Chapter 16: The Winter Court
The Winter Court was not a mere event—it was a spectacle, a weapon in itself. The Regent knew this, and she wielded it like a sword.
Snow had been cleared from the palace courtyards, replaced by carpets of crushed pine needles that released their scent beneath the boots of the arriving guests. Lanterns shaped like stars hung from silver chains, their light flickering on the ice-sheathed statues. Servants in livery of black and gold moved with precision, offering mulled wine and spiced almonds to nobles wrapped in furs and jewels.
Elias stood at the edge of the grand hall, watching the river of people flow in. Masks glittered in the torchlight—half the guests hid their faces behind painted porcelain or embroidered velvet, though it was less for secrecy than for ritual. In the Winter Court, masks were a reminder: everyone played a role, and no one told the whole truth.
The Regent descended from the high dais, each step deliberate, the hem of her gown trailing like a shadow. "Welcome," she called, her voice carrying easily across the marble floor. "Tonight, we honor the turning of the year, the strength of our alliances, and the resilience of Veyth."
A cheer rose, polite but subdued. These were dangerous times, and no one forgot it.
"And tonight," the Regent continued, "I present to you an advisor whose insight has already proven invaluable to our realm. Lady Isabella."
The crowd shifted, murmured. Isabella appeared from the side doors, clad in deep crimson silk that clung to her like flame. Her hair was swept into a crown of braids, threaded with gold. She moved with unhurried grace, each step echoing.
Elias could not deny it—she looked every inch the queen she was not.
When Isabella reached the Regent's side, she inclined her head, the faintest of bows. The Regent took her hand and raised it for the assembly to see.
"Remember her face," the Regent said. "For in the years to come, it will be tied to the fate of this realm."
There was applause—measured, cautious. Elias caught the eyes of several foreign envoys: the Duke of Astremont, the merchant-lord from Rhazir, a masked woman from the Western Isles. All of them were watching Isabella with a predator's stillness.
The music began again, and the hall filled with dancing. Elias maneuvered through the crowd until he reached Celina, who was leaning against a pillar, watching the floor.
"She's the center of it all now," Celina said without preamble.
"That was always the plan," Elias muttered.
"Whose plan?" Celina asked. "Hers? The Regent's? The Conclave's?"
Elias had no answer.
Hours passed in a blur of music and negotiation. Elias danced with a baroness whose smile was sharper than her fan, traded veiled threats with an envoy from the North, and drank more wine than he intended. All the while, he kept one eye on Isabella.
It was during the third set of dances that the first scream cut through the music.
The musicians faltered, the dancers froze. A servant stumbled into the hall, face pale, eyes wide. "My lords—my ladies—the Marquis of Drevan… he's dead."
The Regent reacted instantly, her voice slicing through the murmurs. "Seal the doors."
Guards moved to obey, the great bronze portals slamming shut with a thunderous clang.
Elias's instincts sharpened. The Marquis of Drevan was no friend to Veyth—his death could be an opportunity, but the timing was too precise. Too public.
The body was brought into the hall, laid on a bier of overturned chairs. The Marquis's eyes were glassy, his mouth twisted. A thin line of blood traced from the corner of his lips.
Celina leaned close to Elias. "Poison. Fast-acting. Probably in his drink."
Elias's gaze moved instinctively to Isabella—only to find that half the court was already watching her.
The Regent's eyes swept the hall. "No one leaves until the killer is found. Search everyone."
Guards began moving through the crowd, checking goblets, inspecting sleeves for hidden vials. The tension thickened, a storm ready to break.
A voice rose from the back—an older noble, face flushed. "I saw her with him before the dancing began," he said, pointing at Isabella. "She spoke with him. She gave him wine."
The hall went still.
Isabella stepped forward, unflinching. "I did speak with him. I did offer him wine. And then I walked away, while half the court watched. If I had wanted him dead, would I have been so careless?"
The noble sneered. "Poison needs only a sip."
The Regent raised a hand for silence. Her gaze moved between Isabella and Elias, as if weighing not just the truth, but the cost of each outcome.
Finally, she said, "We will investigate this fully. Until then, Lady Isabella will remain under guard—in her own chambers."
It was a compromise. It was also a cage.
That night, Elias found her pacing before the fire, her gown discarded for a plain robe.
"You think I did it," she said, her voice flat.
"I think someone wants it to look like you did," Elias replied. "And they're succeeding."
She stopped, facing him. "The Conclave is here, Elias. I can feel them. This was their move, not mine."
He stepped closer. "Then we make our own move. But you have to tell me everything—the Thorn, the voices, whatever you're hiding. No more half-truths."
For a long moment, she didn't speak. Then, slowly, she reached into her robe and drew out a shard of black crystal, no larger than her palm. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
"This," she whispered, "is a piece of it. The Thorn of Ages. And it doesn't just whisper to me—it shows me what's coming."
Elias stared at the shard, a chill crawling over his skin. "And what does it show you now?"
Her eyes met his, and for the first time, he saw real fear there. "It shows me fire. And your face, covered in blood."
The wind outside howled against the shutters, as if the city itself had heard her words.