’ll pretend it was anyway.”
He laughed softly at my glare, the sound low and rich, and reached out to brush a stray curl from my shoulder. The gesture was casual—almost. But the air changed when he touched me. The frost at the edge of the courtyard flared faintly gold, then dimmed.
We both saw it.
His brow furrowed. “That’s new.”
“It’s nothing.”
He stepped back, studying the faint glow. “Winter doesn’t do nothing. It remembers everything.”
Before I could answer, the frostlight along the walls flickered once—like a heartbeat—and I felt the castle hum again, louder this time.
Kael looked toward the northern tower. “You might want to be careful who sees that. My brother isn’t fond of surprises.”
“I’ve noticed.”
He grinned again, half-playful, half-warning. “Then you’ll do fine here.”