Chapter 29 Katria
Chapter twenty-nine
Katria
It started with whispers.
They moved faster than frost across glass—small, silvery things that slithered through the halls long before I heard them spoken aloud.
Maeryn tried to shield me from them at first, keeping me busy with errands and lessons in etiquette I hadn’t asked for, but silence never lasted long here, hard as the fae tried to cling to it. It just waited to be broken.
I felt the shift before I understood it. Guards who used to nod in passing now turned away. Courtiers paused mid-bow when I entered a room. Even the frostlight dimmed when I crossed the threshold, as though it wanted to hide me.
By the third day, it wasn’t whispers anymore.
“…both of them,” one voice murmured as I walked past the northern hall.
“She must be enchanted,” another hissed. “No mortal wins the eye of one prince, let alone two.”
“She’ll bring ruin to the Hold.”
They didn’t lower their voices fast enough. I kept walking, back straight, every step loud enough to drown the sound of my own pulse. I told myself it didn’t matter, but the ache behind my ribs said otherwise.
First, I’d been called a witch; now it was harlot.
When I returned to my chamber, Maeryn was waiting, folding linens that didn’t need folding. Her eyes lifted just once before she spoke, her face softening in understanding. “They talk because they’re frightened.”
“Of what?”
“Change,” she said simply. “And the ones who bring it.”
I tried to laugh, but it caught. “You make it sound as if I planned any of this.”
“I know you didn’t. That’s why they’ll blame you for it.”
Her calmness unsettled me more than the rumors. “What do they think I’ve done?”
“They think you’ve made both princes forget their place.”
The words hit harder than I expected. “That’s absurd.”
“It doesn’t have to be true,” she said. “It just has to sound like it could be.”
Before I could answer, Fenrir lifted his head and growled, low and sharp. I turned—and froze.
Kaelith stood in the doorway.
He looked carved from the very walls: all frost and shadow, the faint shimmer of frostlight running down his glove like a vein. His eyes, cold gray, swept the room once before landing on me.
“My prince,” Maeryn said quickly, bowing.
“Leave us,” he ordered, voice low.
Maeryn obeyed without question. Fenrir didn’t. The hound stayed where he was, teeth barely bared. How had his own hound chosen me over him?
Kaelith stepped forward anyway. “You’ve been walking with my brother.”
I folded my arms. “Is that forbidden too?”
His gaze flicked to Fenrir, then back to me. “You know what people are saying.”
“I know they think mortals can’t breathe the same air as fae without owing something in return.”
His jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t encourage him.”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t stop him, either.”
The words struck colder than the air. “Why should I? He’s kind to me. You aren’t.”
That got his attention. For a moment, something flickered behind his control—something raw, almost human—but it vanished as quickly as it came.
“I’m protecting you,” he said.
“No,” I snapped. “You’re punishing me for what you feel.”
The silence that followed broke me. His eyes darkened, but he didn’t deny it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“Then explain it,” I said. “Explain why the man who kissed me won’t even look at me, while his brother pretends the world is made of sunlight.”
His breath hitched once, barely audible. “Because I can’t afford what he can.”
Before I could answer, the frostlight above us flared. The temperature dropped enough that the air turned sharp in my throat. He clenched his fists, fighting it back until the light steadied again.
He’d nearly lost control. Because of me.
“I’m not your enemy, Kaelith,” I said, softer now. “And I didn’t ask for any of this.”
I thought he’d say something more. His lips parted, but no sound came. Then he turned sharply and left, the frost closing behind him like a door.
Fenrir pressed his head against my knee, a low rumble in his chest.
“I know,” I whispered, fingers trembling as they sank into his fur. “He’s unraveling.”
But what I didn’t admit—not even to myself—was that I was too.
By nightfall, the whispers had teeth.
Every corridor hummed with them—soft laughter, the scrape of boots pausing just long enough for me to notice.
The Hold felt smaller, as if the walls themselves had learned my name.
Maeryn told me to stay inside until the talk “cooled,” but gossip never froze in Winter.
It spread like cracks through ice, impossible to repair once it started.
When I finally stepped into the hall, Kael was waiting. Leaning against a frost pillar, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His usual lightness was gone, replaced by something sharper.
“You’ve been busy,” he said.
“If that’s another rumor, I’d rather not hear it.”
