Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Katria
By morning, the castle had learned my name.
I felt it in the way the halls went silent when I walked through them, the way conversations froze like water turning to ice.The frostlight along the ceilings hummed faintly, low and constant, as if whispering something I wasn’t meant to hear.
No one met my eyes.
Maeryn was waiting when I reached the lower corridor. She carried a basket of linens that didn’t belong to anyone I knew, her hands working faster than the expression she tried to hide.
“You shouldn’t be out yet,” she said quietly. “The Court’s still talking.”
“About what happened?”
“About what they think happened.”
That distinction didn’t sound promising.
She started walking, and I followed. Servants passed us and lowered their heads; guards kept their hands on their weapons longer than necessary.
“What do they think?” I asked finally.
“That the prince broke his calm for you,” she said. “That the frost itself bent to keep you from shattering.”
I laughed under my breath, a sound with no humor in it. “They make it sound romantic.”
“They make everything sound dangerous,” she corrected.
We turned into the frostgarden — a narrow glass hall lined with frozen vines and pale blossoms suspended in ice. The air smelled faintly of winter mint and something older, a scent that never quite left this place.
“Maeryn.” She stopped when I said her name, but she didn’t turn. “Why does the Court hate warmth so much?”
“Because it reminds them of what they’ve lost,” she said softly. “And what they’ll never have again.” She paused. “And because it represents change.”
That was when Kael found me.
He came through the opposite archway, hair catching the pale light like copper dulled by frost. He looked too alive for this place, too warm, like Summer had followed him in.
“Little flame,” he said, eyes glinting with mischief. “If you keep asking questions like that, they’ll start calling you dangerous.”
“I thought they already did.”
“True,” he said, smiling. “But I meant the interesting kind of dangerous.”
Maeryn gave a curt nod and slipped away, leaving us in the hum of the frostlight.
Kael walked closer, the edge of his smile softening. “Ready to run screaming yet?”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I don’t think they’d let me get very far.”
He chuckled. “You might be right. But it’s more fun when they underestimate you.”
I tried to match his lightness, but my throat felt tight. “They’re not underestimating me, Kael. They’re waiting for me to make a mistake.”
He studied me for a long moment, expression flickering between humor and something more serious.
“They’ll make you pay for being seen,” he said finally.
“Perhaps I’ll stop hiding.”
His smile returned, but there was something wary in it now. “Brave or foolish?”
“Both.”
He laughed softly. “You really are dangerous, aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer. Because somewhere behind us, I swore I heard the frost whisper my name again.
However, it wasn’t the frost I heard next. It was the fae. Their whispers found me before I reached the upper corridors.
They weren’t loud, just constant. I couldn’t catch most of the words, but I knew what they meant. When people stop speaking as you pass, it’s because you’ve become something worth fearing or mocking. Sometimes both.
Kael walked beside me as though he didn’t notice. His ease was infuriating. He moved like the air bent around him, like no one would dare speak against him even when they wanted to.
“You’re enjoying this,” I muttered.
“Immensely,” he said. “It’s not every day Winter gets entertainment this beautiful.”
“That’s not helping.”
“I wasn’t trying to help.” His smile was quick and mischievous. “I was trying to see you smile.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Then I’ll keep trying.”
I tried to glare at him, but it came out closer to exasperation than anger. The warmth of him—his laughter, his confidence—felt disarming in a place that had none.
We reached the grand stair. A cluster of courtiers stood near the railing, voices quiet and poisonous. I caught the tail end of one sentence as we passed.
“... the mortal thinks she’s his equal now ...”
Another voice, higher and crueler: “Or his distraction. Either way, she’ll freeze soon enough.”
The laughter that followed was sharp.
I stopped walking before I realized it, and Kael’s expression changed almost instantly, the smile dropping, replaced by something older, steadier. His warmth cooled but not toward me.
He turned to face them. “Is this how Winter keeps its grace now? Gossip in daylight?”
The courtiers went very still. One bowed too quickly. Another looked away. But the third—a man in silver, younger, reckless—smiled.
“Careful, my lord. You sound protective.”
