Chapter 24 Katria
Chapter twenty-four
Katria
Iwoke to the sound of the frostglass door creaking open—slow, hesitant, as though whoever entered would rather not have come at all. Maeryn stood in the threshold, her hands clasped around a small silver scroll-tube sealed with the Frostfather’s sigil.
The light slanting through the windows was thin and colorless, the kind that makes the world feel half-frozen and half-awake. She didn’t speak at first, and that silence told me more than words could.
“You’re here early,” I said, my voice rough with sleep.
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I would have let you sleep longer if I could.”
Something in her tone set my stomach sinking. I sat up, clutching the blanket around my shoulders. “What is it?”
She crossed the room and held out the scroll. The seal glimmered faintly blue, as if alive. “A summons.”
I didn’t take it. “From whom?” I had a sinking suspicion I already knew.
Maeryn looked at me, pity shadowing her eyes. “Who else?”
I glanced down at the scroll-tube. The Frostfather’s sigil was unmistakable—the jagged crown of ice encircled by runes that never quite stopped shifting. The air around it felt colder than the rest of the room.
“What does he want with me?”
“To be seen,” she said quietly. “And to be reminded who holds the leash.”
I flinched. “So this is punishment.”
“It’s ceremony,” she corrected, though her voice was bitter. “Tonight is the Feast of Winter’s Triumph. The Frostfather wishes his Court to see how well his son’s mortal pet … behaves.”
The word pet made the air feel thinner. I swallowed hard. “And if I don’t go?”
Her eyes darted to the door, as if the walls themselves might hear. “Then he’ll send guards to fetch you, and it will be worse.”
The silence between us stretched, heavy and brittle. Maeryn finally reached out and placed the scroll on the table beside my bed. Frost crawled across the wood the instant it touched the surface.
“I’ll help you prepare,” she said. “But Katria …”
I met her gaze.
“They won’t be looking at you to celebrate,” she murmured. “They’ll be looking for cracks.”
We moved through the motions in silence after that. She lit the frostlamps, their glow cold and white, and began gathering garments from the wardrobe the Court had assigned me. Every piece was too fine, too pale, too foreign. I’d never seen so much silk that looked like it had been spun from snow.
“They’ll dress you in silver,” Maeryn said, her tone flat. “To match the walls.”
I managed a weak smile. “So I disappear?”
“So they can decide if you belong.”
She laid out a gown unlike anything I’d ever worn—long sleeves that shimmered like frozen mist, tiny crystals stitched along the bodice, a neckline modest but cut sharp as a blade. Even the shoes glittered faintly, their soles cold to the touch.
As I stood before the mirror, Maeryn adjusted the fabric on my shoulders. “The Court feeds on appearance. If you stand tall, they’ll question whether you know something they don’t. If you look afraid, they’ll be right.”
“So I pretend?”
“So you survive.”
Her fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from my face. “You remind me of someone I knew once,” she said softly.
“Another mortal?”
Her smile was small, wistful. “Another fool who thought courage could melt Winter.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but she stepped back and straightened. “I’ll have the attendants bring what you need. Try to eat something before they arrive.”
“I doubt I’ll keep it down.”
“Then pretend that too.”
The faintest flicker of humor touched her lips, but it quickly vanished. She turned to leave, pausing at the door. “Katria?”
“Yes?”
“When he looks at you tonight—don’t look back too long. Everyone will notice.” When, not if. She already assumed Kaelith’s gaze would find me.
The attendants came just after midmorning.
Three of them, all pale and wordless, carrying bundles of silk and silver combs that gleamed too sharply for comfort.
They didn’t ask permission; they never did.
One began unfastening my laces, another unpinning my hair.
The third carried a vial of frostglass powder that shimmered faintly blue when opened.
I’d expected the cold, but the powder was warm when it touched my skin, sinking into my pulse points like whispered frostlight. “What is that?” I asked.
“Veil-dust,” the nearest attendant said without looking up. “It dulls the scent of fear.”
I almost laughed—almost. “You have a powder for that?”
Her expression didn’t change. “It’s tradition.”
When they were done, I barely recognized myself. The gown shimmered like starlight through snow. My hair, twisted high and threaded with silver frost-vines, gleamed almost white beneath the cold glow of the frostlamps. Only my eyes seemed out of place—too human, too warm, too awake.
Maeryn returned just as the attendants were leaving. Her expression softened when she saw me. “They’ll regret making you part of their theater,” she murmured.
