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I wake with her name caught in my throat.

The remnants of the dream still cling to me like frost, settled on my skin. I see in my mind the ephemeral glow of the vision sleep brought. In it, I was flying through an endless storm, following her voice on the wind. Ice formed on my wings, weighing me down, but still I pushed forward, desperate to reach her. Then suddenly, I was falling, and the cold was everywhere, inside and out, crushing the breath from my lungs—

The last visage of the dream fractures and slips away, leaving only a bone-deep chill that even my dragon's blood can't seem to warm. My chambers— our chambers—feel cavernous and empty in the pre-dawn light. The bed is too large, too cold. Her scent still lingers on the pillows, growing fainter with each passing day.

I rise, pacing to the window where frost has painted delicate patterns across the glass. The sun hasn't yet crested the mountains, but already I can hear the city stirring below. The sound seems muffled, distant, as if the endless snow has wrapped Millrath in wool.

A knock at my door breaks the silence.

"Enter," I growl, not turning from the window.

"My king." The spy enters silently, as his kind are trained to do. I catch his reflection in the glass—a slight man, easily forgettable, exactly as he's meant to be. "I bring news from the north."

My heart kicks against my ribs, but I keep my voice steady. "Speak."

"There was a disturbance in one of the border villages a day and a half ago, not far from Fort Caddell. A human woman matching the queen's description was seen fleeing into the forest, pursued by shifter mercenaries. When our agents reached the site, they found the mercenaries dead. They were…they were torn apart, my king.”

I turn slowly, studying the spy's face for any hint of deception. "And the woman?"

"Gone, my king. The storm was too fierce for our trackers to follow. But…" He hesitates, weighing his next words carefully. "The villagers speak of strange magics. Of ice that moved with a will of its own, and winds that whispered with a woman's voice. They believe it was the queen. Fear and superstition run high, my King, but…”

My claws emerge unconsciously, scoring deep marks in the windowsill. Calliope. It has to be her. My fierce, beautiful wife, running wild in the frozen north while her power grows stronger by the day. The thought fills me with equal parts pride and terror and pain.

"Show me," I demand, crossing to the large map spread across my desk. The spy points to a spot near the border of Fort Caddell's territory, where the great northern forests meet the mountains.

"Here, my king. The village of Thornhaven."

I trace the distance with one claw, calculating. She's moving fast, despite the weather. Heading north still, probably seeking sanctuary among the humans. But she's weakening—the attack proves that. No matter how powerful she's become, she wouldn't have revealed her magic unless truly desperate.

"Prepare a squadron," I order, already reaching for my armor. "I'll lead them myself. If we move quickly—"

"My king." Another voice from the doorway. Darian enters, his face grave. "There's been an incident among the Lords."

The words stop me cold. "What kind of incident?"

"An assassination attempt. Lady Bellrose's youngest son was attacked in his chambers in Estwell mere hours ago. The assassin escaped, but left this." He holds up a scrap of black fabric, emblazoned with a familiar sigil—the mark of House Morwen.

Ice forms in my veins, colder than any winter storm. "The boy?"

"Alive, but badly wounded. His father demands justice."

Of course he does. The fragile peace between the Houses already strains at its seams—this could shatter it completely. And if civil war erupts now, while Calliope is still out there, vulnerable…

"My king," the spy ventures carefully, "the trail in the north grows colder with each passing hour. If we don't act soon—"

"I know!"

The word comes out as a roar, making both men flinch. Smoke rises from between my teeth as I struggle to contain the dragon's rage building inside me.

"Leave us,” I snap after a moment of silence.

The spy bows and retreats. Darian remains, watching me with the careful concern of a man who's served long enough to speak freely.

"The Houses are testing you," he says quietly. "This assassination attempt, the timing of it…they're watching to see how you'll respond. Morwen did not do this, and we both know it. Whichever of them did, it’s doubtless a scheme. If you leave now to chase rumors of the queen—"

"They're not rumors." I slam my fist down on the desk, cracking the heavy wood. "She's out there, Darian. Alone. Growing stronger but also more desperate. I feel it—something's wrong. She needs me. And I need to bring her back, before…”

I trail off.

Before she is lost to me forever. One way or another.

"The kingdom needs you." Darian’s voice is gentle but implacable. "You can't protect her if you lose your throne. And, my king, if I may…we have never been so close to losing the throne. And you know it to be true.”

I close my eyes, fighting back the urge to transform, to take to the skies and burn anyone who stands between me and my wife. But Darian is right. He's always right about these things.

"Send riders," I say finally, each word tasting like ash. "Your best trackers. Tell them to be careful—she's powerful, but also frightened. And Darian…" I meet his gaze, letting him see the dragon in my eyes. "Tell them if they harm her, I'll eat their hearts while they watch."

He bows and withdraws, leaving me alone with the map and my churning thoughts. I trace the path she might have taken, imagining her stumbling through endless snow, using her magic to survive. Is she wounded? Hungry? Does she regret running from me yet?

Does she miss me as I miss her?

The sound of bells startles me from my dark thoughts—the city's warning system, calling the noble houses to emergency council. The assassination attempt has already spread through the court like wildfire. They'll all be gathering now, circling like vultures, watching to see how their king handles this latest crisis.

I don my formal armor mechanically, piece by piece, feeling its weight settle onto my shoulders like another kind of chain. The crown comes last, cold iron pressing against my brow, a constant reminder of duty and power and the cost of keeping both.

A memory surfaces unbidden: Calliope's fingers tracing the crown's edge, her touch gentle despite her captivity.

She believed me cold, cold as this winter, cold as her storm.

I'd kissed her then, trying to prove her wrong, to show her the fire that burned beneath the ice. But perhaps she'd been right all along. Perhaps that's why she ran—because in the end, I couldn't be anything but what I am: a creature of iron and frost, of duty and possession, of power that corrupts everything it touches.

The bells continue to toll as I descend to my council chamber, where the Lords await with their accusations and demands. I force thoughts of Calliope to the back of my mind, lock away the heart-deep ache of missing her. I cannot be her husband now. Cannot be the man who dreams of her every night, who would burn the world to find her.

I must be their king. Their dragon. Their monster.