The snow had not stopped since midnight.
It fell in a fine, continuous mist across the inner courtyards of Winterspire, blanketing the stone in silence. Servants moved quietly through the halls, brushing frost from window ledges and lighting fresh braziers. Morning had arrived, but the sun had not yet broken through the clouds — a grey dawn filtered through the castle like a held breath.
In the northern wing, the council chamber flickered with firelight.
A dozen lesser nobles and stewards were seated around the frost-glass table, their cloaks damp with snow and their gloves removed in the presence of the Duke and Duchess. Each wore the colors of their house — deep maroon, storm grey, forest green — but all their eyes turned toward the scroll laid open at the head of the table.
The seal of the crown had already been broken.
"He's not coming," Elenysa said, tone flat. "He's sending a representative."
Silence stretched, broken only by the crackling hearth and the soft scratch of quill against parchment from a clerk in the corner.
Renivar said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the flame at the center of the chamber's brass candelabra, his thoughts far from the fire. The message before them — formal, measured, and steeped in royal ambiguity — was not the only one he'd received.
The first scroll had arrived two nights ago. No crest. No escort. Delivered by a silent rider wrapped in black and bearing the old sigil of the Crown's Quiet Hand — a symbol no longer spoken of in polite court.
He hadn't shown it to Elenysa.
Not yet.
"Do not stir the North," it had read. "Do not call your banners. Do not draw the sword. The Crown watches, but the gods are hungry elsewhere."
What disturbed him most was not the command, but the timing. The Faithborn had already begun moving, and the King wanted quiet?
Renivar blinked once, clearing his thoughts.
"It's a warning," Elenysa continued. "A veiled one. The King wants to remind the North where we stand."
"At the edge," muttered Baron Ersell. "Same as always."
Caelen sat quietly off to the side, legs swinging from the bench, too tall for him. He watched his parents closely. His father's posture was like a carved blade — unmoving, unreadable. His mother's voice, sharp but measured, like snow before a storm.
He had never been allowed to sit in on a council before. But this morning, Renivar had summoned him personally.
"Why?" Caelen had asked, blinking sleep from his eyes.
"Because," Renivar had said, "you need to start learning the rules before they play you."
The council murmured on — nobles trading barbed observations and historical grievances like weapons no longer drawn, but still sharp. Talk of the capital city, Solmarra, and its stagnant court. Talk of House Arcanthus, too embroiled in eastern border raids. Talk of House Solmara, busy mining gold and trading spirit-silk while the rest of the kingdom froze.
Elenysa grew sharper with each question.
Renivar, still calm, finally raised a hand.
"We answer the summons," he said. "We host the envoy. We remain cold… but civil."
There was reluctant nodding around the table.
At the far end, a steward entered with another scroll. "Urgent," he said.
Renivar took it, but did not read it aloud.
Later, he thought. Not now.
Caelen sat across from his father near the hearth, curled up in one of the velvet-lined chairs he was still too small to properly fill. The flames crackled gently between them, casting golden light along the stone floor and dancing shadows up the frost-veined walls. Outside, the wind howled faintly through the tower spires — not violent, but warning.
This wasn't a court. No lords were watching, no titles hanging between them like swords. Just a father and son, sharing silence that had grown heavier with every hour since dawn.
Caelen's eyes flicked to the scroll tucked into Renivar's belt — the one he hadn't opened in front of the council.
"Are we in trouble?" he asked softly.
Renivar didn't answer at first.
He turned his gaze toward the fire, eyes distant, his jaw lined in quiet tension. For a moment, Caelen saw something in his father's expression that unsettled him — not fear, exactly, but hesitation.
Then the Duke sighed, low and deep, and turned back to his son.
"No," he said at last, "we're not in trouble."
Caelen tilted his head. "But something's wrong."
"You're too observant," Renivar muttered, and his mouth twitched into a small smile — but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yes. Something is wrong. Or... something is coming. I can't say which yet."
"Because of the King?"
Renivar's fingers tapped absently against the armrest.
"It's not just the King," he said. "It's the capital. The silence from the southern ports. The priests were talking too loudly in Solmarra's temples. The Faithborn Empire is moving soldiers as if they've forgotten what a border means."
He paused, voice quieter.
"Even the other Dukes… Arcanthus and Solmara… They're distant, yes, but they're watching us. Like wolves watching another freeze to death."
