Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
The castle loomed behind him. Its spires caught the morning light like the points of a crown carved from ice. Graham didn't look back.
He never did.
His boots crunched through fresh frost as he walked the path beyond the gates, shoulders hunched against the bite of the wind.
The air out here was sharp and clean, laced with wood smoke and the faint metallic scent of snow-soaked iron.
He inhaled deep, letting it fill his lungs. Clean air. Honest air.
It didn’t erase the stink of palace politics that clung to him. Or the taste of her name sitting heavy on his tongue.
Raveena.
Gods, he’d done this walk too many times, the walk of shame. It had never felt shameful in their youth. He'd felt pride at being her chosen lover. Honored at being her confidant. Triumph believing he held her heart in his hand.
That last part had been a lie. She'd chosen him. She'd confided in him. But she had not given him her heart. Her body, yes. But he wanted—no, needed—more than that.
And so this walk away from the castle with empty hands and a sluggish heart came with footsteps weighted down by shame.
Once again, out he went. Through the castle gates, down into the village with sweat cooling on his skin and bruises hidden beneath the collar of his coat. Not all the bruises had been from her touch. Sometimes they came from wanting her. From believing she was his.
It hadn’t always been about the bed. Often, it hadn’t been about the bed at all.
Some nights, they’d spent hours side by side, her legs draped across his lap while they played strategy games with carved bone pieces and rules they rewrote as they went.
Other times, she'd read aloud from some ancient text while he listened, pointing out the cracks in the histories with a soldier’s pragmatism and a mind built for attack.
Graham had never had a formal education. He hadn’t needed one. His brilliance lived in battlefield instinct, in angles and pressure points, in knowing when to strike and when to wait.
Raveena saw that intelligence. She admired it. He could match her wit for wit. He'd thought she saw him not just as a man, but as her man.
Fated mates.
Graham scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. How stupid he’d been.
She was a queen. He was just a man. Not even a prince. Not even close.
The village stirred around him as he reached its edge. Smoke curled from the chimneys. Market stalls were being set up for the day, their awnings snapping in the wind. Children darted through slush-patched streets, their laughter a sharp contrast to the noise in his head.
Graham cut across the square and headed toward the old barracks. It wasn’t much—a few repurposed buildings on the outer edge of town. It was where the soldiers who survived the Troll Wars had been quartered. His men. His brothers. The ones who’d bled beside him in the dirt and snow.
The land was hard here. Rocky, uneven, half-frozen most of the year. Nothing grew right. Not like in Fenvalen. He couldn’t go back there. The past was buried under too much snow and blood.
Greymoor was the next best thing. It had give.
Beneath the frost and pine, the earth held promise.
He’d walked the ridge lines, tested the soil with his own hands.
Things could grow there—barley, root vegetables, maybe even fruit trees with enough tending.
It was land that didn’t demand blood for its loyalty, only sweat. That was a bargain Graham understood.
More than that, it was quiet. Remote enough to slip under the queens’ watchful gazes. Close enough that if Raveena ever needed him, he could be there before nightfall.
No courts. No crowns. No games played with daughters and dowries. Just land. Men and women side by side, building something worth passing down. A different kind of kingdom. One not ruled but lived in.
Raveena had promised it to him for the price of Snow White's head.
Snow had promised him the same boon for the same price.
Graham stared out at the gray fields, jaw tight. If either woman made good on their word, he and his men could build something that lasted. Not just barracks but homes. A future.
But which of them would keep her word?
Raveena—the woman who ruled with silk and steel, who seduced with her eyes and lied with her silence? The one who made him feel like a king one minute and a fool the next?
Or Snow—the girl with ice in her veins and fire behind her smile, who wore innocence like armor and had the gall to command his loyalty like it was her birthright?
One offered him passion, the other purpose.
One knew him in every intimate way and still chose power over him. The other needed him—not for his body but his sword, his name, his fury.
Two women.
Two promises.
One future.
And not a damn bit of trust left in him.
Graham turned away from the land, from the barracks, from the castle looming in the distance. The snow was falling again—soft, quiet, relentless. Just like fate.
He didn’t know which queen would win this war of wits. But he knew he wouldn’t lose again.
The barracks smelled like smoke and steel and men who'd fought too long in the cold. The scent hit Graham the moment he opened the door—sweat, leather, the charred meat someone had been roasting over a barrel of fire in the far corner. It was a welcome smell, grounding in a way the perfume-choked halls of the castle could never be. Here, the air was honest. Here, no one pretended to be something they weren’t.
The men looked up as he stepped inside. A chorus of laughter and hoarse shouts erupted around the room.
“Well, look who finally remembered he’s one of us.”
“Graham the Ghost returns.”
“Thought you’d defected to royal service. Or royal bedchambers.”
Graham gave a tired grunt of acknowledgment as a few of them rose to clasp arms with him. Their grips were hard, familiar. Real. These were the brothers he’d bled beside in the snow, men who’d held the line when the world threatened to fall in.
“You missed the parade,” said Corin. The red-bearded giant had soot on his cheeks and a grin full of mischief. “Should’ve seen it. The noble ladies were out in full frost. More than one winked at me."
"Or maybe they had a tic?" said Lars, a thin reed of a man who was wicked with a bow and arrow. "Or they were drunk.”
“Very drunk,” Corin agreed with a satisfied grunt.
Graham smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You weren’t with us,” Corin continued, narrowing his gaze. “Which means you were either in the castle... or in the queen.”
A round of rough laughter followed. No one even pretended to whisper. The affair between Graham and Raveena had never been a secret. In the Snow Kingdom, noblewomen bedded who they pleased. Love was fleeting, loyalty negotiable. But marriage—that was something else entirely.
Women only married princes. Men with armies. Men with land. Men with crowns to be seized and power to be folded into the snow-laced branches of her lineage. Men who could be used.
Graham? He was a good way to pass the night. A warm mouth, a stronger hand. A moment’s pleasure.
“The Winter Games are starting soon,” said one of the younger soldiers as he sharpened a blade by the fire. “First time in years we’ve made it back in time to compete.”
“Be good to put my axe to something that doesn’t scream,” someone muttered.
“You going to join the games, Graham?” Corin asked, tossing him a flask. “Or are you too busy climbing up royal skirts?”
Graham caught the flask and took a long sip. The mead burned sweet and sharp down his throat. “I’ll think on it.”
He had more pressing matters to plan. Not one, but two murders danced at the edge of his thoughts. Raveena's if she married Charming. Charming if he stood in Graham’s way of getting Raveena back. Snow if she demanded his loyalty over his heart.
“So,” another voice piped up, “everyone’s saying Charming will propose during the Assembly. Big royal spectacle. Kiss in the snow. Real heartstring shit.”
“Then what?” Corin asked. “Queen Raveena’s out of a crown. What’s she going to do without a throne?”
The question silenced the laughter. Everyone turned to Graham. Graham didn’t answer.
It was something he hadn't considered. Raveena without a crown on her head? What if it was gone and she had no kingdom left to rule, no reason to chase power or bind herself to a prince?
What if she looked up and finally saw—him? No throne. No pawns. Just him.
Maybe then she would come away with Graham. To the land she’d promised him if he took care of her snowy problem. He could build something for her, something lasting.
Maybe she could be his. Really his.
Maybe he didn’t need to kill anyone.
Maybe he just needed to remove the crown out of their way.
Graham took another sip from the flask, slower this time, gaze fixed on the flames licking at the logs in the hearth.
Maybe it was the crown that was her cage. And if he simply knocked it from her head, he'd set her free.