Page 2 of Fated to the Frost King

A low, guttural groan echoed through the throne room, drawing every gaze toward the massive doors of ice and stone at the far end. Frost crept along the floor as a sudden gust of snow-laced wind howled through the cracks. Then the doors burst open, flung wide by a flurry of ice and bitter air.

The wolves entered first.

Massive shadows stretched long across the gleaming floor. Frost clung to their fur like armor, and their eyes shonelike faelights, bright blue and ethereal. I had read about the creatures that were bound to the throne of Winter, but the books hadn’t come close to capturing their brutal grace.

And they were nothing compared to the king.

He swept into the room on the heels of a blizzard, though he felt more like a storm unto himself. His presence descended with the force of an avalanche, deadly and inescapable.

In spite of myself, in spite of my unending disdain for him and all the atrocities I knew he had committed against my family, in spite ofeverything, I stopped breathing.

Draven Ashwynter. Ten years ago, he had been the youngest Winter King to ever take the throne at only sixteen years of age. But now…there was nothing boyish left in his carved features.

His ice-blond hair was swept back beneath his crown, revealing a face that was equal parts arrogance and wrath, and no less beautiful for either. His eyes were the greener side of teal, the exact color of the lights that danced along the winter sky.

More than all of that, his very being radiated power, potent enough to send sparks zapping along my skin, yet freezing the marrow of my bones.

Again, I resisted the urge to shiver, but only barely.

“The Frostgrave King.” The female to my left trilled, voice soft with reverence.

Would she have felt so awe-inspired if she had realized how many innocent lives were caught in the crossfire of the battle that earned him his name a mere decade ago? His own soldiers, females, children. No one had been spared from his icy rage.

Shards only knew what he was capable of now.

Around the room, ladies echoed her sentiment, but at least their tones were appropriately edged with foreboding, their heels clacking against the marble tiles as they tried to back away.

The king’s piercing gaze swept over us, colder than death itself and twice as dangerous. His expression gave nothing awayas he took in his potential brides, groomed and presented to him like lambs for the slaughter.

When he finally took his seat on the throne, I forced myself to exhale.

I would not be chosen. Icould notbe chosen.

A petite figure slipped between the rows of potential brides. She wore pale silver, nearly indistinguishable from her skin. Hair a shade lighter was woven into intricate braids that glimmered like frost in moonlight.

But it was her eyes that stood out. There was no pupil, no iris, only liquid starlight.

I had been so focused on the king, I had missed the entrance of his Visionary. The Shard Mother’s chosen vessel traded her ability to see in the physical world for the power to See the threads of fate.

A silver staff rested in her hands, embedded with a pale pink crystal. She tapped it lightly on the ground before moving with eerie precision, her sightless eyes betraying none of the power that burned behind them. She passed slowly before the front row of females, tilting her head like she was listening to a tune that only she could hear.

Gasps rippled through the silence, followed by more than one trembling sigh of relief when she moved on. The king didn’t so much as blink.

Then she stopped.

She tilted her head toward a tall, willowy fae with sky blue hair elaborately piled on her head, a dress that was inlaid with sparkling gems, and a smile that was pure, vicious victory.

The Visionary took a breath, giving a single dip of her chin.

“One,” she intoned.

I should have felt relieved, but there was an ominous energy in the room, like the crackle in the air just before lightning strikes.

The hopeful bride didn’t seem to notice. Her smile widened to something more like a baring of her teeth as she turned to the king, her excitement manifesting in tiny flurries of snowflakes that burst from her palms, falling softly to the icy floor below.

The king raised a sculpted eyebrow.

“You’re certain?” He didn’t glance away from the fae in the blindingly bright dress, but his words were for the Visionary alone.

---