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Everly

I never planned to be buried in a wedding dress.

Then again, I was never supposed to live this long at all.

I wasn’t the only one terrified to be here, though. The air was thick with dread, colder than the solid ice walls of the palace we stood in, a sharp contrast to the glittering room around us.

Frost covered the marble pillars that held up the vast, domed ceiling, while icicles dripped from silver chandeliers like waiting daggers, ready to fall and impale the unwary.

This entire palace was danger masquerading as beauty, just like the king it belonged to, if the rumors were true.

I shifted to the right as more ladies were led into the room. There was hardly room to breathe as it was, but somehow they kept coming. Endless rows of female fae, each one wearing a pale blue gown and shivering from more than the chill in the air.

Though not everyone was afraid.

The king’s edict had arrived with just enough time to obey, demanding the presence of every eligible female in the kingdom by the eve of the Starfire Solstice.

Even as the bastard daughter of a low-ranking lord, I hadn’t been safe.

There had been no time to plan an escape, no time even to plan an easier route to the palace.

So we traveled through the frost-damned forests full of monsters in our haste to reach the worst one of them all.

Because today was the day of the Winter King’s wedding. And he hadn’t yet chosen his bride.

Desperation clung to the females in this room more tightly than the bodices of their gowns. To escape, for those with half a brain. Or to be chosen, for those who were less capable of weighing the risks against the benefits.

Queen of a kingdom, wife of a monster.

It was a trade off only a fool would make, but there were apparently several in attendance. Like the female to my right, who was happily bouncing on her toes for a better glance at the currently empty throne.

I took a deep breath—as deep as I could manage in my own fitted gown. It was borrowed from my sister and hastily stitched for this occasion. I wished, not for the first time, that our families had been allowed inside.

Not my father—I was just as happy to leave him for all the comfort he would have offered. But my older sister would have been whispering irreverent things in my ear, squeezing my hand in hers and distracting me from the fate that could await me with one wrong move.

For the other females here, being chosen as the Winter King’s Bride would be a prison sentence, but for me, it would mean death.

I was a Hollow.

Since mana was a power gifted from the Shard Mother herself, anyone born without it was considered cursed. Or Hollow.

It was the only thing the Seelie and Unseelie fae could agree on, an inescapable doctrine across every kingdom in Aerivelle. It was nice that despite their longstanding history of enmity, they could bond over feeling that my existence alone was reason to throw me on an execution pyre.

Not that a roaring fire would be entirely unwelcome at the moment, but I would have preferred to reap the benefits of warmth from the outside.

I fought back a shiver, resisting the urge to rub my arms to warm them. It was an obvious sign I didn’t have mana. Those with the power of winter couldn’t freeze.

The excitable fae to my right bounced again, jostling me out of my thoughts. I took another breath, valiantly resisting the urge to shove her back to her side. The tension was making me unusually short-tempered. I tried to talk myself down, reminding myself that I wasn’t in any real danger.

I can’t be chosen. There is no need for panic.

The Shard Mother would choose a bride who could continue his royal line, something a Hollow could never do.

So, I was fine. By this time tomorrow, I would be back in the relative safety of my family’s estate, surrounded by endless shelves of books. Hidden.

Alone, a voice in the back of my head chimed in.

Safe , I countered.

Little by little, the last few females trickled in until the small side door we had come through was shut, closing us in.

Tendrils of dread scraped along my spine, but I willed myself to be calm.

A low, guttural groan echoed through the throne room, drawing every gaze toward the massive doors of ice and stone at the far end. Frost crept along the floor as a sudden gust of snow-laced wind howled through the cracks. Then the doors burst open, flung wide by a flurry of ice and bitter air.

The wolves entered first.

Massive shadows stretched long across the gleaming floor. Frost clung to their fur like armor, and their eyes shone like faelights, bright blue and ethereal. I had read about the creatures that were bound to the throne of Winter, but the books hadn’t come close to capturing their brutal grace.