Caelen's brow furrowed. "So… are they coming here?"
Renivar looked at him closely.
The boy still had softness in his face — the kind only children were allowed. A trace of roundness in his cheeks. Eyes that hadn't yet seen war. And God willing, never would.
"Not yet," Renivar said carefully. "But the wind has changed. And when the storm hits, it won't knock politely."
Caelen shifted in his chair, pulling his knees up.
"I won't be ready," he said. Not definitely— just stating it like a truth.
Renivar blinked, surprised. Then, gently, he stood and crossed the space between them, lowering himself to one knee beside the chair.
"No one is ever ready," he said. "Not for fire. Not for betrayal. Not for loss."
He took Caelen's small hands in his calloused ones.
"But you don't have to be ready today, Cael. You just have to remember. Who are you? Who do you come from?"
Caelen's lips pressed together. He didn't speak, but his eyes shimmered faintly in the firelight.
Renivar touched his son's cheek, brushing back a loose lock of dark hair.
"I don't know what this world will look like a month from now," he said. "I don't know what choices we'll be forced to make. But I swear to you, on this house, on your mother's name, on Winterheart itself—"
He leaned forward, voice low and fierce.
"—I will do everything in my power to keep you alive. To keep you whole. And to make sure that when the storm comes… you're not caught beneath it."
He paused.
"You are not the wind-blown boy, Caelen. You are the storm."
Caelen didn't reply.
But he nodded — just once—and didn't look away.
The chamber where Caelen was being prepared was warm, not from the hearthfire, which had long since gone out, but from the bustle of two overworked attendants trying to make a six-year-old look like royalty.
"Tunic straight," Tolen muttered under his breath, fingers fumbling with the silver clasps. "Not too tight — if it's too tight, he can't breathe, and if he can't breathe, he passes out, and then I'm the one polishing the banquet floor until next spring—"
"You're pulling it crooked again," the older maid sighed from across the room.
"I am not—!"
"You are. Look—his left sleeve's twisted."
Caelen stood on a carved wooden stool in the center of the room, arms slightly outstretched like a snow-stuffed scarecrow, dressed in a deep navy tunic trimmed in fine white embroidery. The Glaciem crest — a silver sword wreathed in falling snow — shimmered faintly across the chest. He fidgeted with the cuffs of his sleeves, trying not to yawn.
"I don't see why I have to go," he said.
"Because," the maid replied, smoothing out his collar with sharp, quick movements, "your father said so."
"Because," Tolen corrected, voice softer, "you're the heir. Which means sometimes you sit and smile at people who hate you."
Caelen gave him a look. "That sounds stupid."
"Very," Tolen agreed, grinning. "But that's court."
"You've never been to court."
"Doesn't mean I don't understand it." Tolen stepped back and gave an exaggerated bow. "Presenting: Caelen of House Glaciem, Slayer of Cravats, Vanquisher of Overly Starched Collars."
Caelen snorted.
The maid rolled her eyes but allowed the moment.
Then she handed Caelen his formal cloak — velvet-lined, fur-trimmed, silver-draped — and opened the chamber doors.
"Time to smile, my lord," she said, half-genuine.
Winterspire's great hall had once hosted kings.
The banners lining the stone columns reached high into the vaulted ceiling, each one hand-stitched over generations — House Glaciem's silver and white above all, flanked by smaller standards belonging to long-forgotten vassals, trade lords, and exiled knights.
Tonight, the hearths roared with life. Dozens of tables had been laid out, though only a fraction were filled. The banners still hung, but they fluttered in the cold air that crept through the upper windows. It was a feast in name only — meat and bread, wine and bitterroot cider, and the company of minor nobles with long memories and short gratitude.
Caelen entered with a light escort — one knight and a steward — and was guided toward a raised seat near the center table. He sat among boys near his age, each from different bloodlines: sons of barons, nephews of low-counts, a squire from the Eastern Range.
Some bowed politely when he arrived. Others looked away.
One boy, red-haired and round-faced, offered a too-wide grin. "The Snow Heir, come down from his glacier."
Caelen blinked. "What?"
"Oh, nothing." The boy leaned closer. "Heard you nearly froze the lake trying to impress your mother. Brave stuff."
Another boy chuckled. "Heard the lake cracked. Thought the whole thing was coming down."
