Dawn broke gray and cold, the storm of the night before leaving the palace wrapped in a damp, bone-deep chill. The rain had stopped, but the clouds still hung low, as if the sky itself were holding its breath.
Aria did not sleep.
She had paced her chambers until the candles burned low, then stood at the window and watched the black sea shift into pale silver under the first touch of light. Her mind would not still. Ten kings — not one, not two — all claiming her in a single night. It was not court gossip or rumor. She had seen their messengers, smelled the scent of salt, sand, frost, and fire on them.
And she could still feel the way the crown had seemed to watch her.
A Knock at Dawn
The knock came before the servants could even bring breakfast.
It was not the tentative tap of a courtier. It was steady, deliberate — the sound of someone who had no doubt they would be admitted.
Aria pulled the door open herself.
A soldier stood there, his armor crusted with frost despite the warmer air of the coast. His lips were pale, his breath a soft plume.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing stiffly. "The King of the Frostlands is here."
Her pulse skipped.
"Already?"
The soldier's eyes flickered.
"He came through the night. He did not wait for your leave."
That was how she knew the stories about him were true.
The Frostlands King
They met in the great hall, though Aria suspected the word great would not impress this man. The Frostlands were said to be a land of ice cathedrals and mountains taller than the clouds.
He entered without ceremony, his boots leaving wet marks on the black stone floor. He wore no crown — just a circlet of silver so thin it looked like frozen breath. His hair was white, not with age, but with the color of snow under moonlight. His eyes were the pale blue of a frozen river, cold enough to burn.
And yet… she felt heat coil low in her stomach the moment his gaze locked on hers.
He stopped at the foot of her throne and bowed, the motion sharp and precise.
"Queen Aria of the Coast," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the bones. "You will come with me."
No question. No request. A statement.
The Refusal
Her council stirred nervously behind her. Lord Veyren looked ready to explode.
Aria kept her tone even.
"And if I do not?"
The king's eyes did not blink.
"Then I will wait. I have crossed half a world of ice and storm to stand here. I can stand longer."
He stepped closer. The air around him seemed to lower in temperature, little curls of frost blooming across the marble tiles.
"But I would prefer you come now."
Something in his voice was not entirely about politics.
A Dangerous Curiosity
She should have been furious. No king — not even one from legend — had the right to speak to her like that.
Instead, she found herself studying the shape of his mouth, the clean lines of his jaw, the way the muscles in his neck flexed when he spoke.
She forced her gaze back to his eyes.
"And what would you do with me, Your Majesty? If I were to come?"
For the first time, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile — more like the shadow of one.
"I would crown you. And then I would keep you."
The words hit her like a physical touch — not gentle, not rough, but heavy with intent.
The Council's Outrage
Lord Veyren stepped forward, face flushed with anger.
"You speak as if she were a prize to be taken, not a sovereign in her own right! This is an insult to—"
The Frostlands king turned his head, and Veyren's words died in his throat.
"I am not speaking to you," the king said, his tone flat but lethal.
The silence in the hall thickened. Even the guards shifted uneasily.
Aria leaned forward on her throne, breaking the tension.
"Your message was received last night. Along with nine others. Why should I choose you over them?"
His gaze returned to her, steady and unflinching.
"Because I came first."
An Unspoken Pull
It was absurd. It was arrogant. And yet, part of her almost admired the simplicity of it.
She knew she should dismiss him. Send him back across whatever frozen wasteland he ruled. But instead, she found herself imagining the frost at her window, the weight of that silver circlet in her hands, the strange thrill of surrendering to someone who made no room for refusal.
The thought unsettled her — and intrigued her.
A Warning in Ice
The king stepped close enough that the air between them crackled. His voice lowered, meant only for her.
"The others will come. They will send gifts, armies, sweet words. Do not mistake their softness for safety. They will break you in ways I would not."
Her breath caught at the quiet intensity in his tone.
"And what would you do?" she asked.
His pale eyes burned with something that was not quite cruelty, not quite tenderness.
"I would not break you. But I would own you."
Her fingers curled against the armrest, nails biting into the wood. She hated how the words made her heart beat faster.
Leaving Frost Behind
Without waiting for her answer, he stepped back and bowed.
"I will remain in your city for three days. If, by then, you have not given me your answer…" He let the sentence trail off, but the meaning hung in the air like a blade.
He turned and left the hall, his guards falling into step behind him, frost still blooming in his wake.
Aftermath
The council erupted in angry voices the moment the doors closed. They spoke of threats, traps, assassinations.
But Aria barely heard them.
Her mind was still on the man with winter in his eyes and the promise in his voice.
She knew it was dangerous. She knew the others would arrive soon.
And yet, she could not stop wondering what it might feel like to be kept.