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Dawn creeps over Millrath like a thief, pale light filtering through clouds thick with endless snow. I stand at the window of my private chambers, watching as the city below stirs reluctantly to life. The streets are muffled in white, the usual clamor of morning commerce dulled to whispers. Even the forges of the Iron Quarter across the water burn lower these days, their smoke thin and hesitant against the grey sky.

This weather is killing my kingdom’s trade, its industry. I have not yet been successful in bringing myself to care. There is a sorrow upon the wind that has settled upon my city, the single jewel of my crown. I can feel it in my bones, in the way the cold seems to seek out every crack in the castle walls, every gap in ancient mortar. Some nights, in my most desperate and shameful moments, I find it carries her scent somehow—a crisp, sharp sweetness that makes my blood sing with recognition.

Then, it’s gone again.

A knock at my door breaks the silence. I grunt, permitting entrance. I have not the patience nor energy to raise my chin, to square my shoulders. My gut feels cold all the time these days, heavy as a stone. There is no fire there anymore, just a lump of obsidian, an oxidised heart of sulfur. Something that burned eternally until it didn’t.

"My king," Darian's voice is tight with tension. "The Lords have arrived for the audience."

Of course they have. Like scavenging birds, they circle my throne, waiting for any sign of weakness. Even now, after the fury I rained upon them after their most recent and treacherous disobedience, they know not when to cease from disquieting me.

I straighten my shoulders, adjusting the heavy crown that never seems to sit quite right anymore. At least I still know how to bear its weight, I remind myself. I know how to wear it. How to carry what I must carry.

"Very well,” I say to the glass, to the city. To the sky pouring snow down upon the world I once, briefly, believed I could love. To Calliope, or the wealth of absence that she became.

The walk to my underchamber feels longer each day. Servants scurry out of my path, heads bowed, though I catch them watching from the corners of their eyes. They whisper when they think I can't hear, spreading stories about their missing queen, about the endless winter, the deaths by freezing, the missing troops, the momentarily-quelled coup. About their king's growing obsessions, madnesses, frenzies, furies. His silence and terror.

Let them whisper. They know nothing of obsession. Nothing of the way her absence feels like a physical wound, raw and bleeding beneath my carefully maintained facade of control.

I take my throne. I raise my head.

The dragon skulls lining my throne room walls cast long shadows in the torchlight, their empty eye sockets seeming to watch the proceedings with ancient disapproval. I sit straight and stoic, letting the cold iron of my crown rest heavy against my brow as I survey the six lords standing before me.

Their wounds from our recent battle are still fresh—bandages peek from beneath fine clothing, and more than one of them favors an injured leg or arm.

Good. Let them remember the price of treachery.

Lord Bellrose of Estwell steps forward first, his silver-streaked hair catching the firelight. Even with his arm in a sling, he carries himself with the insufferable pride of old nobility. Traitor , cries my blood. You should be dead for what you have done, what you have attempted.

"Your Majesty," he begins, voice dripping courtesy like poison. "We come seeking reassurance."

“And so soon,” I reply, noting the lord’s immediately evident discomfort. “It seems we only recently saw one another.”

Mere weeks ago, I sent the fools limping back to their backwater hovels at our borderlands with their troops half-demolished and power severely diminished. I won the day, yet they still believe I did not win the war. They believe the war is not over until they decide.

They know nothing of war.

“We seek…clarification,” Bellrose corrects in a strange, soft voice.

"Do you?" I lean forward ever so slightly. Several of them flinch at the movement. My merest movement terrifies them. Once, I might have relished that. "I would think my mercy after your failed rebellion would be reassurance enough."

"Your…forgiveness is appreciated, eternally," Lord Vos interjects, his thin face pinched with barely concealed disdain. His house suffered some of the heaviest losses in the battle, and the bandages around his throat barely hide the claw marks I left there. "However, there are more pressing concerns that bring us here today."

"The winter," Lord Morwen cuts in, his scarred face twisted with barely concealed fury. "It grows worse by the day. In Whiteraid, livestock freeze in their barns. Crops die in the fields. Trade caravans can't get through the mountain passes. The Great River is frozen; we port cities in the west are starving, running out of resources. Our poorest won’t survive until spring. And…the common folk whisper that it's her doing.”

And then, he is wise enough to close his treacherous mouth.

My fingers tighten on the throne's armrests, leaving impressions in the metal. My wife—my eternal torment.

Even now, weeks after her disappearance, the sound of her name—spoken or merely thought—sends a jolt through me like lightning. I see her in every shadow, dream of her every night. The memory of her power exploding through the castle that final night still burns behind my eyes.

