Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Stellen
Ineed a slap of cold air.
I need clarity.
I need to exhale the power of Thyra’s moans.
Stopping only to drop my torn tunic into the basket of clothing intended for me and quickly retrieve a fresh one, I make it to the front door, wrench it open, and hurry outside, closing the door firmly but quietly behind me.
My heart is ice, but…fuck…the sharp pain jabbing through my chest feels like I’m being stabbed, over and over, except that the weapon is every soft sigh Thyra uttered. Every exhaled breath that twisted through my soul.
Nara’s head rises when I appear, her growl questioning. She has remained dutifully beside the doorstep, waiting for me to emerge.
I have no answer for whatever questions might be going through her wolfish mind.
After pulling on the new tunic and fitting my harnesses back in place, I tip my head back, allowing snowflakes to land on my cheeks.
I welcome the chill.
Out here, I know who I am.
I’m the fucking Frost King. Heartless. Cruel. Strategic.
Killer of kings.
I grit my teeth.
Fuck the past.
Fuck this new pain.
I have a path. I know what I have to do. I just need to do it.
Leaning up against the other side of the door while Nara settles back to the ground, I close my eyes and listen.
Listen to Thyra’s distant footfalls, heavy and burdened.
I wait for her to sing to the silver threads again, but she doesn’t.
I suppose she doesn’t need to. They will stay where they are, floating like gauze, a sheet of silver ready for when she steps into them again. If anyone tries to touch them or steal them in the meantime, that fae will meet a quick end.
Thyra paces down the hallway, the slap of her feet against the stone floor bringing her past the baskets of clothing and linen and to the other side of the door beside which I’m standing.
She didn’t stop for clothes.
She’s still naked.
I need her to push open the door. I want her to challenge me. Test me. To choose to step into the icy air simply because that’s where I am. But it’s a daydream to believe she ever would or could willingly stand at my side.
She should stay inside, where it’s warm.
She should keep away from me and my stony heart.
She’s quiet and still for the longest moment. A moment that threatens my sanity.
Then she backs away.
I close my eyes, my shoulders slumping as her footfalls carry her to the baskets, where she rummages.
The swish of material indicates she’s pulling multiple items of clothing onto her body.
Probably also the fur boots. After which, she begins exploring, her muted footfalls carrying her from one room to the next.
She stops longest at the door into the empty room—the one for which I didn’t give an explanation.
If she’d asked about it…
Well, she didn’t.
Soon enough, the sun begins sinking toward the horizon and the staff reappears along the path, completely silent. No conversation between them. They know I can hear everything they say.
They pull up sharply when they see me standing outside the door.
I point to the ground at their feet, and they lower their baskets, the wicker crunching in the new snow.
Exchanging glances with each other, they hurry away.
It’s just as well they didn’t linger.
The temperature is plummeting faster than normal, signaling an oncoming snowstorm that could be worse than the one Thyra and I rode through last night.
The staff will need to seek shelter. Every Frost Fae will.
Scooping up both baskets, I ascertain that one contains food and another has more clothing—more female clothing, these items silken and velvety. The first basket contained practical garments. This one does not. I can only imagine the arguments between the staff about Thyra’s role here.
I tell myself it’s a good sign they’re guessing. It means other Frost Fae will be kept guessing too.
From the basket of food, I remove a roll of bread and a flask of water for myself.
Thyra’s currently in the bathing room, the soft splash of water lapping at the sides of the bath indicating she’s immersed herself into it.
It’s a good time to slip both baskets inside.
As I close the door again before the cold air can rush inside, Nara side-eyes me.
“I know what I’m doing,” I mutter.
She stares harder.
I return her stern look. “Don’t try to move me, Nara. You know it’s impossible.”
With a sigh, she rests her head on her paws.
That’s how we stay while I chew on my bread, my senses alert and my ears open, isolating multiple conversations, taking in every piece of information I can from everything I hear.
Soon enough, Thyra busies herself eating and finally, she settles down to rest. I assumed she’d choose my mother’s old room, since it’s the only heated room with a proper bed, but she curls up on the chaise in the main area instead, staying nearest to me.
She’s asleep within seconds, confirming her exhaustion.
Her deep breathing fills my ears, more powerful than the shrieking wind building around me or the distant, whispered conversations of foe.
