Page 100 of Fated to the Frost King

The corner of her mouth curved into a wicked grin.

“I could try harder,” she said, and the flames in Soren’s eyes flared in response.

Heat bloomed in my cheeks. I quickly looked away, the air between them suddenly feeling too charged, too personal. Like I was intruding on a conversation meant to be whispered behind closed doors.

We spent the next hour pilfering books from the library, each stack vanishing in a shimmer of glyphlight whenever Nevara or Soren brushed their fingers against a panel. Their banter kept the air light, even as Soren passed around a flask of Emberkiss whiskey and offered up half a dozen titles he insisted were essential reading.

It was a welcome reprieve from everything I couldn’t control, so I let myself enjoy it—the warmth, the ease, the illusion of normalcy.

Which made the shift feel all the more jarring when it came.

Soren was in the middle of describing one of the paintings on the wall to Nevara—every detail more absurd than the last, and clearly a lie—when she gasped.

Her body went still, but her eyes were swirling pools of starlight. The silver flecks were swirling, like a whirlpool gathering in still water. And she was eerily silent.

The next breath caught in her throat before she stepped back from the shelves.

“I need to go,” she said, voice distant.

“Nevara.” Soren’s voice was cautious, his smirk dead on his lips.

But she didn’t answer. She only shook her head, using her staff to guide her to the frost-etched doors and slipping through them without another word.

Silence followed, stark and immediate, my stomach sinking like lead. I had known better than to let myself forget, even for a moment, all that was at stake.

Soren stared after her. “That’s… not like her.”

No. It wasn’t. She was sometimes withdrawn, but always composed. Never speechless.

And there it was—the familiar sense of dread, seeping through my veins like poison, paralyzing my lungs.

“I'm done for the day.” The words left me in a rush as I stepped away from the shelf. “I’ve got more than enough to keep me occupied.”

And more than enough spiraling sanity to deal with behind the privacy of closed doors.

Soren didn’t press. “Of course. Let me walk you back.”

The halls were quiet as we returned to my rooms, the palace deceptively hushed, like a thin layer of ice across a raging river. Poised to crack at the first sign of pressure.

Ready to trap you in the current below.

Soren kept the conversation light, but even his usual charm felt a little thinner, like his thoughts were still with Nevara.

Which was just as well because my thoughts were too scattered to try to pretend. I couldn’t stop thinking about the attacks. About Draven, and the Archmage. About this shards-damned bond tugging at me more and more with each passing day. And there was something else, something niggling at the back of my mind that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

At my door, Soren offered a quick bow, all warm poise once more. “Try not to get buried under that mountain of books.”

“No promises,” I said with a tired smile.

He left without another word, and I didn’t wait for Mirelda or tea or anything else.

I went straight to my study. The books were there as promised, filling the shelves with color and scent and life, for a change.

And without Nevara’s presence, without Draven’s shadow at my back, I did the only thing I could control.

I opened a book and started reading.

For the rest of the day I poured over tomes and jotted down notes that felt relevant. Notes about various frostbeasts and their strengths and weaknesses, before adding the new information we had on them now.

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