Chapter 23 Katria #2
When he finally looked up again, his expression had shifted—less frost, more fracture. “You don’t understand what this place does to people.”
“Then explain it.”
His jaw tightened. “It turns warmth into a weapon. And I can’t protect you from that if you insist on wielding it.”
I almost laughed, though it came out as more of a breath. “You make it sound like smiling is treason.”
“It is,” he said softly. “Here, it is.”
We were too close now, standing in the shallow pool of light spilling from the chandelier above us. I could see the faint shimmer of the runic line along his gloves, the one that usually glowed with frostlight. It didn’t now. His hands were trembling slightly, though he hid it well.
“You shouldn’t care,” I said quietly. “That’s the part I don’t understand. And you keep trying not to.”
He exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a groan. “I’ve never tried so hard in my life.”
Something in me broke loose at that. “Why?”
The word left me before I could stop it, and for a moment neither of us breathed.
He stepped forward until there was barely space for air between us. His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Then tell me. This place holds secrets like bargaining chips. I’m tired of guessing when you could all speak plainly.”
“I can’t.”
“Won’t, you mean.”
His eyes closed briefly, as if that single distinction hurt. When they opened again, the restraint was cracking around the edges. I could see it—the faint tremor in his breath, the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his hand lifted halfway before he forced it back down.
“You don’t make this easy,” he murmured.
“Me?” I demanded. “You don’t make anything easy.”
He smiled then, a small, helpless thing that didn’t belong on his face. “No. I suppose I don’t.”
The silence between us thickened. The frost on the walls began to melt, droplets running like tears. I should have moved, should have said anything to break it, but I couldn’t. Every instinct screamed to close that inch of air left between us.
His hand twitched once more at his side—then he turned sharply, pacing away as if distance were oxygen.
“Stay away from my brother,” he said without turning.
“Or what?”
He looked back over his shoulder, eyes darker than I’d ever seen them. “Or I’ll stop pretending I can ignore it.”
He left before I could reply, the sound of his footsteps fading into the frozen hush.
The frostlight above me flickered once, twice, then steadied—too bright, too sharp.
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing.It didn’t work.
For as cold as the Winter Heir was, he was thawing. And I suddenly realized that the rumors of his attentions were something more solid than ice.
The hall felt too big once he was gone.
Sound returned slowly—the tick of melting frost, the faint hum of distant voices somewhere deeper in the Hold—but none of it belonged to me. The air still carried his presence, sharp and cold, threaded through with something warmer that shouldn’t have survived here.
I sat down before my knees decided for me. The chair was still chilled from the frostlight, but when I touched the table, it wasn’t cold anymore. It pulsed faintly, almost in rhythm with my pulse. The frost had learned something new from us, and I wasn’t sure whether to be afraid or comforted.
I pressed my fingers to my lips. They still tingled. He hadn’t touched me, not really—but the space between us had burned all the same.
“Fool,” I whispered to no one. I wasn’t sure if I meant him or myself.
Outside, the wind had shifted. It carried less bite, more whisper. The kind of sound that felt like it came from far away—too far to follow, too near to ignore. I stood and crossed to the tall frostglass windows, leaning close until my breath fogged the surface.
The reflection that met me looked unfamiliar. Paler, sharper. As though some part of the Hold had begun sculpting me in its own image.
“I’m not one of you,” I said softly.
The frost on the glass rippled. Just slightly.
A chill ran down my spine. I stepped back, but the ripple didn’t fade—it deepened. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw something move behind the reflection. A shape, tall and indistinct, eyes like dim light under water. Watching.
Then it was gone. Only my own face remained. I pressed my hand flat to the surface. It should have frozen there. Instead, warmth bloomed under my palm, radiating through the glass like breath against skin.
Something was changing in me. Or around me. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
A soft knock broke the silence. Maeryn stood in the doorway, carrying a folded cloak over her arm.
“You look pale,” she said. “Colder than usual.”
“I’m fine.”
She gave me a look that said she didn’t believe it for a moment. “He was here.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re not fine.” She stepped closer, draping the cloak around my shoulders before I could protest. It smelled faintly of snowmoss and something sharper—iron, maybe. “You’re trembling.”
I hadn’t realized it. The adrenaline had left me hollow. “It’s just the cold.”
“Is it?” she asked quietly.
I didn’t answer. There were too many truths I didn’t know how to name yet.
Maeryn studied me for a long moment then sighed. “The Heir’s restraint is a fragile thing. Don’t be too near when it breaks.”
Her words should have felt like warning, but they didn’t. They sounded like inevitability.
After she left, I found my way back to my chambers and stood for a while by the window. The snow outside fell silently, each flake catching the last red threads of the aurora before vanishing into shadow.
I told myself that the warmth creeping through the glass wasn’t him. That the ache in my chest wasn’t longing.
But when I finally turned away, I caught the faintest shimmer on the edge of the frostglass—like a reflection bending to watch me leave.
And for the first time since I’d come to the Winter Court, the cold no longer felt cold at all.