Page 25 of Fated to the Frost King

The courtiers worked desperately to pierce that silence. They filled it with endless idle chatter, sweet on the surface, but hollow underneath. Every remark was artfully tossed in his direction, never in mine, underpinned by a parade of shared memories meant to remind him who belonged here.

And who didn’t.

When I was younger, I used to imagine dinners like this, pieced together from my books and the stories Wynnie whispered late at night. She hated court functions, but told meabout them anyway. Said they were gilded traps where words could cut deeper than blades, and one wrong word could draw blood.

Still, we would hold pretend dinners where she taught me all the etiquette. She claimed it was to prepare me, in case our father ever changed his mind. I always suspected it was to keep me from being jealous.

Now, seated at a table full of monsters in silk, flashing their teeth like daggers and calling it diplomacy, I didn’t feel envy. I just wished I had been there beside her. Not to fit in, but to mock the whole frosted circus together.

I wished she was here now for the same reason, or even just to glare back. These pompous pricks had nothing on my sister’s withering stare.

I shifted slightly, careful not to jostle the fur muff in my lap. The tiny menace must’ve curled up inside when I wasn’t looking, burrowing into the furs for warmth or actively hiding from the king.

Because of course I would smuggle a venomous skathryn into a formal court gathering where my life was already on the line.

The king’s wolves had stared at me the whole walk here, their heads tilting in question, noses in the air as they tried to sniff her out. He had cast more than one suspicious glance in my direction, and I had shrugged like I was just as baffled as he was.

At least they had stayed in the hall.

I traced the path between her ears, using both her warmth and deep, even breaths to calm myself. In a sea of blood-thirsty nobles, the bat was quite possibly my only ally.

Well, her and Nevara, but the Visionary was seated at the other end of the room and as taciturn as ever.

She seemed untouched by it all. No one dared address her, not even the servants, aside from filling her cup whenever she raised it. No one else looked too long in her direction, almost asif they were afraid she might See something they would rather keep buried.

A feeling I related to, but one that had abated in the past week.

Nevara didn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, she looked amused somewhere under her icy facade. A knowing smile teased at the corners of her mouth as she sipped slowly from her goblet, like she was in on a secret the rest of us hadn’t caught up to yet.

Which, of course, she was.

Servants moved like shadows between the tables, offering trays of delicate hors d’oeuvres balanced on thin sheets of ice: spiced nuts dusted with frost-sugar, miniature tarts with candied snowberries, bite-sized parcels of smoked venison wrapped in translucent sheets of iced pear, and frosted brie bites drizzled with winterberry reduction, served on shards of crystallized cracker bark.

My stomach growled as my indignation simmered, remembering the many boiled roots I had suffered through.

I waited until the other courtiers ate, ensuring I used the right utensil as I tried not to inhale each new bite of perfection. It was harder with one hand in the arm muff around the frost bat still nestled against my stomach, but I managed.

When my stomach was somewhat satisfied, I reached for my goblet. Liquid starlight shimmered inside, dark as midnight, flecked with silver and dotted with frost-coated berries.

The scent hit me in waves of blackberries, spun sugar, with a hint of violet and citrus. After days of bland food and dry toast, it was absolutely intoxicating.

I took a sip, tentative. The wine bloomed across my tongue. It was sparkling, effervescent, like tiny fireworks going off behind my teeth. A quiet sigh escaped me. I drank even more.

Maybe this dinner would be bearable after all.

With every ounce of restraint I could muster, I placed the goblet back on the polished ice-glass table to save the rest for my meal.

A beat passed. Then came the delicate chime of incredulous laughter.

“Where are you from again?” purred a courtier from across the table.

Her tone was nearly as sharp as her cheekbones, her insinuation clear.

I subtly assessed the plate in front of me, finding nothing amiss. I had been careful to keep my palms concealed, but was there a crumb on my face? Had I spilled something? I glanced down, but there was no wine on my gown.

Then my eyes landed on my goblet. My stupid, gleaming glass of deliciousness, sitting proudly on the wrong side of my plate like it was mocking me.

It was a social misstep so small it would’ve gone unnoticed in any sane room, but here, among the vipers, it was blood in the water. I wanted to laugh, and to throw my drink in their ridiculous faces…

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