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Keltania

An hour later, I’m tucking a multitude of small blades into the folds of my dress. My stunning, absolutely breathtaking dress.

The chiffon fabric starts out black and fades to dark green as it reaches the hem. The bodice is made of silver vines that curl up around my neck and trail down the skirt. Dotted along the vines are an assortment of embroidered red, orange, and white roses.

Once I’m content with the number of concealed sharp objects I’ve managed to hide, I slip my feet into the heels—which match the dress perfectly—and step from the room.

“Watch it, druid,” one of the passing guards snaps as he nearly knocks me over and doesn’t look back.

I’m tempted to go after him, but I bite my tongue and shake it off. This is a huge day for Valen. I have no intention of ruining it.

I continue down the hall and through the eastern wing of the estate, then pass through the courtyard. There’s a massive crowd already gathering.

“Have you seen him?” a blue-haired Fae woman a few feet from me asks.

I slow my pace as I pass, listening.

“They say he’s the youngest ever to take up the position of monarch,” her companion titters. “Certainly the most handsome!”

“How can we trust him, though?” the man beside them says. “He’s sharing a bed with druid filth.”

I hate myself for the involuntary clench of my jaw, the stiffness of my spine. Their petty opinions of me shouldn’t matter, yet each one stings a bit more than the last.

One of the girls laughs. “Oh, please. Lord Valen would never stoop that low. The human is his pet and nothing more.”

The other girl nods enthusiastically. “I heard he’s keeping her for her power. The rumor is, she’s regained the druid magic that Servis stole from Aphelian. That would make her a strong weapon against our enemies!”

They’re not wrong about the magic. Valen made good on his promise to return it. The tear Aphelian gave Servis so long ago, the one that contained half our druid magic, is currently stashed in a hiding place only I know. I haven’t returned it to my people because that would allow Aphelian to grow to full power.

She managed to hold the Winter Lands captive with the small amount she still retains. How dangerous would she be whole?

“That human is the enemy,” the man says. “Wasn’t she raised by Aphelian herself?”

“Tania!” Valen’s uncle Benj shouts over the crowd, waving his arms as he pokes his head through the double doors.

I walk toward him, plowing through the middle of the gossiping group. They gasp but then immediately continue chattering about me like I’m not here. The temptation to give them a withering stare as Benj ushers me inside the throne room is nearly overwhelming—but there’s no point in starting a fight.

“Ignore them,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist. “They’re beneath you.”

Despite my annoyance, I smile. Benj is so much like Valen. He’s mischievous and knows how to put a smile on your face. Where Valen’s father, Delkin, is stoic and refined, his uncle Benj is the first one to crack a joke or offer a sarcastic solution. It’s hard to believe they’re brothers.

The throne room is full, with Fae lined from wall to wall on either side. The only path to the front is the center aisle—lined with white roses. I do my best not to cringe.

If Valen manages to walk down the path without laughing, it’ll be a miracle.

“The guards will bring Valen in momentarily.” Benj ushers me to the front, giving me a slight nudge toward the right side of the Winter throne. “We have to take our places.”

Beside the throne, on a pristine white pillow resting on a marble stand, is the Winter Crown. A thin circlet of white gold with ice-blue diamonds that create a small snowflake at the tip. It’s beautiful until you think about how much blood has been shed over it through the years.

Delkin stands on the left, while Benj settles to the right of the main path beside his husband, Ander, and several of the council members. In the center of the room, on either side of the rose-lined aisle, stands a massive crowd of Fae. There are several familiar faces—including Daroose, the kelpie I’m stuck with. He winks, then blows me an exaggerated kiss with a waggle of his blond brow. Valen insisted that having him here at court was an inconvenience, but I’ve caught them bonding over a bottle of wine twice since coming back from Ventin.

I resist the urge to fidget. All eyes should be on the door, on the spot their soon-to-be monarch will appear. Instead, every eye in the room is on me.

One of the Fae men closest to me narrows his gaze. He says something to the Fae woman next to him, and she turns. The disgust on her face dredges my anger, and I struggle to keep myself still. Just when I’m sure I’ll crack, a cooling balm rolls over me.

Valen . He’s just outside the throne room.

The doors swing open, and a company of Winter Guards marches in. They reach the steps in front of the throne and split into two groups, half on one side, half on the other. Their leader, Celpin, eyes me cautiously as he takes the place to my left.

