The silence Lord Cassian left in his wake was thick with shock and a thrilling, terrible fear. He and his delegation retreated into the crowd, their gold and crimson outfits swallowed by the dark finery of the Jotunheim court. For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. The entire hall seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to see what the King would do next. I felt like the calm eye of a hurricane, seated beside the source of all the destructive power.
Jorvik did nothing. He simply sat on his throne, his hand still covering mine, a silent proclamation of victory. Slowly, hesitantly, the music started again. The hum of conversation returned, but it was a changed sound, charged with a nervous energy. The subject of every hushed conversation was now, undoubtedly, the King and the abomination at his side.
I was no longer just a Null. In this room, I was a symbol. I was a weapon he had just aimed and fired directly at the heart of a foreign power. I was a declaration that his curse did not make him weak. He would not be bound by tradition; he would not be forced into a political marriage. He would simply take what he wanted, and the world would be forced to accept it. The sheer, breathtaking audacity of it was as terrifying as his rage.
We sat there for what felt like an eternity, a tableau of royal power for the entire court to witness. Many nobles and warriors approached the dais to offer fealty, but they kept their distance, their eyes skittering away from me as if my gaze might poison them. Jorvik accepted their pledges with curt, dismissive nods, his attention never truly leaving me.
Then, the crowd parted for a figure who moved with the slow, deliberate grace of immense age and unquestioned authority. It was an old woman, her back ramrod straight, her white hair braided with silver rings. She was wrapped in the furs of a snow leopard, and her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but her eyes were as sharp and intelligent as a hawk's. The whispers that followed her had a different tone: respect. Fear.
She stopped at the foot of the dais and gave a shallow, almost perfunctory bow. "Your Majesty."
"Lady Morwenna," Jorvik acknowledged. His voice held a fraction more warmth than it had for Cassian, a nod to her station as the matriarch of the oldest clan in his kingdom. "I trust you are enjoying the reception."
"It has certainly become more… memorable… than I anticipated," she replied, her voice a dry rustle of old leaves. Her sharp gaze flickered from the King to me, and it stayed there, pinning me in place. She was dissecting me, looking for the chinks in the armor, just as Helga had warned.
Her eyes fell to the Ice Heart on my chest. "A bold choice of adornment, my King. That necklace has not been worn since your grandmother, the last true Queen of Jotunheim. A woman who was the perfect embodiment of the mate bond." Her words were carefully chosen, each one a polished stone dropped into a silent pool. "To place it on… one such as this…" she paused, letting the insult hang in the air, "…is a powerful statement indeed."
One such as this. The abomination. The void.
Do not falter. Jorvik's command echoed in my mind. I met the old woman's gaze. I did not smile. I did not scowl. I held my expression in a careful, serene mask, just as I had been trained. I tilted my head just slightly, a gesture of acknowledgement, not subservience. I would not let her see me bleed.
Jorvik's grip on my hand tightened, a silent signal of approval. "I make only powerful statements, my lady," he said, his voice flat and final, a clear dismissal of her challenge. "As you well know."
Lady Morwenna held my gaze for a moment longer, her hawk-like eyes searching for a crack in my facade. When she found none, she gave a slow, deliberate nod, a gesture of grudging respect for a foe who did not flinch. She bowed again, this time including me in the gesture, and retreated into the crowd.
After she departed, a new tension settled over Jorvik. He had made his point. The court had seen, the emissaries had been warned. The performance was over, and his patience with it was clearly at an end.
He stood up.
The hall fell silent instantly. He did not need to raise his voice. His movement was command enough.
"Thank you for your attendance," he said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the cavernous space. "The reception is concluded. My hospitality has its limits."
A collective, stunned silence. To end a royal reception hours ahead of schedule was an unheard-of breach of etiquette. It was another power play, a demonstration that the King's whim was the only timetable that mattered.
As the nobles and courtiers began to stir, exchanging shocked and confused glances before beginning the slow process of departure, Jorvik turned to me. His hand was on my arm again, not gentle, pulling me to my feet. I expected him to lead me back to the Onyx Wing, back to my cage.
He did not.
Instead, he turned me away from the emptying hall and propelled me toward a small, unmarked door set into the wall behind the thrones, a door I had not noticed before.
"The performance is over," he said, his voice low and pitched for my ears alone, the false warmth he'd shown Morwenna completely gone. "Now, we have matters to discuss."
He pushed the door open, revealing not a corridor, but a dark, narrow stone staircase spiraling upwards into blackness. He pushed me forward, into the waiting dark of his private domain. The heavy door clicked shut behind us, plunging us into silence and shadow, cutting us off from the entire world.