That a soul in my kingdom might dare to blame her brings a fury upon me so thick I can hardly breathe through it.

"Rumors and peasant superstitions," I say coldly, levelly. I was born to make my way in this chamber, I know. Crafted to keep my temper. Only one could ever make me lose control. "Nothing more."

"With respect," Lord Sturmsen rumbles, his massive frame shifting as he steps forward. “The matter at hand is worth higher regard than mere superstition. My own mages confirm it—there's power in this storm. Old power. The kind that hasn't been seen since the days of the old witches, an ancient power."

Sturmsen is an interesting lord to hear such sentiments from. He’s usually very no-nonsense, an unruffled lord of a strong house with innumerable sons. Only two of the Draconic Houses represented here today did not participate in the rebellion that almost toppled my House and city mere weeks ago; Lords Sturmsen and Caddell are the only two Lords present with the right not to fear for their very lives in this chamber, and they both appear to know it, worlds more relaxed than their fellow leaders.

Favoured or not, I will not allow the sturdy, northerly leader of Fjordmarse to speak ill of my wife.

A muscle ticks in my jaw. "Choose your next words carefully, Sturmsen."

Sturmsen laughs lowly, a rumbling sound, not unkindly and yet clearly without regard for the risk at hand. He does not offer me a response.

Lord Caddell, likewise, is silent. The sole human present, he is the slightest and shortest of the Lords, a middle-aged man I have not spoken with personally in years and would not care to. He has the unkempt, wispy look of the Caddells about him, but his eyes are set upon me, and he does not appear nervous. I feel a miniscule thread of approval within me at the bravery of that, but it is near silent beneath my rage.

"Where is she?" Morwen demands, sharp voice cutting across the room and echoing. Unlike his fellow Lords, he makes no attempt at courtesy. "Where is the queen? If she's truly contained as you claim, then surely—"

"My wife ," I say, emphasizing the word, "is safely confined within the castle, recovering from wounds sustained during your ill-conceived rebellion." The lie tastes like ash on my tongue, but I deliver it with perfect coldness. "She poses no threat to you or your lands. Some Houses are older than others, Lords, might I remind you. Some cities can weather a harsh winter."

"If you speak the truth, produce her." Bellrose's pale eyes narrow. "Let us see this claimed confinement with our own eyes. Surely you understand our concern? The commonfolk grow restless. They blame this endless winter on dark magic—on her. If she truly is as you say, perhaps allowing us to verify—"

"You would make demands of your king?" I rise from the throne in a single fluid motion, letting my presence fill the room like smoke. The torches flicker, and I know my eyes have begun to glint with that inner fire that marks my bloodline. "After your treachery? After I showed you mercy when I should have taken your heads?"

The Lords take an involuntary step back—all except Bellrose, who merely inclines his head in a gesture that manages to be both respectful and mocking. "Of course not, Your Majesty. We merely thought to offer our assistance in these…difficult times."

"Your assistance?" A bitter laugh escapes me. "Like the 'assistance' my dear brother offered you in forming the coalition, Bellrose? If I didn’t know better, I might suspect he is your favoured heir of my House.” If I didn’t know better, I might suspect you know where he is now. “I don’t suppose you have anything of value to say?”

The question hangs in the air, the frosty snap of a winter’s morning. Impossibly present and yet desperately fragile. No one speaks.

We all know Ulric vanished during the chaos of that final battle, when Calliope's power transformed the night into day. His body was never found among the dead, though the burns she inflicted should have killed him. Some say he fled north, gathering allies among the outlying settlements. Others whisper that he was consumed entirely by her magic, reduced to less than ash.

I know which possibility I vastly and eternally prefer.

"Your brother's treachery is not our concern," Lord Vos finally says, though his voice wavers slightly. "We speak only of the present danger. This winter—"

"This winter will pass," I cut him off. "Like all things. Until then, I suggest you focus on keeping your own lands in order. Unless you'd prefer another demonstration of why my family has held this throne for centuries?"

The threat in my voice sends a visible shiver through a couple of the Lords.

But Bellrose holds his ground, his pale eyes like chips of ice. "We doubt nothing, Your Majesty. We merely seek to protect our interests. The people suffer. Trade routes are closed. Rumors that the winter will not…will not end, my King."

"Rumors?" I bare my teeth in what might technically be called a smile, but would not be by any sane man. "Like the rumors that my queen has escaped? That she runs wild in the north, gathering power? That your king is weak, unable to control his own wife?" I step down from the dais, my boots ringing against stone as I approach them. "Tell me, my Lords—do you believe these rumors?"

