Page 75 of Broken Star

It always vanished in an instant, concealed beneath layers of icy control, but I see it now. Raw. Unguarded. The part of himself he’s spent his entire life trying to bury.

I move closer, my body pressing against his startlingly rigid one, and he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even flinch.

He just watches.

His younger self stiffens as the Winter King approaches, towering over him like a looming shadow.

The king’s expression is as frozen as the ice casket before them, and he places a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder, his fingers digging in, the silver ring on his middle finger glowing with frost.

Then, he crouches slightly, bringing himself to his son’s level.

“Your mother wanted to cast out her feelings entirely,” he tells young Riven. “But leaning into emotion instead of logic is what made her drink that potion before it was ready. She was so desperate to dispose of her feelings that she acted impulsively instead of practically.”

His grip on his son’s shoulder tightens.

“You will not repeat her mistake. Because as you learned today, power and love cannot coexist. And if I see any sign of her weakness in you—of her emotion-based impulsivity—” the king leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I will rip it out myself before it can claim another life. Do you understand?”

Young Riven doesn’t tremble. He doesn’t flinch. He simply nods, spine straightening, the grief in his expression swallowed by his father’s command.

“I understand,” he says, his voice devoid of warmth.

The sound cuts through my chest like a blade.

Because the ice has already started to wrap its frosty grip around his heart and turn him into the hardened prince he is today.

But when his father stands, young Riven clenches his fists in an obvious attempt to bury the pain that’s threatening to surface.

My Riven tightens his grip on my hand even more, trying to do the same.

“You were so young,” I say softly, and when he glances down at me, I don’t see the cold, untouchable Winter Prince.

I see the grief-stricken child who never let himself cry.

Suddenly, the hatred I’ve carried for him melts a little. Because young Riven is still in there. He’s long buried, but now that I’m seeing both versions of him at once, I understand that the coldness in my Riven’s eyes isn’t cruelty.

It’s pain. Grief from something he lost.

Something he’ll never get back.

“It was a long time ago,” he replies, looking away as the vision dissolves, replaced by the hallway of Presque Isle High School.

A younger me stands at my locker, head down as a group of girls whisper and laugh nearby, their eyes fixed on me with obvious disdain.

I remember that morning clearly. Too clearly. I’d dyed the tips of my hair blue that weekend, with Zoey’s help. I’d felt electric. Like I was finally stepping into myself.

To say that the new style wasn’t a hit at school would be an understatement.

Now, I watch my past self fumble with the combination lock, shoulders hunched as the girls inch closer. Madeline Simmons—queen of high school cruelty—grabs a strand of my freshly dyed hair, holding it up between her manicured fingers with theatrical disgust.

“Thought you’d look cool with mermaid hair?” She laughs. “Or maybe you’re trying to convince people you’re an alien from Neptune?”

Her friends giggle, and my past self shrinks back, hugging the textbooks to her chest like a shield.

“Say something,” Madeline’s friend snickers. “Or is that radioactive dye short-circuiting your brain?”

Then, Zoey appears, planting herself between me and the girls.

“Back off,” she says, something dark and predatory flashing in her eyes as she invades Madeline’s personal space.

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