Page 5 of Omen of ice
I feel his gaze on me as I make my way toward the party and slip inside through the southern entrance. The hall outside the ballroom teems with party guests. They offer enthusiastic greetings as I pass, dressed in their finery, the most lavish silks and jewels the kingdom has to offer, all in the Winter Lord’s bland signature colors—silver and ice-blue. I once suggested changing them to orange and green. No one was amused.
Music drifts from the cavernous room, a spirited melody that has a generous portion of the guests dancing with a frenzy. Cheers and laughter ring out. They mingle with the sound of clinking glasses and clanging cutlery. It’s a familiar—and somewhat predictable—scene of revelry that my uncle has become known for.
Orbik sits at the front of the hall, seated with my aunt behind the main table. He’s talking to Fedica, one of the winter nymphs who oversees Havierst, the small forest that borders the Winter Lands in the south. His crown glints, the ice-diamonds making Fedica wince each time he tilts his head and they catch the light. There are rumors that he wears the damned thing to bed, and it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it has become fused to his huge head.
Several wood nymphs join the conversation, and they look less than thrilled. Relationships with the nymphs have become tense in recent months. Stragglers from the remains of the other courts are becoming more brazen, their desperation pushing them across our borders. They steal and ransack the villages in search of supplies. There was a time my uncle would have moved mountains to stop them. I’m told he would rally his guard and lead them himself until the last of the scavengers were driven from the land. Now, he rarely leaves the estate. Probably a good thing. Going into battle with that ridiculous crown on his head would cause balance problems.
“Valen! Over here. We have Geela wine!” a male voice calls from the crowd, while a small group of Fae along the far wall bat their eyes and pose provocatively to catch my attention.
“Val!” another shouts from a cluster of men by the bar. Several in the group lift their glasses and cheer before tipping their heads back to drain their drinks.
I move farther into the room, colliding with a small but surprisingly solid obstacle.
“Have you forgotten me so soon?” The estate chef’s daughter, Kitara, wraps a soft hand around my arm. “I called on you this morning. Are you avoiding me?”
She’s pretty. Stunning, really, with chestnut hair that just barely brushes the bottoms of her ears. Her gauzy white dress leaves little to the imagination, adorned with crystals of ice-blue and silver. I should be struck by the sight of her. Breath stolen and heart pounding at the sound of her delicate voice. Kitara is strength and beauty—everything someone like me should want.
Should but don’t.
“The only one I have the energy to try avoiding in this place is Kopic.” I extract myself from her grip. “Did we have something to discuss? Because I thought we were just having fun.”
Her lips press thin, and the lines of her jaw twitch as she fights a grin. “Are you implying you don’t believe us to be destined for a claim?”
“Save it for fables and wistful romantics.” I laugh. We enjoy each other’s company occasionally, but aforever bondisn’t in our future, and she knows it. “You’re more sensible than that.”
“You have a point.” She pouts, then gestures toward the door with a wicked grin. “Should we find someplace quieter toenjoy each other? I might even be willing to share you this evening.”
“As tempting as that is, I’m afraid I’m going to pass.” I turn to my uncle. He’s still talking with Fedica, but it seems the conversation is winding down. “There are court matters to discuss with my uncle.”
“Court matters?” Kitara lets out an undignified snort. “Is there a party to plan? A drinking contest to participate in?” She leans close, her breath smelling of Geela wine and sweet fruit. “What could the Winter Lord possibly need of you?”
Her words aren’t meant to offend me, but they do. A pampered royal with too much free time and no filter—that’s my reputation around the estate. It’s fair. I’ve more than earned it. When my nose isn’t buried in books, my lips are poised at the mouth of a bottle. If I’m not out working off nervous energy with a run, I’m sweating it out in bed with anyone willing. I might be a royal, but I don’t have the heaps of responsibilities the others do.
I haveone.
It’s that solitary responsibility, that singular job I’m so uniquely able to do, that has me seeking out unique—and, at times, destructive—ways to deal with my existence.
When Orbikrequestsan audience during a party, it’s never about revelry. He needs something from me.
AdonationI have no desire to give.
3
Keltania
“This gown is beautiful but…impractical. How in the Goddess’s name am I supposed to fight wearing”—I grasp the front of the long green dress and tug it away from my body, the fabric whispering as it moves—“this?”
Roriel, the dark-green-haired Fae tasked with getting me ready, rolls her eyes.
They scrubbed me, spritzed me, twisted and curled my hair to the point of tears, then stuffed me into a flowing dress. Absurdity aside, it’s the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen. Floor-length and the color of fresh pines, it swishes and flows as though made of air. The color is amazing and makes my bright red hair and hazel eyes stand out.
The straps are thin, the right one covered in flowers and ivy leaves that spill down across the center of my chest and wrap once around my waist before cascading down the left front side of the skirt. The dress is backless, adorned with matching floral and ivy strands, three of them strung horizontally across my back—the first going from shoulder to shoulder, the second mid-back, and the third just above my waist.
I feel naked. Though not transparent, the material affords no protection if something noteworthy should arise.
Or the wind should blow too strongly in the wrong direction.
“Where am I supposed to keep my weapon?”