While he doesn’t hate me like most of the Winter Fae, he doesn’t trust me, either. Really, can I blame him? Before the truth came out, everyone thought Aphelian and Servis were the good guys. The stories said that they saved the Winter Fae together. Risked and sacrificed it all.

But the reality is, they were both horrible. Servis, a Fae, betrayed Aphelian by stealing druid magic, and she, in turn, dedicated herself to a centuries-long vendetta that enslaved the Winter Court as well as a portion of her own people. Between the two of them, the trail of blood and carnage, of lies and destruction, stretched for over a thousand years.

The room suddenly quiets, and Valen enters.

He’s wearing a snow-white tunic and black jacket with silver-and-blue trim. He insisted it have tails—another inside joke. The black pants are plain, which makes the boots stand out. They’re knee-high black leather, and they match his jacket down to the last embellishment. He detests the outfit, but I like it. It suits him far more than he wants to admit, and seeing him like this fills me with pride.

Amusement flickers down the link. He’s seen the roses.

Our eyes meet. With each step, his gaze stays locked on mine. It’s like we’re the only two people in the room. Like he’s walking toward me…

But he’s not.

He’s walking toward the throne.

Toward the role he was born to fill.

Toward a responsibility he never wanted.

I’m the one who breaks contact, and Valen’s disappointment is suffocating. It’s unlike me, but I shift from foot to foot, fidgeting. It’s part guilt, but another part…another part is justified. What we feel for each other—it can’t happen. Not now. Not while things are in flux.

Valen reaches the steps and takes a knee in front of Guria.

“Valen Frostreaver,” she says proudly, “you are the first of us in thousands of years to be born embraced by the cold.”

The crowd cheers, and, after a moment, I breathe a sigh of relief. After what happened when Valen exposed his Winter magic to the court, I worried we’d have another incident to deal with. But so far, so good.

While Valen was growing up, there’d been whispers of a Fae fated to destroy the Winter Lands—the Omen of Ice. Now that his secret is out, well, the group that wanted him dead for being a bastard heir—something that ended up being false—has a renewed sense of hatred for him. There have been three attempts on his life in the last two weeks, and I fear it will only get worse after he officially claims the throne.

“All that remains is for you to take your vows, and we can all start down the path to healing past wounds.” Guria spreads her arms and smiles. “Are you ready?”

“I am,” Valen says, his voice echoing through the room. A heavy silence has fallen over the crowd as they watch intently, breath held. There’s an electricity in the air. Hope and caution and, possibly, just a bit of fear. This is a new beginning for the Winter Fae.

“Do you, Valen Frostreaver, son of Delkin Frostreaver, swear to put the Winter Lands first? Do you promise to shelter and protect its people, using your magic—yourself—as a shield if need be?”

Fear bubbles down the link, and for a moment, I think Valen will bolt. This isn’t him. Until recently, his life was all about drinking and partying in an attempt to escape what he once described as a suffocating prison.

Isn’t this crown just another set of chains?

Chains that I’m responsible for saddling him with. The only reason he’s kneeling there right now is because he made a deal with Aphelian to save my life.

He straightens his back, looking directly at me, and says, “I swear.”

“And do you promise to serve your people faithfully?” Guria continues. “Putting duty and honor above all else?”

Fear floods the link again, and it’s a struggle to take a deep breath. To anyone watching, Valen appears calm. He presents a focused and ready front. But it’s a mask. One he’s been hiding behind his entire life.

“I swear,” he says finally, his voice much lower than before.

Guria carefully lifts the crown from its pillow with both hands, then nestles it onto Valen’s head. He winces, but it’s so slight I’m probably the only one who notices. Guria throws her hands in the air. “Rise, Valen Frostreaver, Monarch of the Winter Lands! Rise and take your place as the leader of the last Fae nation!”

Valen stands, a picture of royalty, and the crown on his head glints against the light coming in through the windows. The crowd goes wild. Their roar of applause reverberates through the room, and their cheers ring in my ears.

“Long live Lord Valen!”

“Peace in the Winter Lands at last!”

“Try not to screw it up!” Daroose yells, earning him horrified looks from the Fae sitting close to him.

“Hail—”

A rumble rolls through the room, drowning out the cacophony of the masses. Panicked cries and yelps of surprise barrel through the crowd as Fae jump from their seats. Instinctively, I reach for Valen, but someone—I don’t see who—knocks into me. I topple sideways, heart pounding. There’s a thunderous crack —and the floor is cleaved in half by an unseen force.