Page 47 of Fated to the Frost King

No.

The word echoed in my mind. Or maybe in the room. I couldn’t tell beyond the unsteady beating of my heart.

Weakly, I tried to move. A firm hand pushed gently against my chest, urging me down.

“Easy.” The voice was masculine but kind, laced with just enough authority to make me want to argue.

I didn’t, though, because that was when it all came back.

The screams.

The blood.

The frostbeast.

Panic slammed into me with full force. I kicked against the table beneath me, trying to shove myself upright. A thousand thoughts collided at once. I had to get out. Had to run. Had to check on?—

“Lumen—Batty—where’s—let me go—” My voice cracked, raw and breathless as I thrashed against the hands holding me still.

“Your Majesty, please, you’re safe now.” It was the calm voice again, but it did nothing to ease my anxiety.

I had heard calm voices before, telling me my pain was for my own good, assuring me they were only trying to help. I twisted away from the sound, elbow catching on something sharp. A shrill squeal sounded. The world tilted sideways.

Then a hand touched my face.

Cool. Steady. A thumb brushed across my cheekbone, smoothing back a strand of hair slicked to my temple.

Not rough. Not demanding.

Gentle.

I froze. Not from fear, but from the sudden, disorienting sense of peace that followed. I forced my eyes open for a fraction of a second, just long enough to make out a hazy figure.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black.

His eyes were the same unearthly hue as the lights that danced in the winter sky. His hair fell like fresh snow over his brow, damp with sweat. Frost clung to the edge of his sleeves like he hadn’t bothered shaking it off.

Recognition flitted at the back of my mind, gone before I could pin it down. Then I lost the battle with my eyelids, and everything went dark again.

The next time I came to, things felt clearer, if only slightly.

There were no flickers of pain or bone-deep panic clawing at my ribs. Just the soft rustle of fabric and the unmistakable scent of…

Soup?

I opened my eyes more easily this time, blinking against the hazy lantern light that cast everything in a strange, amber glow. Not my tower. Not my bed. But not dead, so, small victories.

The world sharpened around the edges, color and shape bleeding back into place. Stark white ceilings, polished stone floors veined with silver, walls etched with faint sigils that glowed like moonlight behind glass.

The medical wing.

Right. I remembered now.

The place reeked of antiseptic and sage. The beds were too firm and far too pristine. Everything in the room offered the sterile kind of comfort that made you feel like you should be ashamed of your injuries.

Or perhaps that was only my memories talking.

I took a deep breath, slow and steadying, to tamp down the anxiety that threatened to rise up in my chest at the idea of being in another infirmary.

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