Page 99 of Fated to the Frost King

How had Nevara never once thought to mention it?

Or Soren, for that matter, when we had discussed books more than once?

And more importantly… how much would I have to beg to convince Mirelda to let me move in here?

The floor was inlaid with veins of pale quartz, glowing softly beneath our boots. Chandeliers of frozen crystal hovered above, dripping with frost that never melted. Whispering runes pulsed along the walls, and every so often, a book simply vanished in a blink of blue light, only to reappear on another shelf moments later.

I stared like I’d walked into a dream. Or a very well-organized fever hallucination.

I hadn’t realized how much I had missed just the smell of books, leather and parchment that reminded me of my sister and safety. It was strange to realize how far away it all felt in just a few weeks, the estate that I had called home for over a decade.

The feeling of safety.

My mind didn’t conjure up the familiar cozy bedroom. Instead, I felt strong arms holding me against a solid chest in the middle of a snowstorm surrounded by monsters.

And that…

That was why I needed to lose myself in this library. Both because I was driving myself insane, and because this room had everything that I had lacked from the moment I walked through the palace doors.

Information.

Without it, I was stuck. So I let myself be giddy about the library, let myself enjoy a rare reprieve from the constant feelings of dread and panic and a thousand other contradictory feelings.

Nevara huffed out a breath that was as close as she ever came to a laugh. “Just try not to get too close to the Chainedbound Section. It tends to bite.”

Batty let out a protective squeak, and I laughed.

“I’ll take my chances,” I said, stroking her head and soothing her back to sleep.

We moved through the library slowly at first, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. One book on ward stones. Another on frostbeast lore. Two more on royal wedding rites, to finally get some answers about this frost-damned bond. A slim volume on blood vows, with a subsection on wedding rings. And a thicker one on winter mana.

By the time we reached the fiction wing, I was nearly giddy.

I pulled down several titles that intrigued me: stories of lost queens, cursed forests, defiant lovers. And even a few of my old favorites, because rereading a good book was its own kind of comfort.

“Let’s send those up to your rooms,” Nevara said when I grunted and huffed, adding another tome to my stack.

She gently pulled on my arm, bringing me over to a table near the wall, gesturing for me to put my books on the table. Then she ran her fingers along the center beam until they found what she was looking for, a shimmering glyph etched into the wood.

She traced it lightly, and my books vanished with a ripple of light.

A wry chuckle sounded behind us. “You’ve either made an enemy of the archivist, or you’re about to become their favorite.”

Soren Redthorne strolled into view, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing at his lips. A tailored coat in deep bronze swept behind him, the sleeves pushed back to reveal rings along his fingers and a hint of embroidered cuffs. His dark hair, pulled into its usual knot, had begun to loosen at the edges, as though even it refused to behave.

He turned that gaze onto us, or more specifically, onto the Visionary at my side, and openly grinned.

Nevara stepped closer, and though she couldn’t see it, I had the distinct impression she could sense his grin all the same.

“You’re late,” she said, with a wry sort of amusement.

“I prefer to think of it as fashionably unpredictable,” Soren replied, sweeping into a shallow bow that was more show than sincerity. “Besides, I heard the queen herself was pillaging the archive, and I couldn’t resist witnessing history.”

I rolled my eyes, but didn’t bother stifling my laugh.

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Nevara asked, tilting her head. “Although, ‘fashionably unpredictable’ does have a better ring to it than ‘showing up whenever you're bored’.”

He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Visionary.”

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