Chapter 25 Katria
Chapter twenty-five
Katria
Silence didn’t return so much as it collapsed.
After Kaelith’s voice cut through the hall, no one dared to breathe too loudly. The nobles’ laughter had curdled into stillness; the Frostfather’s smile had turned thin as glass. And I—standing amid the shards of my own composure—couldn’t seem to move.
The air still hummed with his command. Apologize.The frost on the floor hadn’t stopped cracking.
Lady Calenne bowed low, murmuring her apology again and again, but Kaelith didn’t look at her. His eyes, cold and precise, had found me instead. Whatever he saw there made something shift in his expression—less anger, more regret—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
Then he turned, and the weight of his absence felt like a door slamming shut.
The Frostfather remained seated, his expression unreadable. One gloved finger tapped slowly against the armrest of his throne. “A curious spectacle,” he murmured. “The heir defends his mortal.”
Kael’s easy voice broke the silence that followed. “Every good feast needs a little theater.”
A few nobles laughed, brittle and uneasy. The Frostfather’s gaze lingered on Kael for a heartbeat longer before sliding back to me. “I suppose it does.”
And then, as if nothing had happened, the music resumed. The dancers returned to the floor. Laughter followed, hollow and forced. The moment passed—or pretended to.
I stood rooted to the spot, the torn strap of my gown still hanging loose, my pulse refusing to settle. Kael leaned close, murmuring, “Don’t give them more to watch.”
He guided me toward the edge of the hall, Fenrir padding behind us with his hackles raised. We slipped through an archway of ice and out into a smaller corridor, the sounds of the feast fading behind us.
Only when the door shut did I breathe again.
Kael released my hand and exhaled softly. “You handled that better than most mortals would.”
“Most mortals aren’t dragged into fae feasts as decoration.”
He winced but didn’t argue. “You’ll be all right?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s fair.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he said, “He shouldn’t have let it get that far.”
“I don’t think he meant to.”
Kael’s brow lifted. “You’re defending him now?”
“I’m not.” I hesitated. “But I saw his face. It wasn’t just anger.”
“No,” Kael said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
He gave a shallow bow, half teasing, half solemn. “Try to rest, little flame. Tomorrow, they’ll start pretending this never happened. You might want to learn how.”
When he left, I stood for a long time in the quiet corridor, fingers still pressed to the torn edge of my dress. The frostlight in the walls glimmered faintly, bending my reflection until I looked like someone I didn’t recognize.
Fenrir whined softly, and I knelt, pressing a hand to his head. “It’s fine,” I whispered, though I didn’t believe it. “It’s over.”
But the word over meant something different in Winter.Here, nothing melted unless it wanted to.
Unsurprisingly, the corridors outside the great hall were quieter than they had any right to be. The sounds of the feast had dulled to a muted hum—music and laughter smothered beneath stone and snow. Every step I took echoed too loudly.
I’d almost made it to the stairs leading toward my chambers when his voice stopped me.
“You disobeyed me.”
Cold. Precise. The kind of voice that could turn a room to ice.
Kaelith stepped from the shadow of the gallery arch, his armor catching a sliver of frostlight. The faint gleam ran along the silver line on his glove—from wrist to fingertip.
I didn’t turn fully to face him. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve made something of a habit of that.”
He came closer, deliberate steps that echoed in the silence. “I told you not to involve yourself in Court affairs.”
“And yet,” I said, my voice steady, “I was in your Court’s affairs—like it or not.”
“Your place,” he said, each word sharp, “was to observe. To stay silent.” Then lower, he added, “Not to dance with my brother.”
“My place,” I snapped, turning to face him now, “was apparently to be humiliated while you sat and watched.”
His jaw tightened, muscle shifting under pale skin. For a moment, the frostlight around him dimmed.
“I would have intervened sooner,” he said at last.
“But you didn’t.”
A shadow crossed his face, quick and violent. “You think I enjoyed it? Watching them—” He cut himself off, his voice fracturing for just an instant. When he spoke again, it was low and measured, like he was forcing the words through clenched teeth. “You think I didn’t want to stop it sooner?”
“I think you wanted to see if I’d endure it,” I said, matching his quiet. “To see how much frost I could take before I broke.”
Kaelith took a step closer. The air between us cooled, breath visible in the space that separated us. “You mistake discipline for cruelty.”
“No,” I said softly. “I mistook indifference for fear.”
