Page 19

Everly

T he first thing I noticed was the silence.

Not the eerie, too-still quiet of a battlefield. This was thicker. Warmer. Like sound itself had been muffled beneath a blanket.

The second thing I noticed was the pain.

It throbbed behind my eyes and pulsed down my spine before curling sharp and angry in my shoulder. My mouth tasted like ash and blood and something bitter I couldn’t name.

The air smelled sterile and impersonal, like an infirmary. The last time I had been in an infirmary was…during my time with the mages. The scars on my back prickled as I frantically searched my fuzzy memory for any trace of what had happened.

I tried to force my eyelids open, but they wouldn’t budge.

No .

The word echoed in my mind. Or maybe in the room. I couldn’t tell beyond the unsteady beating of my heart.

Weakly, I tried to move. A firm hand pushed gently against my chest, urging me down.

“Easy.” The voice was masculine but kind, laced with just enough authority to make me want to argue.

I didn’t, though, because that was when it all came back.

The screams.

The blood.

The frostbeast.

Panic slammed into me with full force. I kicked against the table beneath me, trying to shove myself upright. A thousand thoughts collided at once. I had to get out. Had to run. Had to check on?—

“Lumen—Batty—where’s—let me go—” My voice cracked, raw and breathless as I thrashed against the hands holding me still.

“Your Majesty, please, you’re safe now.” It was the calm voice again, but it did nothing to ease my anxiety.

I had heard calm voices before, telling me my pain was for my own good, assuring me they were only trying to help. I twisted away from the sound, elbow catching on something sharp. A shrill squeal sounded. The world tilted sideways.

Then a hand touched my face.

Cool. Steady. A thumb brushed across my cheekbone, smoothing back a strand of hair slicked to my temple.

Not rough. Not demanding.

Gentle.

I froze. Not from fear, but from the sudden, disorienting sense of peace that followed. I forced my eyes open for a fraction of a second, just long enough to make out a hazy figure.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black.

His eyes were the same unearthly hue as the lights that danced in the winter sky. His hair fell like fresh snow over his brow, damp with sweat. Frost clung to the edge of his sleeves like he hadn’t bothered shaking it off.

Recognition flitted at the back of my mind, gone before I could pin it down. Then I lost the battle with my eyelids, and everything went dark again.

The next time I came to, things felt clearer, if only slightly.

There were no flickers of pain or bone-deep panic clawing at my ribs. Just the soft rustle of fabric and the unmistakable scent of…

Soup?

I opened my eyes more easily this time, blinking against the hazy lantern light that cast everything in a strange, amber glow. Not my tower. Not my bed. But not dead, so, small victories.

The world sharpened around the edges, color and shape bleeding back into place. Stark white ceilings, polished stone floors veined with silver, walls etched with faint sigils that glowed like moonlight behind glass.

The medical wing.

Right. I remembered now.

The place reeked of antiseptic and sage. The beds were too firm and far too pristine. Everything in the room offered the sterile kind of comfort that made you feel like you should be ashamed of your injuries.

Or perhaps that was only my memories talking.

I took a deep breath, slow and steadying, to tamp down the anxiety that threatened to rise up in my chest at the idea of being in another infirmary.

A figure leaned forward on my left. Mirelda?

I studied her face for a moment, trying to decide why it felt wrong. Then I noticed the subtle circles beneath her eyes and the tight set of her mouth. If I didn’t know any better, I might’ve thought the old bat looked… concerned.

The moment she noticed my gaze on her, her expression snapped into something sharper, more familiar. The furrow in her brow smoothed, and she rose from the chair with her usual disapproving efficiency.

“You’re awake,” she said, voice clipped. “Finally. You’ve slept nearly two days.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

“Maybe now that you’re alert your little pest will stop crying all day long.” She gestured to the huddled form on the pillow next to me.

I pulled Batty closer, grateful she was all right, and that she was not quite as chaotic as my last guests.

Mirelda made a sound like she disapproved of the moment but then propped me upright with surprising gentleness before shoving a tray into my lap. The soup she set down looked innocent enough—creamy, flecked with herbs, and smelled like actual food instead of the boiled despair she was so fond of.

I blinked at it.

“It won’t kill you,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “The healer says you can return to your chambers tomorrow if you tolerate it.”

“I—thank you?” I muttered, still thrown by the lack of barbed commentary.

She fussed with the blankets next, tucking one around my legs in a way that made it very clear she wasn’t fussing. Not really. Stars forbid she look soft.

“The guard is on the alert for attacks in the daytime,” she informed me brusquely. “And the king will no doubt be activating the wards. So we’re safe here now.”