Kael’s eyes glinted, still polite but edged. “Only of manners. You’ve misplaced yours.”
“Maybe I’m only saying what others won’t,” the man said, looking at me. “Everyone knows she—”
“Stop.”
Kael didn’t raise his voice, but something in his tone was colder than the room itself. The courtier’s mouth shut on instinct.
I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The silence after that felt heavier than the laughter before it.
Kael inclined his head once—graceful, dangerous—then looked at me. “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get you somewhere less cold.”
I had a feeling we weren’t talking about the temperature. I followed him because I didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t touch me, but his nearness felt like protection. It shouldn’t have comforted me, but it did.
When we finally stopped near one of the lesser balconies, I asked quietly, “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Step in. Defend me. You barely know me.”
He shrugged, leaning against the railing. “Maybe I just like the look on their faces when they realize they’ve overstepped.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“No,” he said. “But it’s the only one I’m willing to admit.”
I studied him for a moment. “You’re not like your brother.”
Kael’s expression flickered—just a flash of something sharp behind his easy charm. “No,” he said. “I learned a long time ago that cold doesn’t always mean strong.”
Before I could answer, a faint chime sounded from somewhere deeper in the hall—the signal for evening assembly.
He straightened, all effortless composure again. “Try not to start any scandals until supper,” he said lightly. “I’d hate to miss them.”
And then he was gone, leaving me alone with the echo of laughter that wasn’t mine.
The fae were so unlike humans.
Among my own people, cruelty wore a face. It had names, families, grudges.Here, it wore silk and smiled.
They didn’t shout when they hated you; they toasted you instead. They used praise the way humans used blades—slipped between ribs when you weren’t paying attention.
I’d thought superstition made them monstrous. That was what the villagers always said: the fae steal your will, your soul, your heart.But standing in that gilded palace, watching the way they measured kindness like currency, I wondered if the difference wasn’t magic but memory.
Humans loved loudly and broke quickly. The fae had simply learned not to do either.
They didn’t speak of faith or gods. They worshiped balance instead—the keeping of rules so old no one remembered who wrote them.Warmth was dangerous here, not because it burned but because it changed things. And change frightened them more than death.
Back home, people prayed to unseen things to keep the frost away.Here, frost was power. It was their life.
I missed noise. The sound of markets, laughter, even argument.The fae didn’t argue; they traded silences like weapons.
And yet, beneath all their control, there were cracks. I saw it sometimes—the flicker in their eyes when Kael laughed too freely or when Kaelith’s composure wavered for a heartbeat. It was small, human, and terribly beautiful.
If they ever learned how much that reminded me of home, I thought they might hate me more for it.
And for all the Winter Court’s coldness, what Kael had told me about the other Courts had me curious. Did they feel as bound by duty as this one did?Did their kings and queens wake in the night wondering if their walls would hold another season?
Kael spoke of them like rival siblings—each convinced theirs was the truest reflection of the fae.
But every story of his said more about him than them.
When he described Summer, I could hear longing under his grin; when he spoke of Autumn, I heard wariness.
Of Spring, respect. Of the Dream Court, silence.
And then there was the way his tone changed when he mentioned Winter.He never insulted his brother. But he didn’t praise him either. “Kaelith thinks control is salvation,” he’d said once. “He doesn’t understand that it’s just another form of fear.”
I’d almost told him that fear wasn’t weakness, that it kept mortals alive. But I’d stopped myself. Here, fear was luxury. They didn’t need it.
The longer I stayed in this place, the more I saw how the Courts defined themselves by what they envied.Winter envied warmth.Summer envied stillness.Autumn envied trust.Spring envied time.And maybe Dream envied waking.
If that was true, maybe envy was what bound them—what made them more like mortals than they cared to admit.
I wondered what they thought of us, really.
Not the stories they told about foolish humans who prayed to stars or struck bargains for power they didn’t understand, but what they truly thought.
Did they ever envy us for dying? For changing?
For feeling things that didn’t last and meaning them anyway?
The thought startled me—that immortality could be lonelier than any mortal life.
Maybe that was why Kael laughed so easily … and why Kaelith didn’t laugh at all.