His head tilted, eyes narrowing. “Fear?”
“You’re afraid of what happens if you stop pretending you don’t feel anything.”
For the briefest moment, something raw and unguarded crossed his expression—something like pain, something like truth.
Then it was gone.
“You’re out of your depth,” he said.
“Maybe,” I said. “But I know how to tread water.”
The tension between us coiled tight. Fenrir padded into the hall, silent but watchful, his eyes flicking between us. Kaelith didn’t so much as glance at him.
“You don’t understand what you’re risking,” he said finally.
“I understand perfectly.”
His lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re mortal. You don’t belong here.”
“Do you think I asked to come here?” I huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “I had no choice.”
“Yet here you are,” he said, a cold laugh barely escaping. “Defying a Court that could unmake you with a thought. Perhaps it’s not fear you lack but wisdom.”
I lifted my chin. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
That stopped him. His eyes darkened.
“I should have left you in Hollowmere,” he said.
“But you didn’t,” I whispered.
His hand twitched at his side—small, involuntary. A flicker of frostlight pulsed along the seam of his glove before vanishing.
“Go back to your chambers,” he said finally, voice low and dangerous in how soft it had become. “Before I forget why I brought you here.”
I took a step forward instead, jabbing my finger against his chest. “I think you already have.”
He looked at me then—really looked.
The corridor narrowed there—one of those stretches where the walls curved inward, lined with frostglass that reflected every movement twice. His reflection towered behind me in the mirrored wall, sharp and pale, like a ghost of the man who hadn’t yet decided what to do.
“I don’t owe you answers,” Kaelith said, but it came out quieter than he meant.
“And I don’t owe you obedience,” I shot back.
He exhaled through his nose. The sound was small but full of restraint, like the sound a blade makes before it breaks its sheath.
I wanted to turn away. Should have left him standing there, drowning in his own control. But I didn’t.
“You think your silence protects anyone?” I asked. “It only makes you colder.”
His eyes found mine, gray and bright in the frostlight. “And yet you keep standing closer.”
“I’m not afraid of the cold.”
“You should be.”
“Maybe I’m tired of being afraid.”
That struck him. Not visibly—not to anyone else.
But I saw the flicker: the faint tightening in his jaw, the small tremor of breath he caught before it could escape.
I’d learned how to read him too well. Every guarded motion, every pause meant to hide what he felt, all of it cataloged in the quiet hours since Hollowmere.
“I can’t protect you from this Court,” he said at last. “From me.”
“Have you considered that I don’t need protecting?” I whispered.
His breath hitched. The silence that followed felt dangerous.
When he moved, it wasn’t far—just half a step—but it was enough to make the frostlight ripple against his armor. I could see the pulse at his throat now. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. His gloved hand flexed once, fingers curling and uncurling as though something inside him was fighting for air.
“Do you enjoy this?” he asked softly. “Testing the limits?”
“Do you?”
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile but close. “I used to think I did.”
I swallowed. “And now?”
“Now I’m not sure what I think.”
He looked down, briefly, as though the floor might offer a simpler answer. When he looked back up, his expression was stripped bare—tired, unguarded, more man than prince.
“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” he said. “I shouldn’t have let this begin.”
“You keep saying that,” I whispered, “but you don’t stop.”
He laughed once under his breath, sharp and bitter. “Because I can’t.”
The frostlight flickered, as if reacting to the admission. His control slipped, visible now in the way his shoulders tensed, the way the air around us grew heavy, warmer.
I could feel him fighting himself—the small tremors in his breath, the slight quiver of his hand when he reached out and stopped an inch from my arm. His gloved fingertips hovered there, trembling.
“Why do you do that?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Do what?”
“Look like you want to touch me but never do.”
He inhaled a long, ragged breath. “Because if I do, I won’t stop.”
Something fragile broke inside me at the honesty in his voice.
His gaze fell to my lips. His jaw flexed again. The frostlight caught on his breath as it mingled with mine, a faint halo between us.
Fenrir made a low, warning sound from somewhere behind me. Kaelith’s eyes flicked toward him then back to me. “He’s smarter than both of us,” he said.
“Probably,” I murmured.
Our reflections shimmered in the mirrored wall beside us—his tall and dark, mine pale and too still. In the reflection, he looked like he was already touching me.
He whispered, almost to himself, “You shouldn’t make me care this much.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.”