I’m certain an assassin will come for me tonight, whether it’s one of Iker’s followers or one of Brunkil’s. Or even, though less likely, an Iron Fae. Maybe another assassin carrying a dagger like the one that killed Thyra’s father.
My lips tug upward.
Let them come. I’ll be ready.
And until they do…
I find my breathing aligning with Thyra’s, deep pulls of air filled with a peace I will never attain.
Nara’s warning growl shatters my dreams.
My slumber was already cracking, broken by stealthy footfalls approaching from the northeastern corner of the palace.
The snowstorm rages around us, the night still heavy, and the howling wind deafening. To any other fae, that is.
Listening carefully, I manage to isolate soft crunching sounds, the heaviness of footfalls indicating a male assailant. Quiet clinking tells me he’s carrying multiple blades.
Always, the goal is to draw my blood. Enough of it that the droplets will hit the ground. But then any attacker must live long enough to invoke the Winter Strife.
This new assailant is alone. And reckless to attack during a storm like this. If I don’t finish him, the icy temperatures could.
I remain exactly where I am, feigning sleep while the approaching man pushes through the storm, reaching the wall outside this garden, where he pauses.
Visibility is so bad that I only know where he is because of my hearing. Even if he’s a highborn, he’ll have trouble seeing me until he’s right on top of me, and he’ll probably expect me to be indoors.
To get to the door, he’ll either have to vault the wall or enter through the arched opening. Neither puts him in a good position. Vaulting the wall comes with not knowing what he’ll land on. Walking directly through the entrance invites the risk I’ll be waiting right there.
I stay where I am, protecting the mended door.
I won’t let anyone get to Thyra and I sure as fuck will never allow this door to be broken again.
Pursing my lips, I utter a soft whistle, mimicking the wind.
Nara’s ears prick up. Through the snow flurry, I make out her narrowed eyes.
My whistle told her to stay back, but it looks like she might disobey me, her nose lifting into the air. Something about the attacker’s smell seems to be upsetting her.
I whistle again, more firmly, risking being heard by the approaching man.
Nara finally backs away from me, but her answering growl tells me she’s unhappy about staying out of this fight.
The ring of steel being drawn precedes the man’s resuming footfalls.
Rounding the corner, he strides right through the entrance and along the path toward me, his steps no longer stealthy.
My second whistle to Nara must have betrayed my location, but I’m unperturbed.
Another chime of steel tells me he’s drawn a second blade. Both swords, judging by the extended ringing sound. Wise to approach me with the same style and number of weapons I use.
His steps quicken, approaching fast along the path.
I draw both of my blades, relying solely on my hearing, unhurried in my actions.
My confidence is well earned, but I won’t underestimate my opponent.
His blades flash through the air toward me, becoming clear within the snowfall, striking as quickly and as accurately as I anticipated.
I deflect both. Then again as he strikes a second time, our swords ringing in the air, the sounds drowned out by the screaming wind.
He’s fast, attacking again and again.
While I block his strikes, I catch glimpses of his features through the storm. He has dull-black hair, the color of a lowborn, and his clothing is unrefined.
And yet he’s held his own with me for an entire minute, moving quickly, striking hard.
I brace for the next strike, luring him closer. The moment his swords clash with mine, I’m ready.
My frost power rages across my palms, down both of my blades, but it doesn’t stop there, flooding across his swords too.
He gives a shout when, a heartbeat later, the ice solidifies, attaching his blades to mine.
Dropping my weight, I wrench my arms down and then out, pulling his weapons away from him. Using the outward momentum, I fling our joined weapons to either side of us across the garden.
One joined set crashes through a stone sculpture, the crack of splitting stone louder than the shrieking wind, while the other two joined swords sail far across the snow.
By wrenching downward, I’ve pulled the man toward me and my movements are now lightning fast.
Before he can evade my punch, my empty right fist collides with his chest.
My icy power smashes across his torso and the impact knocks him onto his back.
He lands between sculptures.
I’m upon him in seconds, pinpointing his location once again from sound alone, since the storm has only gotten worse.
Despite the debilitating strike to his chest, he’s trying to get up.
Before he can rise, my right knee collides with his ribs, pinning him to the ground.
He struggles against my hold, punching at my leg, his wheezing breaths telling me he’s struggling to breathe.