A third voice chimed in, this one quieter — but clearer: "That's what happens when a house has more snow than swords."
The laughter that followed was too quick to be casual.
Caelen said nothing.
He looked down at his goblet, fingers brushing the polished rim.
A moment later, someone else spoke — not loud, but near him.
"My father says House Glaciem still commands more land than any two barons combined," said a boy with dark skin and well-trimmed hair. "And the first wall always bears the most arrows."
The others quieted.
Caelen glanced up. The boy gave him a nod. Respectful. Neutral.
Then returned to his meal without another word.
From the high table, Renivar Glaciem watched his son with the quiet, unmoving stillness of a man used to war, though none was being fought tonight, at least not with swords.
Caelen sat among the other heirs and squires three tables down, posture perfect, face composed. The seat was too large for him, the sleeves of his formal tunic just a bit too stiff — but he bore it all without complaint.
Elenysa, beside Renivar, kept her gaze narrowed. "They mock him in whispers," she murmured, just loud enough for her husband to hear. "But they watch him when they think no one sees."
"They watch because they remember," Renivar said without looking away. "And they mock because they want to forget."
Elenysa gave a quiet snort. "You're waxing poetic now?"
"No. I'm watching our son learn politics."
She followed his gaze. At Caelen's table, a knot of boys had clustered — each wearing their house colors like birds with puffed chests, their voices hushed but smug. The youngest sons of barons, the prideful nephews of minor lords — boys who had been told too often they were important, and never told enough how fragile that importance was.
Caelen sat quietly, hands in his lap, saying little.
One of the boys leaned closer to another, cupping a hand to his mouth — but not far enough to escape notice.
"Snow prince doesn't say much," he said, loud enough to be heard. "Maybe his lips froze shut on the way down from the tower."
The boy beside him giggled. Another muttered something Caelen couldn't quite hear, but the word "icicle" caught in the air, drawing soft laughs from those close enough.
"Don't laugh," the red-haired boy from earlier said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "He might cry. What do you think snow-tears feel like?"
That earned louder laughter.
Caelen said nothing. He stared down at the warm cider in his wooden cup and didn't move.
Tolen, standing nearby with a tray of bread and cured ham slices, shot a look at the mockers so sharp it could've chipped stone. He glanced at Caelen and gave the faintest shake of his head — not in warning, but solidarity.
Elenysa shifted at the high table.
Renivar's voice came low. "Don't. Let him face it."
"He's a child," she said, teeth clenched.
"So are they," he replied. "But only one of them will grow into something that matters."
For a while, the noise in the hall returned — muted talk, the clatter of forks against dishes, the scrape of chairs. It almost settled.
Until one voice rang out, clearer than the rest.
It belonged to a boy a year or two older than Caelen, tall for his age, with dark curls and a sneering mouth. He stood beside the hearth where a group of young nobles had been trading stories.
"I heard they don't even have a standing guard anymore," he said, facing no one in particular. "Just a sword buried in snow and a bunch of frozen old ghosts."
Laughter followed — louder this time.
Then he turned toward Caelen's table and raised his cup of spiced cider.
"To the Snow House," he said with mock pride. "May their icicles last longer than their bannermen."
This time, the hall quieted.
Not all at once. But enough. Forks paused mid-bite. Conversations stilled. The fire crackled a little louder in the hush.
Caelen didn't rise. Didn't speak.
He only looked down at his cup.
Then slowly — carefully — he set it aside, folded his hands in his lap, and stared at the boy who had spoken.
There was no heat in his eyes.
Only cold.
The laughter still lingered like smoke, curling in the rafters above.
Caelen sat unmoving, his cup untouched. Around him, the boys returned to their chatter, now more emboldened. Every glance felt like a jab. Every whisper sounded like a blade scraping stone.
Across the hall, Elenysa leaned toward her husband, voice a thread of silk stretched tight.
"That boy," she said. "The one who made the toast. You know his crest?"
Renivar nodded once. "Cyral Vaunt. Son of Lord Deryn Vaunt. Southern barony. Borderline noble in wealth, but always posturing."
"They've always vied for favor with the Crown," Elenysa murmured. "Ever since the Faithborn War. His grandfather tried to buy his way into court by marrying into the royal chamberlain's line."