“It isn’t.” He pushed off the pillar, closing the space between us. “Kaelith was seen leaving your chambers. Alone. Late.”
I met his gaze. “Then you already know what the Court is whispering.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
He studied me, every trace of his usual teasing stripped away. “You’re shaking.”
“From cold.”
“No, you’re not.” His voice softened. “He hurts you. You let him.”
My pulse kicked hard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.
“I know what he becomes when he’s cornered.” He stepped closer. “I saw it once. Long before you arrived.”
There was something in his eyes I hadn’t seen before—fear, maybe. Or memory. Either way, it made the air heavy between us.
“Kael—”
“Tell me you’ll stay away from him.”
“I can’t.”
He exhaled, frustrated. “Of course you can’t. You never do what you should.”
“It’s not up to me,” I snapped. “None of this is. You act like I command the Winter Court when I can’t even command myself.”
He went still, jaw tightening. For a second, I thought I’d driven him away. Then he reached out, his hand hovering just short of my face.
“You don’t see it, do you?” he said quietly. “You’ve already changed him.”
“Kael—”
“Don’t.” His voice broke around the word. “Because if you say my name like that again, I might forget he’s my brother.”
The world narrowed to his breath, his warmth, the dangerous softness in his tone. I should have stepped back. I didn’t. The silence stretched until a sound cut through it—frost cracking.
Kaelith stood at the far end of the corridor.
The look in his eyes froze the air. The frostlight in his gauntlet flared once, then dimmed, as if even the magic wanted to retreat. Kael turned but didn’t move aside.
“You should keep your distance, Brother,” Kaelith said, voice like ground glass.
“I could say the same.”
“Do it, then.”
The tension was unbearable. Two versions of Winter, facing each other—one disciplined and deadly, the other burning bright enough to melt the walls. I’d never felt more out of place in my own skin.
Kaelith’s gaze shifted to me. “You should be in your room.”
“I was,” I said, though my voice sounded thin.
He took a step closer. “And now you’re not.”
Kael moved subtly, standing between us. “Careful, Brother. The Court already thinks you’ve lost control.”
“And you think you can do better?”
Kael’s smile returned, but it was all edge. “I know I can.”
I had no idea what would have happened next if Maeryn hadn’t appeared at the stairway, breathless and pale.
“Your Highnesses,” she said, bowing to both but meeting neither gaze directly. “The Frostfather summons you, Princes. Now.”
The word father hit Kaelith like a blow. His expression hardened; Kael’s jaw flexed once in answer.
Kaelith turned without another word and strode down the hall, his cloak snapping like a storm behind him. Kael lingered long enough to look back at me.
“You don’t have to choose sides yet,” he said softly. “But soon you will.”
And then he was gone too.
When the corridor fell silent again, I finally exhaled. Frost clung to the edges of my sleeves where Kaelith’s presence had brushed the air, melting slowly under the lingering heat Kael had left behind.
Two brothers, opposite in everything but the way they looked at me. And yet I knew that whatever warmth I felt between them, it would end the same way all fires do—by consuming whatever was foolish enough to stand too close.
The air in the lower halls was stale.
It clung to the skin like breath frozen in place, too heavy to be natural yet too still to be safe.
I told myself I only came down here for herbs.
Maeryn had mentioned a frost-moss that grew near the undercrofts, one that could soothe burns if mixed with boiled resin.
That was the excuse, anyway. But deep down, I already knew that wasn’t why my steps had brought me here.
Ever since the crimson aurora, I’d felt it—a pulse beneath the Hold, faint but constant, like the echo of a heartbeat buried under the ice. I’d hoped it was my imagination. I was never that lucky.
The torches here shimmered. Frostlight lines ran through the stone like veins, dim and restless, as if they resented being seen.
Fenrir padded silently at my side, his fur bristling.
The last corridor ended in a vault-like arch, half collapsed, ice covering everything but a narrow opening.
The debris in the opening shifted upon my nearing, widening until there was space enough for me to fit.
It was foolish of me to go through, but I couldn’t ignore the curiosity that niggled at me.
Beyond it, the air hummed. The chamber was smaller than I expected, circular and carved smooth as glass. No banners, no runes, no throne. Just a single pedestal in the center, its surface layered with frost. And beneath the frost … something glowed.
A single shard, faintly blue, light pulsing once, then again. Slow. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat.