Page 39 of Bound to the Shadow Queen (Frostbound Court #2)

Everly

By the time Wynnie woke up in the morning, I was already dressed for the day and in my study.

Instead of trying to force sleep to come, I had settled into the oppressive silence with my books and my skathryn and tried not to think about the ache in my chest.

My sister knocked once before coming into the room. She eyed me carefully until a small, frosty ball of fluff flitted in through the window.

“Wait… Can we use the windows now?” she asked cheerfully, her expression tugging toward something like hope.

I nodded once.

The ice thawing around the windows was the first thing I noticed last night as I stepped into my chambers.

Having the keys to my cage should have made me feel better, but instead, it just felt like Draven slipping further away.

Whatever my sister read in my features had her stepping closer.

Damn her for reading me so well.

“What happened last night, Evy?” she asked, her silver brows furrowing.

I shook my head, not willing to lie but not sure that I knew what to say just yet, either.

“We found my compendium,” I said, holding up the old leather journal.

She leaned a hip against my desk, crossing her arms over her chest.

Her expression made it clear she wasn’t going to let this go.

A lump formed in my throat, and my eyes burned, but before I was forced to evade another of my sister’s questions, Mirelda swept into the room.

“The Archmage has arrived earlier than expected, Your Majesty,” she said, setting the breakfast tray on the tea table by the window.

I clenched my fists, talons popping out of my nail beds.

Wynnie tracked the motion. She slid neatly between me and Mirelda, asking a string of questions to herd her toward the main sitting room.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding.

My thoughts spiraled anyway.

Would he finally have a way to free my mana now that we planned to tell him the truth? Or would this just lead to another dead end—another failure?

Or worse, with the breaking of a bond I wasn’t sure I could regret anymore.

I shoved back from my desk. Wynnie didn’t push, not this time.

Draven was waiting for me on the other side of the door, all stoic composure. His clothing was pristine, his hair falling perfectly onto his brow. Only the faint shadows beneath his eyes betrayed he hadn’t slept any better than I had.

We briefly met each other’s gaze before Draven opened the door to his sitting room.

The space was as stark and imposing as the rest of his palace. Dark-paneled walls carved with subtle frost motifs, a low fire in the hearth doing little more than throwing long shadows across the room.

Silver-threaded drapes muffled the cold light from the windows, and heavy, fur-draped chairs stood like sentinels before a blackwood table polished with a mirror sheen.

Isren was already there, his grin widening as he took us in.

Like last time, he wore intricately embroidered robes, the gold and cobalt threads catching the light and contrasting against his umber skin.

His golden eyes crinkled when he smiled, warm and disarming, and utterly unlike every other mage I had ever met.

“Archmage Isren, thank you for coming so quickly,” Draven said, and I heard the undercurrent of sarcasm in his tone.

He was still angry that it had taken so long.

Isren humbly nodded his head, either not understanding the unspoken admonition or not caring.

“Of course, Your Majesties,” he said smoothly. “And may I say that it is a relief to be meeting you under your roof, this time, where I won’t find any of my pupils dead in the inner sanctum.”

A muscle feathered in Draven’s jaw as he pulled out my chair.

“Trust me when I tell you I share that relief. And that it’s much easier when you can rely on your own staff to remove the waste afterward.”

If I expected the tension to grow, it didn’t. Instead, Isren chuckled once again.

“Can I offer you tea this time?” I asked, surprising myself when a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

Draven stiffened at my side, and I abruptly realized it was the first time I had attempted to host anyone in the palace—and in his rooms, no less.

I had no idea how he even summoned servants, let alone tea.

“And by I,” I amended, “I mean Draven.”

Isren let out a deep chuckle. “I certainly would not say no to that.”

Draven tugged on a small ribbon near the door, and a faint pulse of faelight shimmered above it.

Moments later, three steaming mugs were set on the table, leaving the scent of spiced leaves curling in the air. Once the servants had gone, the Archmage turned his attention to me.

I wrapped my fingers around the mug, more to ground myself than anything else, and tried not to fidget under Isren’s calm, measured gaze.

“As always,” he began, voice low, almost warning, “I remind you that it is your choice whether we investigate further into your mana.”

Batty squirmed against my wrist as if to offer a small measure of comfort. I ran a finger over her tiny head before responding.

“You’re big on choices,” I said, flatly, “considering who chose you.”

His brows rose.

“The Shard Mother?” I added. “She just…doesn’t seem to believe in them.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

I gestured vaguely to myself and Draven. “The chosen bride thing. The chosen Visionary. All of it.”

“Ah,” he said, taking a sip from his tea. “But it was the Winter fae who enslaved the line of Visionaries to the fate they endure now. Before that, the choice was indeed a blessing, and was possible to decline.”

“And us?” I pressed.

“It was the enslaved Visionary who was forced to impart that foreknowledge, bound by her vow to Winter, was it not? If you had met under other circumstances, would you have felt quite so shackled to your vow? Or might you have progressed there naturally?”

I stopped just short of laughing outright.

Draven’s face flashed in my mind—the perfect, infuriating symmetry of it, the weight of his protectiveness that I had resented even as it shielded me.

Would it have been true without the vow?

Would I have come to appreciate him, to…

want him all the same? The thought hit unexpectedly hard, like pressing on a bruise I didn’t know I had gotten.

I’d only ever thought about how to escape him, never what it would mean if I hadn’t been bound at all.

“I…no.” My voice shook, though I tried to layer it in steel. “Without all the complications we have, if the vows hadn’t been compelling our attraction every shards-damned minute of the day, it would have been impossible.”

Isren coughed on what I was quite certain was a laugh.

“I am not aware of any vow, nor bond, that compels attraction, My Queen. Even a soul bond is only the manifestation of what already exists. Contrary to the very understandable beliefs you have formed from your regrettable experiences, the Shard Mother cares very much about both choices and consent. I rather think that a forced attraction would achieve the opposite results.”

Silence stretched, thick and awkward. I fixed my eyes on the crystal-littered desk, anything but Draven, while I tried and failed not to think about all the times my body had craved his with a visceral, unrelenting longing—and how convenient it had been to blame it all on the bond.

Draven cleared his throat, the sound sharp as a blade being drawn. “You implied you had knowledge about her mana?”

“As it happens, I’ve spent the better part of the past few months searching for a very peculiar set of caves that housed the source of the original crystal, until I decided that perhaps my efforts would be better spent on the Unseelie themselves,” Isren replied, adjusting his robes with infuriating calm.

“You knew I was Unseelie?” I asked, my voice tight.

“No, indeed I managed to miss that entirely, or I likely would have begun my search there.” His mouth curved faintly, as though amused by his own oversight rather than irritated at wasted months.

I braced for Draven’s reaction, but other than a short spike of frustration, his mana remained steady, his face carved from frost.

“But I did put it together once I found the source of the crystal,” Isren continued.

“Which was…?” I asked.

He stopped, his gaze sliding toward me.

“I am curious if you can tell me.” The way he said it wasn’t doubtful—it was testing. As if he wanted to see if I could sense it.

“All right.” I swallowed, forcing calm, remembering too well what touching those crystals had unearthed before. Memories I’d buried deep for good reason.

He drew out two crystals, both reminiscent of the one I had broken when my bound mana snapped through me. My hand hovered, then brushed the first. A vast, chaotic energy surged up my arm, seductive and dangerous, like it recognized me.

Like my mother’s amulet.

My eyes shot to the archmage. “Where did you find it?”

“I found it in the caves of the last dragon in Aerivelle.”

“You know where the Dragon is?” I asked, pulse tripping.

He snorted softly. “No. You do not find a dragon unless it wants to be found. It took me months just to find a cave he had graced with his presence, which was probably fortunate for me, given their propensity for, well, setting their unexpected visitors on fire.”

“You speak as if you know them,” I said, narrowing my eyes.

His gaze glowed faintly with amusement, but he didn’t elaborate.

“What does this mean for her mana?” Draven asked, his voice low, controlled.

Something hollow flared from him, echoing the conversation we’d had the night before. The question wasn’t just about my mana—it was about us. About the clock ticking down on whatever fragile, infuriating thing we had been.

I wondered if he felt the same tenuous feeling, like we were suspended in the air above a chasm, waiting for the bottom to drop out from beneath us.

Isren’s features sobered. “The Unseelie get their power from the earth, from the Shard Mother. But the dragons enhance the power directly through their line.”

I furrowed my brow. “The Thanes?”

He nodded like a teacher, pleased his dullest student had finally kept up.

“So all of the Thanes have powers from the dragons?” Draven pressed, a frown tugging his mouth.

I shared his confusion. My uncle was powerful, my mother too—but most of the Thanes were just…average.

“No. Most of the old lines have died out…whether the power faded because the dragons left or the dragons left because the lines died out is unclear. But regardless, only one remains.”

His eyes pinned me, waiting for me to catch up.

The mana passed directly through blood. My uncle and my mother—twins. Both direct heirs. One dragon. One line. A crystal that called to me the same way her necklace always had.

“I’m the heir to the last remaining dragon?” My voice cracked on the words.

Isren inclined his head.

“But my mother’s mana didn’t need to be bound.”

“Your mother’s mana wasn’t mixed with Seelie fae.” Draven’s voice was taut with tension, each word weighed. “I’ve felt the echoes of your mana, and hers. It’s chaos. Seelie mana is all about control. They would destroy each other.”

“That is my hypothesis as well,” Isren said quietly.

The words hollowed me out. Of course. The people destroyed each other. Why not their magic, too? I was built from contradiction—chaos wrapped in control, destined to fracture.

My throat closed. I would never get my mana back. Never help his people. Never be anything but the wrong choice.

I turned to Draven, meeting his unreadable eyes. “Then we have our answer.”

I forced myself to turn back to Isren. My voice didn’t shake. “I need to know how to find the Dragon. I have to break the bond.”