"Didn't take," Renivar replied. "The royals saw through it. But the ambition stuck."
They both glanced toward Caelen.
He hadn't moved.
But the space around him had.
The air near the boy's table shimmered faintly, as if light itself warped around his chair. Tiny droplets of condensation formed on the goblets nearby. The pitcher of cider beside him developed a fine sheen of frost.
The temperature dropped — not by much, but enough for those closest to him to notice.
"Is it colder?" one boy whispered.
Another rubbed his arms. "I… I think so."
Tolen looked up, eyes going wide. He opened his mouth to say something, but Caelen stood before hehimould speak.
Slowly. Quietly.
He stepped away from the table, his boots clicking softly against the stone. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't announce himself. He just walked straight toward the hearth where Cyral Vaunt and the others stood.
The firelight caught in his eyes — not gold, not silver, but the flat, glinting reflection of something ancient and cold.
Cyral turned when he saw the movement. His smirk didn't falter.
"Well, well," he said, brushing a crumb from his tunic. "Is the little frost prince going to cry, or did he finally thaw enough to speak?"
Caelen stopped three paces from him.
"No," he said simply. "But I think it's time someone shut you up."
The boys around Cyral chuckled — more nervously this time. One took a half-step back.
Cyral's smirk deepened. "You want to fight me? In front of your lord father? Here? Now?"
A beat.
"I don't want to," Caelen said, his voice steady. "But I'm going to."
Up at the high table, Elenysa tensed.
Renivar's eyes remained locked on his son, his fingers lightly tapping the hilt of his dagger.
"Don't interfere," he murmured to the steward behind them. "Unless there's blood."
In the hall, servants had begun to pause. So had a few knights.
Tolen stepped forward, voice hushed. "Caelen—"
But the space between the two boys had already shifted. You could feel it.
The stone beneath their feet shimmered faintly. A fine mist — barely visible — swirled at their ankles.
Caelen raised his hands — not into a fighting stance exactly, but something close. Like he wasn't entirely sure what he was doing… only that he had to do it.
Cyral rolled his eyes, tossing his cloak back.
"This should be fun."
He stepped forward, lunging—
And slipped.
Not on spilled cider, not on a discarded plate — but on a thin, invisible layer of ice that had crept across the stone like breath across glass.
Cyral hit the floor hard, gasping, hand scraping against the ground. As he scrambled to push himself up, frostbitten welts began to form along his fingers.
Gasps echoed around the room.
Caelen didn't move. Didn't speak. He just stood over him, cold air coiling around his shoulders like a cloak.
Then, softly, his voice came.
"You should be careful," he said, gaze flat. "Even snow can cut if you're too proud to feel it."
A hush hung over the hall, breathless and still.
The frost had not yet melted from the stone, and Cyral's shallow gasps were the only sound that followed Caelen's words.
Then—
"Enough."
The voice was not loud. It didn't need to be.
Renivar Glaciem's boots echoed across the ice-laced stone as he stepped forward, robes trailing behind him like a tide. His expression was unreadable — carved from the same winter stone that coated the floors — but his eyes, sharp and pale like a frozen sea, fixed on his son with something deeper than anger.
Not fury. Not shame.
Control.
Caelen lowered his hands slowly, but the mist around him did not fade.
"I didn't mean—" he began.
But his mother was already moving.
Elenysa's hand found his shoulder, firm and grounding. Her presence softened the cold air around them, as if even the frost dared not offend her. Dressed in silver and ice-blue silk, she was every inch the Lady of House Glaciem — poised, elegant, dangerous in silence.
"That's enough, Caelen," she said gently.
Her voice bore no scorn. Just precision. Like a snowflake balanced on a blade's edge.
She looked past him to Cyral, still on the ground, and then to the stunned crowd.
"Someone fetch a healer," she said, without looking back. "And see Lord Cyral escorted to a recovery chamber."
Two knights snapped from their stunned silence, moving quickly to obey.
Renivar reached Caelen at last, stopping only a pace away. The air between father and son felt brittle.
"You'll come with me," the Duke said simply. "Now."
Caelen hesitated.
Then nodded.
Not because he feared punishment, but because his father's words left no room for anything else.
Elenysa gave Caelen's shoulder a final squeeze before stepping aside. As they walked together — the Duke and his son — the crowd parted like tall grass in the wind.
