Morning came soft and golden through the crystal windows of the palace. Sunlight danced across silver floors, turning the frost-carved pillars into rivers of light. The sound of bells echoed faintly through the courtyards — gentle, ceremonial, and entirely too early for Ryn's liking.
He groaned, rolled over, and immediately got tangled in enough silk sheets to suffocate a small bear.
"Fancy prisons have better beds than this," he muttered, struggling to escape the folds of luxury.
When he finally made it downstairs — an hour late and looking like he'd wrestled a curtain — Lysandra was already seated at the long breakfast table beside her father. Across from her sat a young woman who could only be her sister.
Princess Althea.
She looked like Lysandra's reflection caught in sunlight — golden hair, warm green eyes, and a gentleness that seemed untouched by politics or war. Her smile was softer, but her posture held the same regal steadiness.
When Ryn entered, Althea looked up, curious rather than fearful. "You must be the Ice Fox."
Ryn paused mid-step. "…Depends who's asking."
Lysandra groaned quietly. "He's being dramatic. Again."
The king chuckled. "Sit, my boy. You're among friends here."
Ryn slid into the seat beside Lysandra, careful not to knock over anything expensive. He'd never seen so much food in one place — sweet breads, glazed fruit, something that might've been glowing.
Althea poured him tea. "You helped my sister, didn't you?"
"I might've delayed her kidnapping. And added a few new ones along the way," he said.
She laughed, bright and easy. "You're honest, at least."
Lysandra muttered, "That's new."
Breakfast melted into conversation. Ryn spoke of the City of Trades (leaving out the part where he stole half of it), and Althea listened, eyes wide, laughter soft. Even the king seemed entertained by Ryn's tales — the frost fox jokes, the way he described Ilyndra's talking vines as "jealous noodles."
By lunch, Althea seemed completely at ease around him. The two traded stories — her about palace mischief and tutors, him about sleeping under wagons and nearly setting fire to a cursed tavern. Lysandra sat back and watched, half-smiling, half-worried.
Because Ryn — who mocked danger and danced with death — looked happy.
And Althea, for all her light and kindness, seemed to bring out something rare in him: stillness.
Night fell over Lumeria in a slow cascade of blue and silver. Dinner time approached. The chandeliers flickered to life, casting long shadows through the empty corridors.
Lysandra adjusted her gown, brushed a stray hair from her face, and made her way toward Ryn's room.
She'd told herself it was just to remind him not to make a scene at the royal table. But the truth pressed at the edge of her thoughts — she just wanted to make sure he was there.
She knocked once. No answer.
"Ryn?"
Silence.
Another knock. Still nothing.
Her stomach tightened.
She opened the door.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. The candles had burned out on their own. The cloak he wore earlier lay folded neatly on the chair. The window curtains fluttered gently, touched by the night wind.
And on the desk — half-crumpled, ink-stained, and barely legible — lay a note.
Lysandra stepped forward, heart pounding.
The handwriting was horrible, jagged like someone had fought the quill. Ink blotches covered half the words, but she could make them out with effort:
[ Don't panic. Not kidnapped this time.
Got something to check. Important. Or stupid. Possibly both.
Tell your father the tea here is too fancy.
Also… thank you.
— Ryn]
Her hand trembled as she set the note down.
He hadn't said where he was going.
He hadn't taken much — just his mask, his blade, and a few coins.
Lysandra stood in the silent room, her breath caught somewhere between anger and worry.
"Idiot," she whispered. "You absolute, impossible idiot."
Outside, snow began to fall — soft flakes drifting past the window like quiet promises.
Somewhere beyond the palace walls, under that same snow, the Ice Fox walked alone again.