The doors swung inward, and the world became a blur of light and noise. The Great Hall was a vast, vaulted cavern, lit by a dozen immense chandeliers crafted from antlers and glowing crystals. Twin firepits, large enough to roast a whole ox, roared at either end of the room, casting flickering shadows on ancient tapestries. And between them, a sea of faces—hundreds of Lycan nobles, warriors, and courtiers, all clad in their finest furs and jewels.
And every single one of them turned to stare at us.
The moment we crossed the threshold, a wave of silence rolled through the hall, extinguishing the music and chatter as if a switch had been thrown. It was a heavy, profound silence, filled with the weight of a hundred collective, indrawn breaths. I could feel their eyes on me—shocked, hungry, horrified. I was the abomination, the heretical Null, and I was on the arm of their King, wearing the Ice Heart of their royal house. It was a blasphemy made flesh.
Jorvik seemed to thrive on their shock. His grip on my arm was firm, his stride never faltered as he led me down the central aisle. It felt like a mile-long walk to the gallows. My training was the only thing keeping me upright. Head high. Spine straight. Breathe. You are a stone. They cannot break you. I focused on the back of the obsidian throne at the far end of the room, the one fixed point in a swirling vortex of hostile stares. I could feel the unsettling wrongness of my presence rippling through the crowd, the way it grated on their primal senses. I was a discordant note in the symphony of their pack.
At the foot of the dais, two thrones sat side-by-side. One was the King's throne, a massive, intimidating seat of carved obsidian. The other, slightly smaller, was the Queen's. Jorvik led me not to that one, but to a third chair, an elegant but clearly subordinate seat placed to the left of his own. The political statement was brutally clear: I was his, but I was not his equal. I was a consort, not a queen.
He seated me before taking his own throne, the very picture of unconcerned power. He made a small, almost lazy gesture with his hand, and the musicians, startled into action, began to play again. Conversation resumed, but it was a pale imitation of what had come before—a low, furtive buzz of whispers. Every eye in the room was still on us.
I kept my gaze fixed forward, my hands folded in my lap, the Ice Heart a cold weight on my chest. I could feel them approaching before I saw them. A splash of vibrant colour in a sea of black and grey.
The Sunstone delegation.
There were five of them, dressed in rich crimsons and golds, their skin tanned, their demeanour open and confident in a way that felt alien in this harsh, northern court. Their leader stepped forward. He was handsome, with warm brown eyes, a charming smile, and hair the colour of dark honey. But beneath the polished courtly exterior, his gaze was as sharp and calculating as Jorvik's.
He bowed low. "Your Majesty. An unexpected, yet dazzling, start to the evening's festivities."
"Lord Cassian," Jorvik's voice was smooth as polished ice. "I trust your accommodations are satisfactory."
"They are, though clearly not as… captivating… as your own," Cassian replied, his eyes sliding to me. His charming smile was a weapon. "You have been keeping secrets from your allies, King Jorvik. We had no idea your kingdom had been so… blessed."
The word 'blessed' was a deliberate, pointed barb. Everyone here knew what I was.
"My blessings, and my secrets, are my own concern," Jorvik said, his tone dismissive. He did not rise to the bait.
Cassian's gaze lingered on me, bold and probing. He addressed me directly, his voice dripping with faux-sincerity. "And you, my lady? Your beauty is as stark and stunning as the winter itself. Tell me, does the climate of Jotunheim agree with you?"
My heart seized. Do not speak unless I grant you leave. Jorvik's command echoed in my head. I opened my mouth to offer a simple, courtly deflection, but before I could utter a sound, Jorvik's hand covered mine where it rested on the arm of my chair. His grip was a possessive cage, his warmth a stark contrast to the ice in his voice.
"Her comfort is assured, as is her loyalty," Jorvik said, his voice dropping, losing all pretense of diplomacy. He was speaking to Cassian, but his words were a proclamation to the entire hall. "She is with me."
Cassian's smile finally faltered, a flicker of irritation crossing his handsome face. He had overstepped, testing the King's composure, and had found a wall of solid ice. But he could not resist one final probe.
"Forgive my impertinence, Your Majesty. It is simply that she has the look of… untouched snow. One worries it might melt under the southern sun."
The threat was veiled, but it was there. An offer of sanctuary. Of escape.
Jorvik's grip on my hand tightened almost painfully. He leaned forward slightly on his throne, his predator's eyes pinning the Sunstone lord in place. The faint, pleasant hum of conversation in the hall died once more as everyone strained to hear.
"Be careful, Lord Cassian," Jorvik's voice was a soft, deadly whisper that carried in the sudden silence. "You mistake a snow-covered mountain for a meadow. The peak is not for you to climb. The fall is a long one."
He held Cassian's gaze for a heartbeat longer, a silent battle of wills. Then, with an air of finality, Jorvik leaned back in his throne, his hand still possessively covering mine.
"Her name," the King of Jotunheim declared to the silent, watching room, "is not your concern. Her presence here is the only answer you require. The alliance between our lands holds firm." He gave a slight, dismissive wave of his other hand. "Now, enjoy the hospitality of my court."
It was a slap in the face. A king dismissing the chief emissary of his most important ally in front of hundreds of nobles. It was a raw, undeniable display of absolute power. The only sound in the hall was the crackling of the fire as Lord Cassian, his face a tight mask of fury, gave a stiff, jerky bow and retreated.