The three days that followed his decree were a masterclass in psychological torment. My gilded cage became a flurry of activity, yet I had never felt more isolated. Helga and her maids descended upon me with a singular, terrifying purpose: to transform the Null into a King's Companion.
I was measured, pinned, and fitted for a gown of such exquisite craftsmanship it felt like a sin to wear it. My hair was washed with scented oils and styled in a dozen different ways until one was deemed acceptable. My skin was softened with creams, my nails buffed to a dull shine. I was a doll being dressed, a slab of marble being sculpted. Through it all, I was silent. I submitted my body to their ministrations, but my mind was my own. I retreated deep inside the fortress of my thoughts, observing, cataloging, and enduring.
On the final afternoon, as Helga was fastening a delicate silver chain in my newly styled hair, I broke my silence.
"What are they like?" I asked, my voice quiet. "The Sunstone wolves."
Helga's hands stilled for a fraction of a second. It was the only sign that my question had registered. "They are from the south," she said, her voice a low monotone, her eyes fixed on her task. "A warm land. They are… loud. Proud. They see our ways as severe."
"They see our King as weak," I stated, watching her reflection in the polished silver mirror.
Her eyes met mine for a brief, startling moment. There was a flicker of warning in their depths. "They see what they wish to see," she said, her voice barely a whisper. She finished her work and stepped back, her professional mask firmly in place. "They will try to find cracks in the ice. Do not let them see you are the thinnest part."
It was the most she had ever said to me. It was a warning. And it was all the help I was going to get.
When the time came, they brought the gown. It was a creation of pure obsidian-black silk, so dark it seemed to absorb the firelight. It was cut in a severe, elegant style that left my shoulders bare but flowed to the floor like liquid night. Silver thread, as fine as spun moonlight, was embroidered along the hem and cuffs in intricate patterns that mimicked the frost on a windowpane.
Then came the jewels. They were not delicate, sparkling things. They were a statement of power, of ancient and brutal wealth. Heavy silver cuffs for my wrists, and a single, magnificent necklace. Helga opened a black velvet box to reveal a diamond the size of a raven's egg, cut with a thousand facets that captured and refracted the light with a cold, blue fire. It was set in a heavy, elaborate silver setting and hung from a thick, woven chain.
"The Ice Heart," Helga breathed, her voice tinged with a rare awe. "It is said to hold the chill of the first winter of the King's curse."
As she fastened the clasp, the weight of it settled against my collarbones. It was heavy, and it was cold. A beautiful, glittering chain. A beautiful, glittering leash.
When they were finished, Helga made me stand before the long mirror. The woman who stared back was a stranger. Her face was mine, but it was a pale, solemn mask. Her dark hair was swept up in an elegant knot that exposed the vulnerable line of her neck. Her eyes, wide with a carefully concealed terror, were the only familiar thing. She looked regal, she looked untouchable. She looked like she belonged to the King of Jotunheim. I placed a hand over the Ice Heart diamond. It was as cold as a corpse. This is not you, I told myself, my own silent mantra against the finery. You are the weapon. This is just camouflage.
A sharp rap on the door announced his arrival. Helga and the maids scurried out through the servants' entrance, vanishing like mice. The main door opened, and Jorvik stepped inside.
If I was a creation of shadow and ice, he was the embodiment of the unforgiving night itself. He was dressed in a severe, high-collared tunic of black wool, so dark it made the gown I wore look pale. A heavy silver chain of office was draped over his broad shoulders, and his white hair was a stark, startling crown. He radiated an aura of absolute, unshakeable power. He was every inch the Soull-ess King.
His eyes swept over me, a slow, appraising look from head to toe. There was no compliment, no softening in his expression. There was only a flicker of possessive, predatory approval. He was a craftsman pleased with his finished product.
"You will suffice," he said, his voice a low rumble.
He strode toward me and held out his arm. The gesture was a command. My hand trembled as I placed it in the crook of his elbow. His muscles were tense, hard as stone beneath the fine wool. It was like holding onto the side of a mountain.
"The rules are simple," he said as he led me from the room. "You will remain at my side. You will not speak unless I grant you leave. You will not touch anyone." He glanced down at me, his gaze sharp and cold. "And your eyes will be on me, and me alone. The court must have no doubt as to where your loyalties lie. They must see you not as a prisoner, but as a willing partner."
Willing. The word was a mockery.
We walked the grand corridors, our footsteps echoing in the cavernous silence. With every step, the knot of dread in my stomach tightened. We were approaching the Great Hall. I could hear it now—a low hum of voices, the faint, melodic strains of a harp, the clinking of glasses. The sound of a hundred wolves, all gathered in one place, all waiting to tear me apart with their eyes.
We reached a pair of towering, ornate doors, flanked by four royal guards in polished black steel. They saw us and slammed the butts of their halberds onto the stone floor in a resounding salute.
Jorvik stopped before the doors. He looked down at me, his expression unreadable. Then, he placed his free hand on the small of my back. The gesture was proprietary, final. It was a brand, claiming me before the world. His touch, even through the thick silk, was a possessive heat against my skin.
"Do not falter," he whispered, his voice a cold command against my ear.
The guards pulled the great doors inward, and the wall of sound and light washed over us.