Only Tolen remained frozen, staring at the thin, beautiful cracks that still spidered across the stone.
They walked in silence.
The halls seemed colder now, not from Caelen's power, but from the weight hanging over him like fresh snow on heavy branches. Past the tall glass windows and the flickering sconces, the corridor stretched too long, too quiet.
Renivar didn't speak.
And that made it worse.
They stepped into the study, the door closing behind them with a quiet thud. The fireplace was already lit, soft flames dancing against the stone hearth. It should've felt warm. Safe.
Caelen didn't sit.
He stood near the chair, shoulders stiff, staring down at the floor as if the frost might still be clinging to his boots.
Renivar watched him for a long moment, then spoke gently.
"Sit, Caelen."
Caelen obeyed, wordless. He sat on the edge of the chair, fists clenched in his lap, chin down.
"I know what you're going to say," he muttered.
Renivar raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"
"You're disappointed."
A long silence.
Then, quietly: "Are you?"
Caelen's eyes flicked up, confused. "What?"
Renivar leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. His voice remained calm, but there was an edge beneath it. Not anger. Something colder. Sharper. Like the truth.
"You're not disappointed in me, Caelen?"
Caelen's face crumpled, frustration welling in his throat.
"I heard what he said," he snapped, though his voice cracked. "About you. About our House. That we're only here because the King tolerates us. That we're 'decorative,' that we belong in the snow where we can't bother anyone."
He looked away, jaw tight.
"I tried to ignore it. I read. But I couldn't keep listening. I couldn't just sit there while he made fun of you. Of our name. Of the Dukedom."
Renivar said nothing for a beat.
Caelen's voice dropped.
"I didn't mean to embarrass you…"
The words barely made it out, but they hit harder than any outburst. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of the chair, knuckles pale.
"I just… didn't want him to act like we don't matter."
The silence stretched again, heavier this time.
The Renivar stood.
He walked slowly over to Caelen and crouched beside him, eye-level now. His hand rested on Caelen's arm — steady, warm.
"You didn't embarrass me."
Caelen blinked, uncertain.
"I'm not disappointed in you. I'm proud," Renivar said, firm now. "Because you cared more about our name than your comfort. That matters."
He let out a quiet breath, like frost thawing from a windowpane.
"But there's a lesson in it, too, Caelen. What they say…It's not always about truth. It's about power. The other Houses laugh because they think we're distant. Cold. Easy to forget."
He tapped Caelen's chest, just above the heart.
"They forget what cold can do when it decides to move."
Caelen swallowed, the weight inside him slowly easing — not gone, but not so crushing.
"You'll understand more when you're older. The politics. The pride. The ugliness behind noble smiles. But for now?"
Renivar stood again, offering a faint smile.
"You did well. Just one note for next time."
Caelen looked up, blinking.
"Freeze the ankles. One good punch to the jaw. That'll silence a lot more than your words ever could."
Caelen stared.
Then laughed — short, stunned, relieved. And Renivar joined him, the warmth of it settling between them like fresh snow after a storm.
Caelen left the study with a lighter step than when he'd entered, the faintest trail of frost fading behind him as his mood lifted. His shoulders no longer sagged. He wasn't smiling, not quite — but the weight on his chest had loosened. For now, that was enough.
The door closed softly behind him.
And Renivar did not move.
He stood by the fire, silent as the icebound peaks beyond their northern walls, his gaze caught in the flames. They reflected in his eyes not like warmth, but like something he understood was dangerous — and distant.
House Vaunt.
That name echoed like a cracked bell in his mind. Their crest: a snarling golden beast with eyes always set too high. All teeth. All noise. For years, they'd barked from the safety of southern courts, emboldened by proximity to the King and flattered by their merchant allies.
But now they'd barked at his son.
That... was different.
Renivar moved to the far wall of the study, where ancient volumes lined the shelves — treatises on old wars, codices written in frost-runes, and worn books whose titles had long faded. Behind them, a narrow groove in the stone.
His fingers found the latch by muscle memory.
Click.
The wall shifted with a subtle grind of stone.
Darkness spilled out.
Not a simple shadow, but something colder. Deeper. It flowed like mist but carried weight, as if memory itself were leaking from the past. The air changed. Not temperature, but presence.
Inside the passage, beyond the threshold of sight… something stirred.
