My throat tightens.
“I didn’t want this for you, Daughter. But there is no other way.” He doesn’t wait for my response, just turns away again as if he can’t bear to be in my presence alone.
“Father, please.” I freeze him in place with my words once more. “Before I leave, I—the nonwielders. Their treatment is—”
“Not this again, Mayah.”
“They wouldn’t join the Rebellion in droves if we didn’t—”
“Enough.”
“Look at Volca! A land of formidable firewielders, yet they treat nonwielders with dignity and—”
“I said enough!” His angry shout cracks through the room like a whip. “They are beneath us, Mayah.” His tone is flat. Final. “It’s well past time you learned that.”
My voice is quiet, defeated. “But, Mama…”
“Your mother is dead.”
Without another word, he sweeps from the room, leaving the weight of his words—and his silence—behind.
The door shuts.
I don’t move.
The chill in the room has nothing to do with the ice walls.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. I go through the motions as servants put the finishing touches on my ceremonial dress—an ice blue gown studded with crystals and lined with fur along the collar and sleeves.
“Would you like to see the Grand Hall, Princess?” one of the servants asks me, a middle-aged woman with streaks of white in her dark hair.
The Grand Hall is where Crown Prince Faramir will accept me as his betrothed, sealing both my fate and my kingdom’s.
I shake my head.
The woman’s hands still, lingering on the fabric of my gown.
“I’m sorry, Princess.” A lump forms in my throat as her pitying gaze meets mine in the mirror. She squeezes my hand, her eyes glistening. “When … when he comes to your bed, just do as he says, Princess. It will be easier.”
I nod numbly, but inside I’m screaming.
How many women before me were told the same thing?
How many will come after?
She says nothing more as she hems a few threads that had unraveled.
When she finishes, I undress in silence.
I try not to let it suffocate me.
I’ve barely settled into my bed, heavy fur blanket tugged up to my chin, when the door creaks open.
I don’t need light to know it’s him.
Daak slips in like he always does, a quiet presence in the dark. His silhouette crosses the room, and the mattress dips beneath his weight. I shift, making space, and he gathers me against his chest like he always has.
His scent washes over me—fresh snow and spruce—and for a moment, I let myself forget what tomorrow holds.
“I’m so sorry, Mayah,” he whispers into my hair, his voice cracked and raw. It fissures something in my chest.
“I know,” I breathe. My heart aches. It hurts how much I find comfort in him. In this. In pretending, just for tonight, that nothing will change.
But everything will.
“I wish things were different,” he murmurs, stroking soothing patterns down my spine. “That I’d met you in another life. One where you weren’t a princess. One where I wasn’t bound to your father.”
My throat tightens.
“One where I wasn’t promised to the enemy,” I say softly.
He doesn’t respond for a long time.
Then—“You’re more than just a promise to me, Mayah. My heart is yours.”
A beat. And then he pulls back, just enough to see my face in the dim light. His blue eyes are aching with all the words we never dared say.
“I love you,” he whispers, finally letting them crystallize.
I blink. The words land somewhere deep inside me, like a drop of warm water in an endless, frozen sea.
“I love you, too, Daak.” My voice is soft, as if saying the words too loud will shatter the precious moment around us.
“I know,” he whispers back. “I’ve always known.”
Another beat of silence.
“I’ll always love you, Mayah. And I’ll find you.”
The words linger between us—fragile, final.
Fleeting.
A sudden boom of thunder rattles the icy walls of my chambers, and I gasp, instinctively burying my face in his chest.
There hadn’t been a storm in weeks.
Daak tightens his hold. “It’s just noise,” he says, but he knows it’s more than that. He’s seen what it does to me.
Thunderstorms used to be rare in Tundrayn, but they’ve grown more frequent in the last two decades. And every single one steals the air from my lungs. They reduce me to a child again—small, sniveling, helpless.
What will I do in Arbinj, the land of brutal stormwielders and their violent thunderstorms?
“Mayah,” Daak says, gently tilting my chin. His forehead presses against mine. “You’re going to survive this. You’re going to do what you’ve always done. You’ll create a better future for all of Tundrayn. And you’ll do it with that stubborn fire in your chest that terrifies half the palace. And me, if I’m being honest.”
I laugh, but it’s watery. “You make me sound like a force of nature.”
“You are.”
Another rumble shakes the windows. I flinch, and Daak holds me tighter.
“I’ll see you again,” he says, voice fierce in the dark.
He holds me until I fall asleep, the storm raging around us.
CHAPTER THREE
DAAK IS GONE WHEN I wake, but I’m not surprised. A flock of servants rush in and dress me for the betrothal ceremony.
By the end, I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. My dark hair is left loose, gentle waves cascading down my back and a few loose curls framing my face. Dark kohl lines my blue eyes, and the effect is so dramatic they appear almost too large for my face. My lips are dotted with rouge, a soft pink against my pale skin. Snowpowder, dusted across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose, conceals my faint freckles.
Servants lead me through the corridors, three carrying the train of my gown, until we arrive at the Hall of Ancestors. They form a neat line outside the towering double doors, arms folded and heads bowed.
Only Tundrayni royalty may enter the Hall of Ancestors.
I steel myself with a deep breath.
The door thuds shut behind me.
Hundreds of ice sculptures line the vast room, tall statues of men and women that no longer tread the snows. Icicles hang from the high, vaulted ceiling, casting long shadows across the carved faces—some are still sharp, though others bear features blunted by time.
“Honored ancestors,” I whisper, my breath misting in the cool air. “Today is my betrothal. I seek your blessing and wisdom.” I clasp my hands together and bow my head before weaving a path through the aisles. Though I stop briefly at each statue, there is one in particular I seek.
Turmah. My grandmother.
I crane my head, eyes squinting against the filtered sunlight. Her features are still crisp, not yet weathered by the years. Turmah appears regal and serene. In the straight bridge of her nose and smooth curve of her chin, I see Father.
Her ice robes are cold beneath my reverent fingers.
I’m not the first Tundrayni princess that was sent to Arbinj with the hope of peace. My grandmother made the journey decades before me. Her marriage lasted only three months—three months of agony and humiliation and abuse—before a group of Tundrayni warriors rescued her.
I trail my fingers higher until I reach Turmah’s sleeve. The ice here is sharp, jagged, where a piece of the sculpture was hacked off.
Because when Turmah returned, she was missing her left hand.
Before she escaped, her Arbinji husband had chopped it off, along with her betrothal ring. After she returned home, Turmah married one of the warriors who had rescued her, later giving birth to my father. According to stories from white-haired servants, she was never the same after her ordeal, always easily startled. Haunted.