“Or they’ll applaud,” I said dryly.
She adjusted a clasp at my collar. “If they do, don’t bow. Let them remember you’re not one of them.”
Fenrir padded into the room then, silent as shadow, his fur catching the light in waves of white and silver. He brushed against my leg, a mountain of muscle and quiet warning.
Maeryn frowned. “He shouldn’t follow you.”
“It’s not like I control him. I didn’t ask him to join me.”
“Then he’s decided,” she said simply, stepping aside as the snowhound sat at my feet like a sentry carved from winter itself.
When I turned toward the door, Maeryn caught my wrist. “Keep your head high. No matter what they say. They want to see you flinch.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” She hesitated, then she added softly, “And if Kael speaks to you, remember—he means well, but his warmth is its own kind of danger.”
I gave a small, humorless smile. “Seems to be a theme here.”
The corridors leading to the great hall were alive with movement—servants carrying trays, guards shifting in their stations, nobles gliding through like shards of color amid the frost. My footsteps echoed too loudly. Fenrir’s didn’t echo at all.
Halfway down the corridor, I heard the familiar sound of laughter—warm, disarming, and entirely out of place in this cold kingdom
Kael stepped into view before I could brace myself. His smile was already half-formed, as if he’d been waiting. “I wondered how long they’d keep you locked away before parading you out.”
“Long enough for me to regret ever opening a door in your direction,” I retorted.
He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Cruel, little flame. And here I was, ready to compliment how radiant you look.”
“I don’t want compliments.”
“Then take advice.” His voice softened. “Smile. They can’t decide yet if they want to love you or fear you. Let them stay confused.”
I tried not to show that his words hit too close to truth. “You think I should charm them?”
“I think you should survive them,” he said, all traces of humor gone for a heartbeat. “They eat fear. Feed them something sweeter.”
Before I could answer, he reached out and straightened a clasp on my sleeve. His touch was light, almost teasing, but the hall’s frostlight flickered at the contact. I wondered who was watching this time.
Stepping back, I asked, “You enjoy making trouble, don’t you?”
“Only the kind worth remembering.”
He winked and began walking backward, one hand raised in a lazy salute. “See you at the feast, little flame. Try not to set my brother on fire.”
“I’ll try not to give him a reason.”
Kael laughed, the sound echoing long after he turned the corner.
I exhaled, steadying myself, and looked down at Fenrir. His ears twitched once, but his gaze was steady. Loyal. Unflinching.
“Come on,” I murmured. “Let’s get this over with.”
The frostlight along the hall pulsed faintly as I passed, like a slow heartbeat in the stone. And just before the doors to the great hall loomed into view, I caught a flicker in the mirrored wall beside me—a second reflection moving half a breath behind my own.
When I turned, there was nothing there. Only ice. Only Winter.
The great hall of Skadar Hold had been remade overnight.
It wasn’t the same place I’d seen before—no shadows, no silence. Every surface glowed. Frostlight streamed down from the chandeliers like captured starlight, and crystal banners hung from the high arches, etched with runes that pulsed faintly in rhythm with the music.
The sound itself was strange—harp and flute woven with something colder, like wind trapped in glass pipes. It was beautiful in the way a snowstorm is beautiful, right before it swallows you whole.
A fae attendant announced my name in a tone that made it sound like a test. Katria Vale, mortal guest of the Heir.
Hundreds of eyes turned my way.
The Frostfather sat on his throne of living ice, towering above the court like a carving that had decided to breathe.
Kaelith stood just below him, posture perfect, expression unreadable.
His eyes flicked toward me once, gray and sharp, before he looked away again—as if seeing me too long might draw attention neither of us could afford.
I wanted to vanish. But instead, I kept my chin high and crossed the marble floor with Fenrir padding silently at my heels. The nobles parted to make room, their movements smooth as the surface of a frozen lake.
Every step sounded too loud.
When I reached the mortal’s place—an unadorned chair near the lower end of the long glass table—I sat carefully, folding my hands in my lap. Fenrir settled at my feet, tail curling protectively around the leg of my chair. No one told him to move. No one dared.
A long moment passed before the Frostfather rose.
He didn’t need to raise his voice; the room silenced itself for him. “Winter endures,” he said, his words echoing through the hall. “While the other Courts burn and rot and dream, we remain the still heart of the world. Tonight, we celebrate our triumph—our dominion over storm and shadow.”