And they were nothing compared to the king.

He swept into the room on the heels of a blizzard, though he felt more like a storm unto himself. His presence descended with the force of an avalanche, deadly and inescapable.

In spite of myself, in spite of my unending disdain for him and all the atrocities I knew he had committed against my family, in spite of everything , I stopped breathing.

Draven Ashwynter. Ten years ago, he had been the youngest Winter King to ever take the throne at only sixteen years of age. But now…there was nothing boyish left in his carved features.

His ice-blond hair was swept back beneath his crown, revealing a face that was equal parts arrogance and wrath, and no less beautiful for either. His eyes were the greener side of teal, the exact color of the lights that danced along the winter sky.

More than all of that, his very being radiated power, potent enough to send sparks zapping along my skin, yet freezing the marrow of my bones.

Again, I resisted the urge to shiver, but only barely.

“The Frostgrave King.” The female to my left trilled, voice soft with reverence.

Would she have felt so awe-inspired if she had realized how many innocent lives were caught in the crossfire of the battle that earned him his name a mere decade ago? His own soldiers, females, children. No one had been spared from his icy rage.

Shards only knew what he was capable of now.

Around the room, ladies echoed her sentiment, but at least their tones were appropriately edged with foreboding, their heels clacking against the marble tiles as they tried to back away.

The king’s piercing gaze swept over us, colder than death itself and twice as dangerous. His expression gave nothing away as he took in his potential brides, groomed and presented to him like lambs for the slaughter.

When he finally took his seat on the throne, I forced myself to exhale.

I would not be chosen. I could not be chosen.

A petite figure slipped between the rows of potential brides. She wore pale silver, nearly indistinguishable from her skin. Hair a shade lighter was woven into intricate braids that glimmered like frost in moonlight.

But it was her eyes that stood out. There was no pupil, no iris, only liquid starlight.

I had been so focused on the king, I had missed the entrance of his Visionary. The Shard Mother’s chosen vessel traded her ability to see in the physical world for the power to See the threads of fate.

A silver staff rested in her hands, embedded with a pale pink crystal.

She tapped it lightly on the ground before moving with eerie precision, her sightless eyes betraying none of the power that burned behind them.

She passed slowly before the front row of females, tilting her head like she was listening to a tune that only she could hear.

Gasps rippled through the silence, followed by more than one trembling sigh of relief when she moved on. The king didn’t so much as blink.

Then she stopped.

She tilted her head toward a tall, willowy fae with sky blue hair elaborately piled on her head, a dress that was inlaid with sparkling gems, and a smile that was pure, vicious victory.

The Visionary took a breath, giving a single dip of her chin.

“One,” she intoned.

I should have felt relieved, but there was an ominous energy in the room, like the crackle in the air just before lightning strikes.

The hopeful bride didn’t seem to notice. Her smile widened to something more like a baring of her teeth as she turned to the king, her excitement manifesting in tiny flurries of snowflakes that burst from her palms, falling softly to the icy floor below.

The king raised a sculpted eyebrow.

“You’re certain?” He didn’t glance away from the fae in the blindingly bright dress, but his words were for the Visionary alone.

She gave another sharp nod in response. A muscle clenched in his jaw.

“Approach,” he ordered with an imperious wave of his hand. Though his voice revealed nothing, another frigid gale swept through the room.

The female obeyed, casting a few smug glances at those nearest to her before sauntering to the front of the throne.

My heartbeat thundered in my chest, but no one else seemed to think anything was amiss.

“Candra Nivhallow.” He scrutinized her like she was his prey, even if she hadn’t realized it yet.

He knew her name. From court? Was whatever she had seen in him then enough to blind her to the threat before her now?

“You must want to become the Winter Queen very much,” he said lightly.

“I do.” Her voice was sultry, her chin raised high.

Either she was an excellent performer, or she had missed the undertones of his question entirely, the promise of danger in his quiet proclamation.

