Princess Zahara Frostveil
The days dragged like chains across stone, each one heavier than the last. Today was the final link—the day before he arrived.
I paced the grand preparation hall, boots clicking against frost-veined marble. Servants darted around me like startled snow-hares: arranging silver platters, polishing obsidian goblets, draping black velvet banners embroidered with the serpent-and-roses sigil. Every motion reminded me how perfectly we'd polished our cage.
"Dancers… checked. Musicians… checked. Entertainment…" I muttered, ticking off the list on parchment that trembled faintly in my grip.
"My Queen."
Rose's voice cut through the hum. I turned. My handmaid stood with her usual calm efficiency, hands folded, eyes lowered—but there was a tightness at the corners of her mouth.
"Yes, Rose. What is it?"
She hesitated, then spoke softly. "Up until now, we haven't secured the Emperor's bed-warmers. I've spoken with Elder Thorne. He suggests young girls from the outer villages. Fresh, untouched. It would please—"
"Who gave that order?" My voice cracked like thin ice. Heat surged up my throat, bitter as swallowed frostwine. My fingers curled into the parchment, crumpling the edges.
Rose flinched but didn't retreat. "My Queen, if the Emperor finds no… comfort provided, it could be seen as an insult. A disaster. The taxes alone—"
A small group slipped through the arched doorway then—young girls, ribbons glinting in their braided hair, dresses trimmed with silver fur, eyes wide with rehearsed pride. One stepped forward and curtsied low, voice clear and eager. "We are ready to serve the Emperor tonight, Your Highness. Mother says it's the greatest honor. We'll keep him warm and happy."
The words landed like a blade between my ribs. I stared at their hopeful faces, the way their hands clasped nervously in front of them, the faint tremble in their shoulders. My stomach lurched. Bile rose sharp and sour.
"Have you no shame?" The words tore out raw and jagged, louder than I intended. "You think this is honor? Offering yourselves to the monster who slaughtered your king and queen? Who drowned this kingdom in blood and called it peace? You're young—barely stepped into the world—and you'd let him take that too, because fear dressed up as duty told you to?"
The lead girl's smile faltered. Her eyes filled, tears spilling before she could blink them away. The others shifted, glancing at each other in sudden uncertainty. Rose stepped forward, hand outstretched. "My Queen, they only—"
I whirled on Rose, chest heaving so hard it hurt. "Don't. Don't defend this." My voice dropped to a hiss, trembling with the effort not to scream. "I will not allow it. Not one of them. Not one breath stolen under the guise of 'hospitality.' If he wants warmth, let him choke on the ice he left us in."
Silence crashed through the hall. Servants froze mid-motion; platters hovered untouched. The young girls stood rooted, tears tracking down cheeks, ribbons drooping like wilted flowers. One let out a small, broken sob.
I couldn't look at them anymore. The rage tasted like blood on my tongue, but beneath it—deeper, colder—was the old helplessness clawing up from my gut. The same helplessness from eight years ago, hiding while golden eyes extinguished everything I loved.
My throat closed. Air felt too thick, too poisoned.
Without another word, I spun on my heel and strode from the hall. Footsteps echoed behind me—Rose calling softly—but I didn't stop.
My chambers were dim, lit only by the pale glow of aurora lanterns. I slammed the door. The sound reverberated in my skull.
I crossed to the carved ice-wood chair by the window and collapsed into it. My hands shook violently. I pressed them flat against my thighs, nails digging in until the pain steadied me. My heart slammed against my ribs like a caged thing—too fast, too loud. Tears burned hot tracks down my cheeks before I could stop them.
I would not break. Not here. Not for him.
I bit my lower lip until copper bloomed on my tongue. The sharp sting anchored me. Breathe. Endure. Live long enough to watch him bleed.
One slow inhale. Another. The storm inside eased—just enough.
I rose. Wiped my face with the back of my glove; frost glittered on the leather like shattered glass. Straightened my gown. Walked out again.
Resumed where I'd left off. Checked the garlands. Approved the menu. Smiled at the servants who now avoided my eyes.
Because tomorrow he would come.
And I would be ready.
The next day arrived like a blade drawn across dawn.
The entire Northern Kingdom thrummed with noise. From the highest tower I could see the palace gates swallowed by a sea of bodies—people pressed shoulder to shoulder, faces flushed with excitement, mouths open in chants that rolled like thunder.
"Lucifer! Lucifer! Emperor of the Eternal Flame!"
They waved banners of black silk and silver roses. Young women tossed frost-roses into the air; petals caught the wind and glittered like falling stars. Men beat drums in rhythm with the chant, the sound vibrating through stone and bone.
I stood at the balcony railing, gloved hands gripping iron until my knuckles ached white. Below, they cheered the Devil. The same Devil who'd left my parents' blood on these very flagstones.
My throat tightened. I swallowed the scream clawing up from my chest.
