Page 3 of Fated to the Frost King

She gave another sharp nod in response. A muscle clenched in his jaw.

“Approach,” he ordered with an imperious wave of his hand. Though his voice revealed nothing, another frigid gale swept through the room.

The female obeyed, casting a few smug glances at those nearest to her before sauntering to the front of the throne.

My heartbeat thundered in my chest, but no one else seemed to think anything was amiss.

“Candra Nivhallow.” He scrutinized her like she was his prey, even if she hadn’t realized it yet.

He knew her name. From court? Was whatever she had seen in him then enough to blind her to the threat before her now?

“You must want to become the Winter Queen very much,” he said lightly.

“I do.” Her voice was sultry, her chin raised high.

Either she was an excellent performer, or she had missed the undertones of his question entirely, the promise of danger in his quiet proclamation.

He smirked, but it was utterly devoid of warmth. “So I’ve gathered from your willingness to commit treason.”

The blood drained from her face. She parted her plump lips to protest, but I knew it was too late even before he shook his head.

I felt it, the vengeful energy thrumming from his very being as he leaned in closer to her, placing a deceptively gentle hand on her cheek. The rest of the females had caught on as well, no one daring to breathe as their ruler spoke in an intimate murmur that nonetheless carried through the hush.

“It’s a shame you won’t get a chance to usurp your king after all.”

Her eyes widened in shock, but that was all the reaction she had time for before she froze, quite literally, frost expanding from where his hand still touched her cheek. It spread through her body in seconds.

The fae to my right—the one who had been so giddy before—cried out in shock. It was one thing, romanticizing a male who slaughtered his enemies, and another seeing it firsthand.

Shards, even if you didn’t romanticize him…

I had known what he was, and I was no stranger to this level of violence. Still, I had to fight not to cry out alongside her.

A decade tucked away in my father’s estate had made me forget the casual cruelty of the fae beyond. My father was cold, but he wasn’t a monster. Not like this.

King Draven’s expression hardened. He pulled away from her, tilting her body toward the ground before settling back into his throne. The room resounded with the ensuing crash, but no one else dared to cry out. Not in protest. Not in distress.

Not unless they wanted to be next.

This time, when the Visionary made her way through the room, there was no one naïve or arrogant enough to be eager. It was all murmured prayers and eyelids squeezed shut, females doing their damnedest to disappear into one another while the harbinger of execution passed them by.

My heart thundered an unsteady staccato in my ears when she paused ever so slightly in front of me, but she continueddown my row. She halted when she got to a female not much taller than herself.

The fae was already crying, tears falling silently down her navy cheeks and splashing against the threadbare fabric of her makeshift wedding gown. She was from the working class, most likely the poorer sect at the border, and younger than twenty, if I had to guess.

The Visionary pursed her lips before calling out again, the word falling like the blade of a guillotine.

“Two.”

On trembling legs, she made her way to the front of the room, stumbling only once. Her hands were balled into fists when she stopped just before his throne.

The King didn’t toy with her, at least. Didn’t lean in and whisper accusations against her ear.

“You are aware that consorting with the Unseelie is forbidden.” His tone was edged with disgust this time, instead of cruelty.

A gasp went through the room. If the Hollow were abominations, the Unseelie were an outright taboo. There were standing orders to kill them on sight.

“I am,” she said in a small voice.

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