I didn’t mean to fall asleep when I returned to my room.
The evening had been long, and my thoughts wouldn’t quiet. The walls felt too close, the silence too thick—like the whole castle was holding its breath.
When I finally drifted off, it wasn’t rest that found me.
The air in the dream was twilight-colored, neither day nor night. I stood in a field that shimmered faintly, as if the grass itself remembered light even after the sun was gone. Mist curled low across the ground, cool and soft against my bare ankles.
If it were anywhere else, it would have been beautiful. But the silence was wrong. Too deep, too perfect.
Then came the humming.
A low, distant tune—familiar and impossible. My mother’s lullaby. The one she used to hum when I was small enough to believe nightmares stayed outside locked doors.
I turned, searching for her voice, but saw only a shape in the mist—tall, indistinct, and watching.
“Who’s there?”
The figure didn’t answer. It just tilted its head, as if curious.
Something in my chest tightened. “This isn’t real,” I said aloud—because that was the only weapon I had left.
The figure smiled—or maybe it didn’t. The mist shifted enough to suggest one. Then, softly, a voice:
“Not yet.”
The field shuddered. The ground beneath my feet rippled like water, and for a moment, I saw something beneath the surface: light, pulsing faintly blue, like a heartbeat buried in stone.
Then everything broke.
I woke to cold air against my skin and the faint sound of dripping water. My room was dark except for the thin line of moonlight cutting across the floor.
And on the mirror above my washstand, words had formed in faint, crystalline script.
The Dreamstone stirs.
My breath hitched. I blinked once, twice, but the letters stayed. Frost, not fog.
I reached out before I could stop myself. My fingertips brushed the glass, and warmth bloomed there. The mirror rippled like water touched by wind, and I stumbled back, heart hammering. When I looked again, the message was gone.
Only my reflection stared back. Pale, wild-eyed, and very human.
But behind me, just for a heartbeat, I thought I saw movement—a flicker of gold and silver light.
And in that moment, I knew something in this place had found me.
For a long time, I just stared at the mirror.
The frost hadn’t reformed. No runes glimmered. Nothing moved.If I told anyone what I’d seen, they’d think the same thing the villagers did—that I’d finally gone mad from dabbling in things I didn’t understand.
Except I hadn’t done anything. That was what unsettled me most.Whatever was happening, it had started to act on its own.
I sat at the edge of the bed, hands shaking slightly. The hearth had gone cold, though I could still feel warmth clinging faintly to my skin.The words hadn’t been just light. They’d breathed.
My mind went immediately to Maeryn. She might know if mirrors could do … that. But if she told Kaelith, I’d be back in the dungeons by morning.He’d think it a sign—proof that I was dangerous. Or worse, proof that I’d lied about who I was.
So I said nothing.
Not that morning, anyway.
Instead, I lit a single taper and leaned closer to the mirror, watching the flame stretch and bend against the glass. Nothing changed.My reflection stayed obediently mine—golden hair in tangles, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, and throat tight from trying not to panic.
Then I noticed it: something glinting faintly on the bedside table.
A shard of crystal, no larger than a fingernail. Clear at first glance, but when I lifted it toward the light, it pulsed faintly—slow and steady, like the beat of a buried heart.
The same color I’d seen beneath the dream field.
I set it down immediately, half expecting it to vanish. It didn’t.
I waited. Nothing happened. No voices, no shimmer of frost, no second message. Just the low hush of wind moving through the hall outside.
My first thought was Kael—that he’d left it as some strange jest, some token from a realm that didn’t play by mortal logic. But he didn’t strike me as the subtle kind. And Kaelith … no. If he wanted something left at my door, he’d send a guard with a written warning.
So who, then?
I told myself it didn’t matter. I’d throw it out with the morning ashes. I’d pretend none of this happened.
But I didn’t.
When the servants came to clear the room, I slipped the shard into my pocket. The warmth against my palm was muted but undeniable, and I hated how comforting it felt.
That night, I caught myself touching it more than once. Not to test it. No, I wanted to feel it there.
As if, somewhere in the depths of this cold place, something was finally looking back.