No light revealed them. They needed none.
Two shapes emerged in silence.
One was tall — impossibly tall — its silhouette broad and hunched slightly, as if it had spent centuries folded into the dark. Its breath came slowly like ice groaning under pressure.
Beside it, a smaller form.
Slim, alert, hooded. Its movements were sharper, quicker — like a blade in sheath waiting for its draw. It tilted its head, curious, perhaps, to have been summoned.
Renivar didn't look at them. He never did. He only spoke, voice low and deliberate.
"Send a whisper to the Vaunt estate. Something small. Subtle. Let them feel frost on their walls and doubt in their hearts. Nothing traced. No blood."
The taller figure let out a low exhale — a sound like wind curling through frozen ruins.
The smaller one nodded once, barely visible in the dark.
Neither spoke. They never did.
They simply turned… and vanished back into the gloom, soundless as snowfall.
The passage sealed once more, leaving no trace it had ever opened.
Renivar returned to his desk. Poured himself a drink. Pale blue ice crystals bloomed in the glass before the liquor touched them.
He didn't smile.
Not all battles were fought with banners.
Not all victories need light to be seen.
Some were forged in silence —where cold things watched, and colder things waited to be remembered.
And winter always had shadows.
Outside the study, Elenysa waited, poised as ever.
She had heard the laughter at the end — light and quick, like a spring cracking through ice. That was good.
When Caelen stepped out, he looked up at her, his expression still tight with worry, the ghost of guilt behind his eyes.
"Did he scold you?" she asked softly.
He shook his head, uncertain. "No… but I thought he would. I thought he'd be angry."
"Of course he wasn't."
She reached out, brushing her fingers lightly through his hair — not to fix it, but to ground him.
They walked slowly together, her hand resting on his back as they passed the tall, arched windows of the east wing. Moonlight spilled across the corridor in pale rivers. A few servants bowed and quickly turned away, whispering nothing. The tension from the hall still lingered like a mist.
They didn't speak until they were alone in the quieter wing of the manor.
Elenysa glanced down at him. "You know," she said, "when I was a girl — maybe thirteen — your father once froze a boy's braid to the fountain in the rose courtyard."
Caelen blinked. "What? Really?"
"Mhm," she smiled, remembering. "The boy made a crude joke about me — said my family were only marrying into Glaciem to 'warm the bloodline.' Your father was... not pleased."
"What happened?"
"He didn't shout. Didn't strike him." She smirked. "He simply walked past, and by the time he did, the braid was stuck solid to the stone. The poor boy yanked half his hair out, trying to break free."
Caelen laughed quietly.
"I asked him why afterward," Elenysa continued. "Why not just ignore it. And he said… 'Some people only understand cold when it touches bone.'"
Caelen looked up at her, eyes thoughtful. "I didn't mean to hurt Cyral. I just… I couldn't let him keep saying things like that. About Father. About us."
Elenysa's smile faded into something softer. She crouched slightly to meet his gaze.
"I know, Cael. You did what you thought was right. That matters."
They turned the corner and passed through the portrait gallery, where ancient Glaciem ancestors stared out from dark frames. Pale-eyed, sharp-jawed, like spirits etched in cold smoke and memory.
"You carry our name," Elenysa said, her tone quiet but certain. "That means something. But strength isn't always ice and fury. Sometimes the hardest thing… is knowing when not to strike."
She looked down at him again.
"And when to strike well."
They reached his door. A soft fire crackled inside, already warming the stone. His bed had been turned down, the carved polarwolf still standing sentry at its foot.
Caelen climbed in without being told, his small frame curling into the plush furs.
Elenysa sat at the edge, brushing a bit of hair from his forehead, her hand lingering there.
"You didn't disappoint us," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "You never could."
Caelen's eyes fluttered.
"…Will they stop laughing?" he asked.
Elenysapausess, not uncertain, but weighing her answer.
"Not yet," she admitted. "But they'll learn."
She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple.
"Sleep now, little wolf. Let the snow guard your dreams."
He was asleep before she stood.
She lingered in the doorway for a moment, fingers resting over her heart — not from worry, but reverence.
He was so young. A nd already the storm was beginning to stir behind his eyes.
Then she turned and walked back into the long, cold corridors of House Glaciem —where winter was always watching, a nd always waiting.