Page 87 of Fated to the Frost King

The thought was…dizzying. Not with relief or joy, more like the ground under my feet had shifted, and I couldn’t move to compensate.

I wasn’t a Hollow?

Distantly, I registered Isren theorizing aloud. I caught flashes, broken pieces of his conjecture that didn’t quite register.

“…not just bound; it’s sophisticated…a sigil-based seal? Maybe blood-forged…Need to find out who bound it. No one at the Sanctum could’ve done this quietly, if at all…”

Through it all, I felt the weight of Draven’s gaze, heavy and far too scrutinizing. He didn’t say I told you so, didn’t gloat. He didn’t even look that satisfied.

He just watched me with features chiseled into neutrality, eyes blazing like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. Which made two of us.

My fingers curled into the folds of my gown, my disbelief morphing steadily into anger that coiled low in my stomach, curling tighter with every breath.

My entire life. Fear and torture and the constant, constant threat of death.

“…I’ll need time,” Isren was saying now. “To review the binding signatures, any traces left behind.”

I barely nodded, still trapped in my head. In the memory that had felt so vivid and so close and so heartbreakingly real. Seeing my mother’s face again when I had nearly forgotten what it looked like was its own bittersweet reckoning.

Then Isren’s tone changed, sharp but quiet. “You understand what’s at stake.”

I glanced up just in time to see him looking at Draven. Not me.

Draven nodded once, jaw tight. Whatever passed between them, it wasn’t meant for me. The secrets grated at me, but I was hardly in a position to complain. Not when I knew exactly who might have chosen to bound my magic, and I had a pretty good idea of why.

Had my mother known that she was signing me up to be tortured?

I couldn’t very well ask her now, so I followed mutely behind my husband, trying not to drown in the questions and the shock.

Batty let out a small squeak, burrowing further into my neck as if to offer a small bit of comfort. I ran a finger over her head, sweeping it down to her tiny nose.

We were halfway to the doors when a scuffle of footsteps echoed from the hall.

A female novice came sprinting around the corner, breathless and flushed, clutching a crumpled bit of parchment in her hand.

She skidded to a stop in front of Draven, curtseying awkwardly as she thrust the message forward. “For His Majesty. Urgent.”

Frost crackled the moment Draven’s fingers touched the page. The cold spread fast, curling along the edges, warping the parchment until the ink bled in streaks.

Even so, I saw the signature at the bottom.

Eryx—The Lord General.

Draven read it silently. His jaw tightened. Then he folded the note and looked to Isren.

“There’s been another attack. I’m needed immediately.”

Isren didn’t blink. “I assumed as much. Go.”

Draven nodded and turned to me. “We’re leaving.”

I nodded again. He headed toward the door, and I moved to follow before turning back to the Archmage.

“Thank you? For…whatever that was.”

Isren smiled faintly. “I rarely know what’s going on myself until after it’s happened. Before you go…”

He crossed the room, retrieved a small leather-bound book from the shelf, and handed it to me.

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