I nodded, wanting to believe that as much as she did.

I glanced around the room again, cataloguing its angles.

Rows of other beds lined the walls, each curtained off with translucent frost-charmed veils that muted sound and offered privacy.

Pale blue light filtered through a skylight overhead, illuminating shelves of poultices, tinctures, and carefully labeled glass vials.

It was all too clean. Too quiet.

I dipped the spoon into the soup and took a cautious sip. It was… good. Of course it was. The universe was clearly trying to keep me off-balance.

I exhaled slowly. The warmth helped. But it wasn’t enough to stop the memory creeping in, sharp and vivid.

Turquoise eyes. A cool hand at my cheek. A presence like frost and fury standing between me and the monster.

I swallowed, the soup suddenly feeling thicker on my tongue.

Had I dreamed that? Surely I must have. Draven wouldn’t— No . That kind of gentleness didn’t belong to someone like him.

“What happened?” I asked after a moment, my voice tighter than I meant it to be. “I remember… a creature. In the gardens. Was that real?”

The corner of her mouth twitched downward. Her hands smoothed over the edge of the blanket again, this time definitely fussing.

“It was. You were attacked,” she said, low. “By a Mirrorbane.”

My pulse stuttered as my mind brought forth images of the frostbeast as it shifted from one form to another. A shiver ran through me, and I nodded.

“I remember that much,” I said. “But…what happened after? With everyone else? Nevara? Soren? Lumen?”

Mirelda’s eyes met mine, her expression unreadable.

“Breathe, girl,” she said, reaching to adjust the napkin on my tray. “All three are recovering well.”

Relief hit so hard I nearly dropped the spoon.

“They sustained minor injuries,” she added. “The Visionary and the Autumn Lord are well enough. The wolf left the infirmary this morning.”

A breath shuddered out of me.

Lumen was okay. They all were. I leaned my head back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling, letting that knowledge settle in my bones. My fingers curled around the edge of the blanket, grounding myself in the fabric. Warm. Real.

“Good,” I whispered.

Silence stretched for a beat.

“And the king?” I asked like he was an afterthought, like I hadn’t done anything but dream about his sudden appearance on the ice, or the way the frostbeast had dissolved into ice.

But I hadn’t seen what happened after.

I didn’t look at her when I asked. I just listened for the telltale shift in her breathing.

Sadist that she was, she took her time adjusting the tray again. She straightened the blanket, then smoothed out a wrinkle that wasn’t there, before finally sighing.

“The king was not injured.”

Was it relief coursing through me, or the urge to punch her in her smug face for drawing that out for so long?

“Of course he wasn’t,” I scoffed. “What I meant to ask was how his Majesty arrived so quickly.”

Was it his own mana or an effect of the rings?

Mirelda pursed her lips, but answered. “He travels through the ice, when he needs to, of course.”

Of course , like everyone knew that. Perhaps it was a book on Draven I should see about finding.

“And now?” I asked.

Mirelda hesitated again, studying my expression. She cleared her throat.

“In his study,” she said tersely, her lips pursing. “And His Majesty instructed me to inform him the moment you woke. So, I will be taking my leave of you now.”

It was an oddly abrupt departure, even for her. Maybe she wasn’t as assured of our safety as she wanted to be, either.

I gave her a small nod. “Thank you… for the soup.”

Her eyes softened, just for a moment, but she didn’t say anything else. She only gave a tight, strange dip of her head and swept out of the room, skirts whispering like snowdrifts in her wake.

The door shut behind her with a finality I felt in my bones.

I leaned back against the pillows, the warmth of the soup settling uncomfortably in my gut now. Sleep pulled at my limbs, but my thoughts refused to quiet.

A frostbeast had breached the walls. During the day. I squeezed my eyes shut.

What did that mean for the palace? For the kingdom? What did it mean for my sister?

The panic that gripped my chest earlier threatened to return. This time, it wasn’t the kind that clawed and tore. It was quieter. Heavier. Like a blanket soaked through with ice water, pressing down until my lungs forgot how to work.

I needed to tell Wynnie. Now. Somehow. She had to know something was wrong. She needed to be careful… to be aware.

The thought pulsed over and over again until exhaustion finally dulled the edges of it.

My body was still too heavy, and my head throbbed with a slow ache that made forming full thoughts difficult. I would write tomorrow. First thing.

Just as soon as the world stopped spinning.

I let my eyes drift shut and exhaled slowly, trying not to think about frost-kissed shadows and burning blue-green eyes. Trying not to wonder whether it had really been Draven’s hand brushing my hair away.

Or wonder why I was thinking about any of it at all.