The distance from my wing of the palace to the main court was something.
As I walked the corridors toward the Reception Hall, the sacred chamber reserved for only the most elite foreign dignitaries, I let my mind flicker briefly toward the man I was about to face.
Soren Nivarre.
The Iceborne Emperor.
The bastard son of Emperor Soreth, a tyrant who butchered his own children in a paranoid frenzy, convinced they conspired against him.
But not Soren.
No, Soren was hidden. Young. Quiet. Born of a concubine and a slave, tucked away in shadows and left to rot.
Until the Empress , his stepmother, found him. Raised him. Shaped him.
And when Soreth choked on his own poisoned paranoia, Soren emerged like a blade drawn from snow.
He wasn't just crowned.
He was forged.
A master ice-wielder. Brilliant, calculating, terrifying. His empire called him the God of Winter. And the title wasn't an exaggeration.
In a way… I suppose we were alike.
Born of monsters.
Bred in blood.
Crowned too young with no softness to guide us.
But I shook the thought loose.
Soren was Caelen's friend. Loyal to the hero. To Ophelia. To the world that smiled when I bled.
In both lives, we had never spoken beyond ceremony.
Just nods.
Treaty exchanges.
Political masks.
And now he was here.
Uninvited.
Unannounced.
And as I stepped into the candlelit foyer of the reception hall, I saw him.
At first, only his back.
He stood at the far end of the room, tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked in silver-trimmed black, his guards stationed behind him in a perfect V formation. The Winter Guard. Pale armor. Helmed faces. Silent as death.
And then he turned.
And the room stopped breathing.
If I was fire, Soren Nivarre was winter in its purest, cruelest form.
Pale skin, the color of storm clouds. Eyes like cracked glacier, ice blue with no warmth. His hair was pale blonde, like moonlight bleached into gold , pulled into a loose knot, a few strands falling elegantly over his brow. His features were sculpted, sharp, jaw carved like marble, mouth unsmiling, nose aquiline, presence devastating.
His aura was cold enough to make even my heat pull back.
He didn't wear his power on his sleeve.
He was power.
His cold eyes found me immediately.
And I watched his jaw tick, not in offense, but in something far more dangerous.
Intrigue.
Soren's gaze held mine.
Unblinking. Unapologetic.
He didn't seem surprised by my state, barefoot, in a sheer night-robe, skin kissed with moonlight, lips stained wine-dark but he didn't ignore it either.
No, he studied me.
Like I was something he'd heard whispered about in old books. A legend no one believed existed. Until I walked into the room like a dream wearing heat and silk and wine.
Then, at last, he spoke.
Voice smooth. Deep. Carried like snow falling on steel.
"If I didn't know better," he said slowly, "I'd say you weren't real."
He tilted his head. "A myth. A ghost. The Queen of Fire, walking barefoot through the stone halls as if you never died."
A small pause.
"…If I didn't know better," he said again, his mouth curving just slightly, "I'd think I was dreaming."
I took another sip of wine.
Let it stain my smile.
"How tragic for you," I drawled, voice sweet as poison. "You must have very dangerous dreams, Emperor."
He laughed.
Not the polite kind. Not stiff or shallow.
A real laugh that was low and sudden, like I'd genuinely caught him off guard.
He stepped forward, just once.
And the air dropped several degrees.
The flames in the reception torches flickered, startled by his presence.
"I see the rumors were wrong," he said, still smiling faintly. "They said the Queen of Solmire had gone quiet. That she was slipping. Grieving. Dying."
I let the silence stretch between us.
Then I took one last sip of wine, handed the goblet to a trembling attendant without breaking eye contact, and spoke with all the elegance I'd buried beneath fire and ruin:
"Solmire welcomes you, Emperor of Nevareth," I said, voice smooth as silk across steel. "May the frost you bring know its place, and the fire that greets you never burn what you hold dear—unless, of course, it must."
I bowed slightly at the waist, more like a queen humoring a god than greeting him properly.
His eyes glittered like a storm was building behind them.
Soren was the first to speak.
And gods, he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Ah," he said smoothly, not moving from his place beside me. "Caelen."
His voice dripped with casual familiarity, the kind that only ever formed between men who'd fought beside each other, drank together, grown in each other's shadows.
I felt it before I understood it.
That sudden shift.
That return of a name I hadn't heard in this body.
Caelen.