Aria's POV
I'm dying.
That's my first thought when I wake up. I must be dying because I'm seeing things that can't be real.
The ceiling above me is made of ice, but it glows with soft blue light. The walls shimmer like frozen waterfalls. Even the bed I'm lying in has posts carved from ice that look like winter trees.
This is what heaven looks like, I think. Cold and beautiful and impossible.
Then the pain hits.
My feet throb. My hands ache. My whole body feels like I've been beaten with rocks. I try to sit up and gasp—everything hurts.
"Don't move."
I freeze. That voice is deep and commanding and comes from the shadows across the room.
A man steps into the light, and my breath catches.
He's the most beautiful person I've ever seen. Tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp features that look carved from marble. His hair is white-silver and falls to his shoulders. But his eyes—his eyes are like frozen lakes, pale blue with hints of silver that seem to glow in the dim light.
He's also terrifying.
Power radiates from him like cold from ice. He moves with the grace of a predator, never quite taking his eyes off me. And he's keeping his distance, staying at least ten feet away like I'm dangerous.
"You shouldn't be alive," he says flatly. "No one survives the journey to Frostveil."
My mouth is so dry I can barely speak. "Where... where am I?"
"My palace." His eyes narrow. "In the heart of the cursed kingdom. The place your people send criminals to die." He tilts his head, studying me. "So why aren't you dead?"
I try to remember. The cold. The snow. Crawling to the gates. "You... you saved me?"
"I'm still deciding if that was a mistake." His voice is cold but not cruel. Just... detached. Like he's analyzing a puzzle. "What's your name?"
"Aria." The word comes out as a whisper. "Aria Thorn—" I stop. They took my name away. "Just Aria."
"Just Aria," he repeats, something flickering in his eyes. "And why did the Summer Court send you here, Just Aria?"
The memories flood back. Damien's betrayal. Vivienne's fake tears. The exile. I look away, shame burning my cheeks.
"They said I poisoned the Queen," I whisper. "But I didn't. I would never—" My voice breaks. "They framed me. They wanted me gone, so they... they sent me here to die."
I expect him to laugh or call me a liar. Everyone else did. Instead, he's quiet for a long moment.
"I believe you," he finally says.
My head snaps up. "What?"
"If you'd actually poisoned someone, you'd be too smart to get caught." His lips twitch—almost a smile but not quite. "And you're clearly not smart enough to survive a journey through the wilderness without supplies."
I don't know if that's an insult or a compliment.
"Who are you?" I ask, even though I already know. There's only one person who could live in an ice palace in Frostveil.
"Prince Caelan Winterhart." He says it without pride or shame. Just fact. "Though most people call me the Ice Prince. Or the Cursed Prince. Or the Monster of Frostveil." He pauses. "Take your pick."
"You don't look like a monster," I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes flash with something—surprise? Pain? "You haven't seen what I can do yet."
He takes a step closer, then stops abruptly. He's staring at something near the bed.
I follow his gaze and gasp.
The ice floor around my bed is wet. Not frozen—wet. Little puddles of water spreading slowly outward. And the air near me feels... warmer. Not hot, but definitely warmer than the rest of the room.
"That's impossible," Caelan breathes. He moves closer, cautious, like approaching a wild animal. "Nothing melts in this palace. Nothing. The curse won't allow it."
"I don't understand," I whisper.
He kneels beside the bed—still not touching, but close enough now that I can see the shock in his eyes. "When I found you at the gates, the snow around you was melting. I thought I imagined it. But this..." He gestures at the puddles. "This is real."
"Maybe your curse is breaking?" I offer hopefully.
He laughs, but it's bitter. "My curse doesn't break. Believe me, I've spent thirteen years trying." He reaches toward me, then stops with his hand inches from my arm. "May I?"
I nod, not sure what he's asking.
Slowly, carefully, he touches my wrist. His fingers are warm—warmer than they should be in this frozen place. But then I realize: I'm the one radiating heat. I can feel it now, a gentle warmth coming from inside me.
Caelan jerks his hand back like I burned him. "Impossible," he mutters again.
"What? What's impossible?"
He stands abruptly, pacing. "For thirteen years, everything I touch freezes. People, plants, animals—if I care about them, the curse kills them. It's why I live alone. It's why this kingdom is dead." He spins to face me. "But you're creating warmth. Actual warmth. In the middle of my curse."
"I don't have any magic," I say quickly. "Everyone always said I'm powerless. That's why they—" I stop, not wanting to explain the humiliation.
"They're idiots." Caelan says it with such certainty that I blink. "You're doing something impossible right now. That's not powerless."
A knock on the door interrupts us. A man in strange armor enters—thick metal covered in frost, like it's designed to survive extreme cold.
"Your Highness," the man says. "The healer wants to check on the girl."
"Let him in, Silas." Caelan steps back to his corner, putting distance between us again.
An old man bustles in with a bag of supplies. He looks at me, then at the puddles of water, then at Caelan with wide eyes.
"My lord," the healer says slowly. "The ice is melting."
"I noticed," Caelan says dryly.
The healer examines me—checking my feet, my hands, listening to my heart. He puts salve on my cuts and makes me drink something bitter that eases the pain.
"She should be dead," he announces. "Frostbite this severe, she should have lost all her fingers and toes. But they're healing. Fast. Impossibly fast." He looks at Caelan. "What is she?"
"That," Caelan says, his silver eyes fixed on me, "is an excellent question."
The healer leaves. Silas follows, closing the door behind them. I'm alone again with the prince who's watching me like I'm the most interesting thing in the world.
"I should send you away," he says quietly. "Nothing good has ever come from hope in this place. Every time I think the curse might break, it gets worse."
My heart sinks. "Please don't. I have nowhere else to go."
"I know." He sounds almost sorry about it. "Which is why you're staying. But understand this, Just Aria—if this is some trick, if you're here to harm what's left of my kingdom, I won't hesitate to throw you back into the snow myself."
"It's not a trick," I promise. "I don't even know what's happening."
"Neither do I." He moves toward the door. "Rest. We'll talk more when you're stronger."
"Wait," I call out. "Why did you save me? If you live alone, if you don't want anyone here, why didn't you just... leave me at the gates?"
He pauses with his hand on the door. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet I almost miss it.
"Because for the first time in thirteen years, I felt warmth." He looks back at me, and there's something raw and desperate in his eyes. "And I couldn't let that die."
He leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
I sink back into the pillows, my mind racing. I'm in the cursed prince's palace. I'm creating warmth where there should only be cold. My body is healing when it should be dying.
What's happening to me?
I look at my hands—the same hands everyone said were useless. The same hands that couldn't do "real" magic like my family's.
They're glowing. Just faintly, but definitely glowing with soft golden light.
And outside the window, I hear something that stops my heart.
A crack. Loud and sharp. Like ice breaking