Chapter 23 Katria
Chapter twenty-three
Katria
If Winter had music, it would sound like silence dressed in glass.
The great hall shimmered with it that morning—columns rimmed in frostlight, chandeliers heavy with ice that rang faintly whenever someone spoke too loudly. Courtiers drifted like snowflakes, pale and purposeful, their voices hushed enough to pretend civility.
I’d learned to keep my head bowed just enough to seem invisible. It rarely worked.
Kael appeared before I could finish my tea, his grin bright enough to outshine the frost. “There you are, little flame.”
I rolled my eyes. “You shouldn’t call me that.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you shouldn’t tell a prince what to do? Besides,” he said, taking the seat beside mine without invitation, “it suits you. And it keeps the icicles from growing back in my brother’s temper.”
A few nearby nobles turned sharply at that, pretending not to listen. Kael either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He lounged against the marble bench, one arm slung casually along its back, so close I could feel the heat of him through the layers of my sleeves.
“You shouldn’t talk about him like that in front of his Court,” I murmured.
He leaned closer, voice lowering. “His Court, not mine.”
There was something in the way he said it—careless but edged. He plucked a piece of candied fruit from the tray and offered it to me between two fingers. “Try it. You look like you could use a little sweetness.”
“I’m fine.”
He arched a brow. “You’re in the middle of Winter’s court, surrounded by creatures who think warmth is treason. No one is fine here.”
I shouldn’t have laughed, but I did—a small, startled sound that made his smile deepen. It was dangerous, that smile. It was the kind that made you forget where you were until you noticed every other face watching.
I straightened in my seat. “People are staring.”
“Good,” Kael said easily. “Let them wonder why the mortal laughs before noon. It’ll give them something new to whisper about.”
His tone was light, but the words carried more weight than he intended. Whispering had become a sport in Skadar Hold, and I was the newest prize.
Still, it was hard not to feel lighter when he was near.
“Tell me,” Kael said, spinning his cup idly, “do mortals always stare so hard at things they don’t understand, or is that your special talent?”
“I was thinking,” I said, “about how you manage to make arrogance sound charming.”
He grinned. “Practice. And a better tailor.”
Another laugh escaped me before I could stop it. For a heartbeat, the hall felt less like a prison.
He tilted his head, studying me. “You should laugh more often, Katria. It almost convinces me this place isn’t cursed.”
“Maybe it’s you that’s cursed.”
“Oh, I am,” he said with mock solemnity. “Half Summer, half Autumn—what else could I be? My mother once said I was born of contradiction and sunlight. My father called that treason.”
The truth behind the jest caught me off guard. I hesitated, unsure how to answer, but Kael filled the silence easily. “Don’t look so serious. I like being the scandal.”
“Do you?”
“Of course. Someone has to be the warmth in this endless snow.”
He lifted his cup in mock toast, eyes glinting with amusement—and something else, softer, lingering too long. “Besides,” he murmured, “I think you like it when I’m trouble.”
“I think you like hearing yourself talk.”
“That too.” He laughed quietly, a sound like breaking sunlight. Around us, courtiers kept glancing our way, curiosity sharpening into speculation. I should have moved, should have ended the conversation before it turned into more rumor.
But for a moment, it was easy to forget that every word here cost something. That Winter was listening.
I was still smiling when the room went still.
The change was instant—like a door slamming on laughter.
Conversations died one by one until only the faint ringing of frost-chimes filled the air. I didn’t have to turn to know who had entered. The temperature told me first.
Kaelith crossed the hall with that same unhurried precision that made even stillness feel like a threat. The courtiers bowed as he passed, their movements sharp and practiced, but no one spoke. He wore no crown, yet the space seemed to bend around him all the same.
Kael’s grin didn’t falter. “Ah. Speak of the frost and he appears.”
I wished he hadn’t.
Kaelith stopped at the foot of the dais. His eyes swept the room once—cold, measuring—and then found us. They paused a fraction too long on the distance between my chair and his brother’s. I felt the weight of that look as surely as if the frost itself had settled on my skin.
He said nothing at first, and that silence was worse than anger. Around him, the frostlight dimmed to a faint pulse, as though holding its breath.
Kael leaned back lazily, all charm and indifference. “Brother,” he said, “we were just discussing how well your mortal guest has adjusted to our fine hospitality.”
