Page 104 of Fated to the Frost King

Eventually, exhaustion dragged me under.

The next few days passed in a blur of reports from the Lord General and arguments with the nobles about letting peasants stay in the palace and trying not to beat my head against a wall.

“If you’re so opposed to their presence here, Lady Thessara, you are free to offer up your own estate to house them,” I finally snapped at dinner one night.

It was bad enough that every time I closed my eyes I saw a traumatized child soaked in blood without this frost-wench griping about the necessity of sharing an enormous palace with that same child for a handful of days.

A palace where she was also a guest. For how much longer, though, I couldn’t say… that depended on how much further she pushed me toward throwing her over the wall myself.

The wench in question opened her mouth before closing it with a wide-eyed look at Nevara.

They were still more afraid of her than they were of me, but it served my purposes for the time being. The Visionary’s lipstwitched into a knowing smirk before she popped a miniature tart into her mouth.

I took a long sip of my wine, trying to soothe the agitation that had burrowed into my bones. I was not, in fact, planning to keep the villagers here permanently. But I sure as hells wasn’t going to tell Lady Thessara that.

As usual, it was Soren who broke the tension.

“How are things going with our new residents, Your Majesty? Is Serelith settling in all right?” Of course he called her by her name, making her a real person. And more than just another shadow in the wreckage.

The Emissary politicked as easily as he breathed, something I was trying desperately to learn from.

“She is. Fortunately, her aunt was among the last group of survivors from thehorrific tragedy,” I said pointedly. So much for politics. “So she is well cared for and with family again.”

Not that I knew personally. But I’d made sure she was cared for and had Mirelda constantly checking in on her.

It was just that seeing Serelith was like taking a swim down trauma’s raging river and trying not to drown. It was too close to my own history—stumbling through the snow, covered in blood, seeking the dubious mercy of someone I had never even met.

She was also a stark reminder of the way I continued to fail the people of Winter just by being what I was.

Pain lanced through my finger as the ring flared to ice again, sharp enough to nearly make me drop my wine glass. The burn was brief, but blistering, and gone just as quickly, leaving no mark, as if it had never happened at all.

I set my glass down, anyway. It would likely happen again.

So far, there hadn’t been a discernible pattern or rhythm to track. It flared at different times during the day, with varying intensity. Sometimes it struck once, but usually it was more.

Despite poring over every book that appeared on my shelves, I still hadn’t found an answer as to why it happened or what it meant.

I also hadn’t found a single text on the nightmares I shared with Draven or…the physical side effects of the marriage bond, though I had finally found an overview of the ceremony itself, which only confirmed what Isren had said about my mana being tied to Draven’s.

Perhaps that was why I had been so short-tempered lately. Or perhaps it was the endless sensation of pins and needles assaulting my skin the longer the king was away. I truly did hate this bond.

And him, for leaving me at this frost-blasted palace with no mana and no training to even pretend to be a queen.

A headache was beginning to form at the base of my skull. There was still no word from the Archmage about how to unbind my mana, and while I’d been relieved to leave the Sanctum before… every decision I made now reminded me how woefully unqualified I was to be making them.

When dinner was finally over, Lumen and I stalked back to my rooms.

The rest of the wolf pack sat forlornly outside of their master’s door just as they did every night. And just like every night, I passed them the treats I had pilfered from the dining hall.

Thanks to Mirelda, I finally knew their names and was even beginning to tell them apart.

Astra, the smallest one, and the only female, with strands of obsidian in her fur, was partial to soft, buttered rolls, while the palest one—Thalos—had nearly bowled me over for a pastry one day. Then there were the other two with giant puppy eyes—Selas and Vega—who craved cheese in all its various forms.

Batty sulked visibly on my shoulder, turning to face away from me as she did every time I had the audacity to feed a creature that wasn’t her.

I sighed, tempting her with a frosted berry while I pushed open the doors to my rooms.

The wolves followed, curling up on the floor around my bed. Of course, that only made Batty squeak with further indignation.

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