The palace buzzed with a new, sharp energy, a current that crackled through the stone corridors and set every servant on edge. Word had spread from the frost-rimed stables to the great hall's vaulted ceiling: a delegation from the Eastern Territories had arrived unannounced, and at its head was a lady of legendary beauty and influence, her reputation preceding her like a fanfare of winter bells.
Nova heard the whispers as she scrubbed the grand staircase for the second time that week. Her knees screamed in protest against the unforgiving marble, and the water in her bucket had long gone icy, seeping through the cracks in the wood to numb her fingers. The head steward had been insistent, his face pinched with anxiety. "Every inch must shine! The Lady Frost's eyes miss nothing!" He'd said her name like a prayer and a warning rolled into one.
She didn't need to ask who it was. The cold dread that had settled in her stomach since the encounter in the garden had only metastasized, a leaden, living weight that made every breath feel shallow and stolen. She's here. She's really here.
The imposing main doors, carved with scenes of ancient wolf battles, swung open with a theatrical flourish that spoke of practiced grandeur. A blast of wind, sharp with the promise of a coming storm and laden with a foreign, perfumed scent, swept through the entrance hall. It coiled around the stone pillars, it slithered over the clean floors, and it carried a specific, haunting note that stopped Nova's heart mid-beat.
Winter roses and something chemical. Something dark. Something that smells like burning magic and cold, dead earth.
The memory was not a thought but a physical blow. Her hands froze, the scrub brush slipping from numb fingers to clatter down three, four, five steps, each tap-tap-tap echoing like a gunshot in the sudden, attentive silence of the hall. She pressed herself into the shadow of the banister, making herself a part of the architecture, a flaw in the stone, as a procession swept in on a tide of chilled air and arrogance.
Servants, better dressed than usual, scurried forward to take heavy cloaks of silver-fox fur. Guards snapped to attention, their armor clinking. And there, gliding across the Blackice crest inlaid in the floor as if she were its rightful inheritor, was Lady Seraphina Frost.
Nova's mind, usually so carefully disciplined, fractured into two simultaneous realities. One was the present: a stunning woman in a gown of deepest twilight-blue velvet, her hair a cascade of white-gold silk, her face a masterpiece of elegant angles and cool charm. The other was the past: the same face, twisted in ecstatic cruelty, illuminated by the roaring flames of a dying kingdom. The two images superimposed, making Nova dizzy.
The lady's eyes the colour of liquid mercury, sharp and intelligent took in the grandeur of Frostholm not with awe, but with a faint, amused smile, as if assessing a new acquisition. And they found their target immediately.
King Thorne descended the main stairs, not with haste, but with a deliberate, powerful grace that was entirely his own. He was the embodiment of Frostholm itself: unyielding, majestic, cloaked in an authority so complete it needed no announcement. His expression was its usual unreadable mask, but Nova, who had spent eight years studying his every micro-expression from the shadows, saw the slight tension in his jaw. He was wary. Good. Be wary.
"Your Majesty," Seraphina's voice was like honeyed wine, smooth, intoxicating, and laced with a subtle power that demanded attention. She curtsied, a movement so fluid it seemed to defy gravity. "Forgive our early arrival. The winds across the Frostspine Mountains were more favorable than predicted. I simply could not bear to wait another moment to see your renowned court." Her smile deepened, a calculated dimple appearing. "And to meet its legendary king."
Thorne inclined his head, a study in regal control. "You are welcome, Lady Seraphina. Frostholm is honored by your presence." His voice was formal, cool. The Ice King in full display, offering no crack, no vulnerability.
But Nova, from her shadowed perch, saw what others might miss. The slight tilt of his head as he assessed her. The way his ice-blue eyes, usually so quick to dismiss, lingered a fraction too long on the elegant lines of her neck, the clever spark in her silver gaze. He was not just assessing a political ally; he was a man looking at a beautiful, powerful, and intriguing woman. The realization was a shard of ice in Nova's gut.
Seraphina's smile turned knowing, as if she'd seen his minute appraisal and catalogued it. She placed a delicate, ungloved hand on his offered arm. "I have heard so many tales of the Ice King's strength," she murmured, her voice dropping to a more intimate timbre that still carried in the silent hall. "I look forward to separating fact from fiction."
As they turned, a united front of power and beauty, to walk towards the throne room, Seraphina's gaze swept the hallway. It was a monarch's survey, dismissing the cowering servants, acknowledging the stationed guards with a slight nod. And then, as if pulled by a silent thread, those mercury eyes flickered up the staircase.
They locked with Nova's.
It was less than a heartbeat. A mere, fleeting glance. But in that instant, the polished amusement in Seraphina's eyes vanished, replaced by a spark of something else. A flicker of cold, sharp recognition. Not of a person, but of a presence. It was the look a hunter gives when it notices a movement in the brush that doesn't belong a calculation, an instant of focus before the predator decides if the prey is worth the chase.
Then, it was gone, smoothed over so completely Nova doubted her own senses. Seraphina looked back at Thorne, laughing softly at some quiet comment he hadn't made, her perfume trailing behind her like a poisonous, beautiful cloud.
The spell broke. Sound rushed back into Nova's ears the murmuring servants, the retreating footsteps of the delegation. She slumped against the cold wall, her lungs burning. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. The familiar, cloying scent of winter roses and dark magic filled her nose, her mouth, coating her tongue with the taste of ashes and forgotten graves.
She knew that smell. It was the last thing she smelled before her world was ripped apart. It was the scent of her mother's blood on marble, of her father's final roar, of her own silent, screaming terror.
And now it was here, woven into the very air of Frostholm, walking arm-in-arm with her mate, its source smiling with perfectly white teeth.
A silent, searing thought screamed through her mind: He can't know. He must never know what that scent means. But how can I fight a ghost when it's wearing silk and smelling of roses?
The question echoed in the hollow of her chest, where the mate bond now throbbed with a new, terrible note a warning knell, muffled by silence and fear.