Kaelith’s gaze flicked toward him, unreadable. “Were you.” It sounded like a statement, not a question.
“She’s learning quickly,” Kael continued, tone light. “Already mastered the art of surviving my wit.”
“Barely,” I muttered.
The faintest curve touched Kaelith’s mouth—gone almost before I saw it. “That would make her the first.”
Laughter rippled from a few courtiers, brittle and nervous. Kaelith didn’t look at them. He was still watching me, and there was something different in his eyes now—not anger, not exactly. Something quieter, sharper. As if he couldn’t decide whether to scold me or … something else entirely.
He approached the table. The frost under his boots whispered with each step.
“Is this how you spend your mornings?” he asked Kael without looking away from me.
Kael tilted his head. “You make it sound like idleness is a crime.”
“In this Court,” Kaelith said softly, “it can be.”
The words weren’t meant for Kael. I felt them land somewhere in my chest, heavy and cold.
Kaelith’s hand rested briefly on the edge of the table, fingers tracing the carved runes there. They flared faintly at his touch, a reflex he immediately quelled. Then his eyes lifted to mine again. “You shouldn’t linger here.”
“I wasn’t aware I needed permission to sit,” I said before I could stop myself.
Kael made a low whistle. “Careful, little flame. You’ll melt his patience.”
Kaelith’s jaw tightened. For the briefest second, the air around him shimmered with cold, sharp enough that my breath caught. He reined it in with visible effort, drawing a steadying breath through his nose.
“Some fires burn out quickly,” he said evenly. “Best not to stand too close.”
Kael grinned wider. “Then it’s fortunate I enjoy the heat.”
I could almost hear the frost crack under the weight of their rivalry. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make every noble in the hall stare studiously at the floor. They knew a storm when they saw one.
Kaelith straightened. “Our father has called for council. You’re expected, Kael.”
“Ah,” Kael said with exaggerated dread. “The endless lectures on duty and decorum. Just what I needed to ruin a perfectly pleasant morning.”
“Pleasant,” Kaelith repeated. His tone made the word sound fragile, like glass about to break.
Kael rose, brushed a speck of frost from his sleeve, and winked at me. “Don’t let him scare you, little flame. He means well, in his own frozen way.”
“Kael,” Kaelith warned.
“Relax, Brother.” He gave me one last grin and sauntered away, leaving behind the faint scent of citrus and trouble.
The silence he left behind was absolute.
Kaelith didn’t move. Neither did I. The hall was emptying, courtiers hurrying away under pretense of duty, but all I could hear was the slow rhythm of my heartbeat and the faint hiss of frost reforming on stone.
Finally, he said, “He plays at things he doesn’t understand.”
I rose, forcing my voice to stay even. “And what things would those be?”
He looked at me then, really looked, and the full weight of that gaze made my throat tighten. “You don’t want to know.”
He turned before I could answer. But as he passed, the edge of his cloak brushed my sleeve, and every nerve in my body sparked like frost meeting flame.
He felt it too—I saw the minute pause in his step, the way his fingers flexed as if to reach back. But he didn’t.
He walked on, leaving a trail of melted footprints behind him, but he didn’t exit the room yet.
Kael’s laughter still lingered faintly in the air, but Kaelith’s silence drowned it out. He stood near the end of the long table, shoulders tense, every line of him drawn tight as a bowstring.
I stayed where I was, pretending interest in the crystal decanter before me. Its contents had frozen solid. Fitting.
“You didn’t have to dismiss everyone like that,” I said finally. “It makes people talk.”
“They were already talking,” he replied. His voice was calm, almost too calm—the kind of calm that was chilling.
I turned. “And now they’ll talk louder.”
He was watching me again, eyes cool gray under the frostlight. His stare felt like it cut through layers I didn’t mean to show.
“Does my brother amuse you so much,” he asked, “that you forget where you are?”
The question hit harder than it should have. “We were talking. That’s all.”
“Talking.” The word carried an edge. “Is that what you call it when he leans close enough for half the court to notice?”
I folded my arms. “If you’re implying—”
“I’m not implying anything,” he said. “I’m stating that you’re drawing attention neither of us can afford.”
Neither of us. That phrasing did strange things to my chest.
I crossed the few steps between us before I could think better of it. “Maybe your Court should learn to mind its own business.”
“It’s not my Court I’m worried about.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze fell to my mouth and stayed there. For one heartbeat too long.