They exchange glances, no one quite willing to answer. I look each of them in the eye. Sturmsen and Caddell are the only lords capable of holding my gaze. No surprise there.

Finally, Morwen speaks, his voice carefully neutral. "We believe only what we see, Your Majesty. And what we see is a kingdom sliding into chaos while its king…grieves. All present parties have committed grave errors, my king. But the future is unwritten. And your people freeze—they freeze as we speak."

The words hit like a physical blow, though I don't let it show on my face. "I don't recall asking for your assessment of my state of mind."

"Nevertheless—" Bellrose begins, but I've had enough.

"Leave," I command, my voice dropping to a growl that's more dragon than human. "Now. Before I reconsider my previous mercy."

They bow—some deeper than others—and file out, their footsteps echoing in the vast chamber. I catch fragments of their whispered conversations as they go, though they think themselves too quiet for my hearing.

Perhaps they are. Perhaps the whispers are my own madness, finally realised, finally leering up from inside me into my dull and harried senses.

"—lying, obviously—"

"—the witch has escaped—"

"—cannot be trusted—"

"—brother was right about him—"

When the heavy doors finally close behind them, I allow my rigid posture to crack. My hands shake as I run them through my hair, almost dislodging my crown. The irony isn't lost on me.

"My king?" Darian emerges from the shadows where he'd stood guard throughout the meeting. His face is lined with concern, though he tries to hide it. "Are you—"

"Any word?" I cut him off, unable to keep the desperation from my voice. "Any trace of her?"

He hesitates, which is answer enough. "A troop of soldiers has frozen to death fifty miles from Fort Caddell, not far from the foothills of the Peaks. The latest scouts from the area report strange weather patterns in the northern forests. Storms that appear and disappear without warning. But the trails are all dead ends. She has not been seen in many days, not reported anywhere. And none of the prior reports have yielded substantial leads.”

A laugh tears from my throat, bitter as winter wind. Darian does not flinch—such is not in his nature—but I can tell I have startled him.

"Perhaps she truly curses my kingdom,” I murmur into the quiet. “Perhaps she curses me.”

We ascend into the castle in silence. Darian follows wordlessly as I step into the light above, two paces precisely behind me. Reliable as my shadow.

I move to the nearest window, very nearly pressing my forehead against the frozen glass like a child, though I resist the urge. Outside, snow falls into the black water in a steady curtain, blanketing the city in white silence. Somewhere out there, she's watching the same snow, feeling the same cold. Unless she's already—

No. I can't let myself think that way. She's alive. I would know if she weren't. Would feel it like a knife between my ribs.

"Her power is boundless,” I say after some time has passed.

Behind me, Darian says nothing. He simply watches.

“Say it is her doing this," I murmur, breath fogging the glass. "Say it is true. This winter. This endless cold. Why? What is she trying to accomplish?"

Darian is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful. "Perhaps she's not trying to accomplish anything, my king. Magic is mysterious. It is its own mover."

The implication sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the weather. I remember the raw power that roared from her that fateful and terrible night, the way it transformed her into something both awful and beautiful. I recall the sheer terror of witnessing her, how it was almost an apotheosis. If that power is truly beyond her control...

"Double the search parties," I order, turning from the window. "I want every forest, every mountain pass, every abandoned shack searched. She has to be somewhere. Has to need shelter, food, warmth."

My voice cracks slightly on the last word, remembering how she used to seek warmth in my arms during those cold castle nights. Unbidden, the thought occurs to me: she must be so cold.

"Yes, my king." Darian bows, but pauses before leaving. "And…your brother? Should we continue searching for him as well?"

Ulric. In the chaos of searching for Calliope, multiple times now I've almost forgotten about him. My only remaining family, and yet he has been the architect of so much suffering. I should be furious, I know. I think beneath my exhaustion and fear, I am. But I cannot feel the heat of my rage, not yet. The snow has dulled it into an ache.

I want him dead, though. And I want him dead slowly.

"He'll surface eventually," I growl, the words burning in my throat like dragon-fire. "Snakes always do. But she is the priority. Find her, Darian. Whatever it takes."

When his footsteps fade away, I'm left alone with the shadows and the falling snow. I retrieve my crown from my head, turning it in my hands. The metal is ice-cold to the touch.

"Where are you?" I whisper to the empty air. "Why did you run? I could have protected you. Could have given you everything."

But Calliope cannot answer me. I cannot hear the sorrowful and desperate and beautiful call of the caged bird now, not anymore.

Perhaps it was always going to end up this way.

The snow continues to fall outside my window.