The cold entered before she did.
It seeped through the chamber like a living thing, curling around Arlo's skin, sliding beneath his clothes, sinking into his bones.
He looked up from the edge of the bed, and his heart stopped at the sight of the door.
It had been left ajar—just a crack—and in that narrow slice of space stood the one person he least wanted to see yet most needed to face.
The Queen.
Her figure filled the doorway like a shadow given shape, her white hair catching the faint light of the braziers, her expression unreadable but her presence undeniable.
No clatter of footsteps, no announcement, no preamble.
Arlo's throat went dry.
He scrambled to his feet out of instinct—standing straighter than he felt, his shoulders stiff even as his legs almost shook.
The room itself seemed to shrink around her.
The temperature dropped so quickly his breath turned visible, faint wisps of vapor rising in front of his face like smoke.
She hadn't spoken, not a word, and yet the weight of her gaze pinned him where he stood.
'Play it smart,' he told himself. 'You can't look weak, not now. She'll eat you alive if you do.'
But the betraying tremor in his hands told a different story.
She stepped inside, the door closing behind her without a sound.
No servant followed, no knight in shadowed armor. Just her, in a room with him alone.
Her eyes swept the chamber—not hurried, not searching, just a languid sweep of ownership, as though she were reminding him of a truth: that this place, this cold, even the very air he breathed, belonged to her.
Finally, her gaze landed on him. Steady. Unblinking.
Arlo forced his lips into a thin line, then parted them before his nerve could crack.
"I know what you're doing," he said. His voice came out quieter than intended, but at least it didn't crack.
He swallowed, pushing through the tightness in his throat. "I don't know what your angle is, but I'm not naïve enough to think I'm anything more than… a pawn in whatever game you're playing."
The words felt braver than he was. His heart was hammering so violently it was a wonder she couldn't hear it.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—
Her lips curved.
Not a wide smile, not a grin.
Just the faintest curl, a shadow of amusement ghosting across her pale face.
"Is that so?"
The words were soft, almost gentle.
But in that softness was a blade.
Arlo's chest tightened.
He had expected denial, perhaps mockery, maybe even a burst of laughter.
But not this.
Not the calm amusement of someone who had already mapped every move before the game even began.
Her steps were slow as she crossed the chamber, her presence trailing frost in the air like the tail of a comet.
She didn't come directly toward him.
Instead, she circled—her movements unhurried, her eyes tracing him as one might observe a curious animal.
Arlo tried not to flinch as she moved behind him, though every nerve screamed at the vulnerability.
He wanted to turn, to track her, but forced himself to stay still.
Turning would mean showing fear.
And fear was already dripping from him in waves.
"You speak as though you've uncovered something clever," she murmured from behind, her voice closer than he expected, almost at his shoulder. "As though your trembling hands and uneven breath do not betray you."
Arlo's fists clenched.
He shoved them behind his back, willing the shaking to stop.
"But it isn't a lie," he muttered.
She appeared at his side, her face tilting just enough that her eyes caught his.
"Maybe," she said simply.
The silence stretched again.
Arlo's pulse thudded in his ears, and his mind raced for some line, some way to salvage ground.
"You enjoy this," he said suddenly, forcing the words through gritted teeth. "My fear. That's all this is to you, isn't it? Amusement."
Her head tilted the other way, studying him.
Her lips curved again, just slightly wider.
"Amusement," she echoed. "An interesting word." She took a step closer, her voice lowering as if confiding something delicate. "You mortals cling to courage with trembling fingers, as though the act of speaking boldly might outweigh the sound of your heart betraying you."
Arlo's chest burned. 'She's toying with me again.'
"I'm not stupid," he said, sharper this time. "Whatever this is—this… marriage nonsense—it's probably not tradition. It's definitely not romance. It's not even strategy. You're just—" He caught himself before blurting bored.
The word felt too dangerous. "You're just messing with people."
Her gaze lingered, patient.
And then, almost idly, she turned away, her cloak trailing like mist across the stone floor.
She seated herself in the high-backed chair near the corner, settling in as though she owned not just the throne, but every seat in every room.
Only then did she speak again.
"You're not wrong," she said, almost lazily, resting her chin against her palm. "But you're not right, either."
Arlo blinked, his thoughts stumbling. "Then what—"
Her hand rose, cutting him off without effort. Not a command, not a gesture of power—just a dismissal, elegant and absolute.
"Speculation amuses me, but it isn't the truth."
She leaned forward slightly, her eyes sharpening, pinning him again like a spear through flesh.
"Now that we are done with that matter," she said softly, her tone kind yet wickedly playful, "you now have exactly three tries to tell me who exactly you are… and how you popped up in my vault. Don't waste them"
The words hung in the air like frost, sharp and unyielding.
Arlo's mouth went dry.
She wasn't asking. She was demanding—smiling sweetly as she laid out the gallows.
Three tries.
Her smile deepened, serene and lethal, as she waited.
And Arlo could only stand there, heart in his throat, realizing that whatever he said next might decide whether he walked out of this chamber alive.