He smirked, but it was utterly devoid of warmth. “So I’ve gathered from your willingness to commit treason.”

The blood drained from her face. She parted her plump lips to protest, but I knew it was too late even before he shook his head.

I felt it, the vengeful energy thrumming from his very being as he leaned in closer to her, placing a deceptively gentle hand on her cheek. The rest of the females had caught on as well, no one daring to breathe as their ruler spoke in an intimate murmur that nonetheless carried through the hush.

“It’s a shame you won’t get a chance to usurp your king after all.”

Her eyes widened in shock, but that was all the reaction she had time for before she froze, quite literally, frost expanding from where his hand still touched her cheek. It spread through her body in seconds.

The fae to my right—the one who had been so giddy before—cried out in shock. It was one thing, romanticizing a male who slaughtered his enemies, and another seeing it firsthand.

Shards , even if you didn’t romanticize him…

I had known what he was, and I was no stranger to this level of violence. Still, I had to fight not to cry out alongside her.

A decade tucked away in my father’s estate had made me forget the casual cruelty of the fae beyond. My father was cold, but he wasn’t a monster. Not like this.

King Draven’s expression hardened. He pulled away from her, tilting her body toward the ground before settling back into his throne. The room resounded with the ensuing crash, but no one else dared to cry out. Not in protest. Not in distress.

Not unless they wanted to be next.

This time, when the Visionary made her way through the room, there was no one na?ve or arrogant enough to be eager. It was all murmured prayers and eyelids squeezed shut, females doing their damnedest to disappear into one another while the harbinger of execution passed them by.

My heart thundered an unsteady staccato in my ears when she paused ever so slightly in front of me, but she continued down my row. She halted when she got to a female not much taller than herself.

The fae was already crying, tears falling silently down her navy cheeks and splashing against the threadbare fabric of her makeshift wedding gown. She was from the working class, most likely the poorer sect at the border, and younger than twenty, if I had to guess.

The Visionary pursed her lips before calling out again, the word falling like the blade of a guillotine.

“Two.”

On trembling legs, she made her way to the front of the room, stumbling only once. Her hands were balled into fists when she stopped just before his throne.

The King didn’t toy with her, at least. Didn’t lean in and whisper accusations against her ear.

“You are aware that consorting with the Unseelie is forbidden.” His tone was edged with disgust this time, instead of cruelty.

A gasp went through the room. If the Hollow were abominations, the Unseelie were an outright taboo. There were standing orders to kill them on sight.

“I am,” she said in a small voice.

He eyed her dispassionately. The wrath that had tainted the atmosphere was replaced by something heavier now.

“Do you deny it?” he demanded.

She raised her chin, inhaling through her tears while she met the King’s empty eyes.

“I do not.”

He nodded once, a sharp dip of his chin that was the only warning of the ice that spread through her body. Everything about the first female’s death had been intentional, a show for his captive audience, whereas this one was far more perfunctory.

I averted my gaze from the statue, noting idly that he ordered her body carried out rather than shattering it on the white marble floor.

How many more of these would we have to endure? Would the prophetess find some hidden sin from everyone here, eliminating them one by one until the last female standing was the new Winter Queen, coronated in a pool of ice and blood?

As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about that. The next time the Visionary walked the room, she didn’t walk far.

I tried not to react, even as she stopped in front of me, tilted her head, and stared with milky eyes that swirled like a storm in the winter sky.

Hadn’t I known this was coming? That I never should have been here to begin with? That one way or another, I would pay for this day with my life?

My knees were weak, but I thought about the girl before me, the way she had raised her chin. I would not give the king the satisfaction of seeing me cower.

I supposed it was a relief, after all, that they had made our escorts wait outside. At least my sister wouldn’t have to watch me die.

Still, the blood rushed in my ears, nearly drowning out the word I saw formed on the Visionary’s dark lips, even as I felt it echo in my soul, clanging within my bones like death knells.

“Three.”