Three days ago I'd hated them for bending. Now the hate felt small, useless. They had survived. I had survived. And survival demanded this performance.
The gates groaned open.
A hush fell, sudden and complete.
Then the chant rose again—louder, fevered.
He was coming.
And the rot inside me twisted tighter, waiting for its moment to crack everything wide.
"Breathe, child. Breathe…"
Uncle Eirik's voice was low at my ear, steady as glacier stone. His hand rested briefly on my shoulder—warm, grounding—before I nodded once, sharp, and stepped away from the balcony railing. The chants still thrummed below like a distant heartbeat I refused to match.
Back in my chambers, the maids swarmed like careful moths. They unlaced my day gown with practiced fingers, whispering praises as the new one slipped over my skin.
"Such beauty, my Queen… the frost at the hems catches the light like captured stars…"
The gown was long, flowing white silk that pooled like fresh snow, its edges shimmering with delicate frozen filigree—ice crystals embroidered in silver thread that glittered coldly. They brushed out my golden hair until it fell in heavy waves past my waist, then pinned a few strands with frost-rose clips. A touch of rose tint on my lips, fuller now, parted slightly as I stared at my reflection.
Purest blue eyes stared back—too bright, too raw. I looked like winter royalty. I felt like a blade wrapped in silk.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs as they fastened the final clasp. Each beat echoed the drums outside. I pressed a hand to my chest, willing it slower. It didn't listen.
They curtsied and withdrew. The door closed softly behind them.
Alone for a breath, I closed my eyes. Images flickered behind my lids: blood on flagstones, Mother's scream cut short, golden eyes watching it all with calm amusement. Then—unwanted—those same eyes now, imagined closer, silk voice wrapping around my name.
I opened my eyes. No. Not today. Not ever.
I lifted my chin. Walked out with measured steps, spine straight, every inch the Northern Queen they expected.
The grand hall was alive with flickering aurora lanterns and the low murmur of elders and elites—fur-trimmed cloaks, silver circlets, faces painted with careful smiles. They parted as I entered, bowing low. I inclined my head, lips curved in the practiced curve that never reached my eyes.
Then the herald's voice rang out, cutting through the hum like a crack in ice.
"The Emperor is here!"
Doors groaned wide. Air shifted—colder, heavier, scented faintly with brimstone and something sweeter, darker, like charred roses.
Everyone dropped to their knees, foreheads to stone.
I remained standing.
My pulse roared in my ears. I couldn't bow. Wouldn't. The refusal burned in my throat, hot and defiant. My hands clenched at my sides, nails biting palms through gloves.
He entered.
Seven feet of impossible presence—long white hair flowing like liquid moonlight, styled back to reveal sharp, beautiful features that belonged to no mortal realm. His attire was black velvet and obsidian silk, edged in silver that caught the light like frost on coals. Golden eyes swept the hall, lazy, predatory, and landed on me.
I gasped—small, involuntary. The sound escaped before I could cage it.
He moved like smoke over ice. Effortless. Inevitable.
"Northern Queen…" The herald's voice faltered, then steadied. "The Emperor…"
"Welcome, Emperor!" The chorus rose from the bowed figures—eager, fervent.
He approached. Each step vibrated through the floor into my bones.
Closer.
Closer.
I couldn't breathe. Lungs locked. Chest tight as if frost had grown inside my ribs. Those golden eyes held mine—embers in a dying fire, seeing too much, stripping too bare.
He stopped before me. Towering. Close enough that heat radiated from him, unnatural in this frozen hall, chasing gooseflesh across my arms beneath the gown.
A soft chuckle rolled from his throat—low, velvet, amused.
"Queen Zahara, I assume?" His voice was silk dragged over steel. "Such beauty…"
Before I could react, his gloved hand captured mine—warm leather against my chilled fingers. He lifted it slowly. Deliberately.
Gods—
His lips brushed my knuckles. Soft. Burning. A spark jumped where mouth met skin, racing up my arm like lightning trapped in veins.
"Your Highness…" The words scraped out, barely audible. I bowed my head at last—short, stiff—because if I didn't move, I would shatter.
He didn't release my hand.
His thumb traced a slow circle over my glove, pressing just enough to feel my racing pulse beneath.
Then—a tear slipped free. Hot. Traitorous. It rolled down my cheek and fell, landing on the black leather of his glove like a diamond of accusation.
He stilled.
Golden eyes flicked to the droplet. Then back to mine.
The chuckle came again—quieter this time, darker, almost tender.
"Ah," he murmured, so low only I could hear. "Still so full of fire beneath all that ice."
My breath hitched. Rage and grief and something sharper—something I refused to name—coiled tight in my belly.
He turned my hand over. Pressed his lips to the inside of my wrist, right over the frantic beat.
"Don't cry yet, little queen," he whispered against my skin. "We've only just begun."