Chapter 2
The North was colder than legend had ever described.
As the carriage pulled to a halt before the fortress gates, the sky loomed heavy with ash-gray clouds, and a biting wind howled like a living thing across the barren fields. The fortress itself rose from the earth like a jagged scar — built not for beauty, but for endurance.
There were no banners to greet me.
No music.
No smiles.
Only soldiers — dozens of them — lined up in grim silence, faces hidden behind helms of iron and wolf-fur cloaks. Their presence was an unspoken warning: You are not welcome.
Hera shivered violently beside me, her small hands wringing the edge of her cloak.
"My Lady," she whispered, "perhaps we should wait for an official invitation—"
I had already stepped down.
Snowball leapt from the back of the carriage, landing beside me with a thud that cracked the frozen earth. His snowy fur bristled, massive paws digging into the ground as he growled low in his throat.
The soldiers stiffened, hands darting to sword hilts.
A few even took a cautious step back.
Good.
They should be afraid.
The great beast stood almost to my shoulders — a mass of coiled power, of instinctual violence waiting for a command.
And yet, when I placed a gloved hand gently atop his head and murmured, "Stand down," Snowball immediately lowered his head and ceased his growl, though his golden eyes remained trained on the nearest guards.
A ripple passed through the crowd.
Some of the soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, murmuring behind closed lips.
Controlling men? Easy enough — men could be bribed, threatened, fooled.
But to command a creature like this... with just a touch?
That was something far rarer.
Something dangerous.
Let them wonder.
---
At the center of the courtyard, he stood.
Caelan Thorne.
The Grand Duke of the North.
He was taller than I had expected, with a body carved from years of battle rather than vanity. His black hair was tied loosely at his nape, and his ice-blue eyes fixed on me with a cold, dissecting stare — not unlike the way a falcon might study a mouse deciding whether it was worth the effort.
He made no move to greet me.
No gesture of politeness or warmth.
Only a slight tilt of his head.
"Princess Irene," he said, voice low and even, carrying easily over the wind. "You are expected."
Not welcome.
Expected.
I returned the barest nod, matching his indifference stride for stride.
"My Lord."
No smile.
No lowering of my gaze.
Two forces met that day — frost and flame.
Neither flinched.
Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel and began walking toward the fortress doors. His cloak snapped in the wind like a black flag, soldiers moving aside in silence as he passed.
Snowball bared his teeth as we followed.
I did not call him off.
Let them remember who they were dealing with.
---
Inside the fortress, the stone corridors swallowed sound. Every step echoed like a drumbeat in a tomb. Hera trailed me like a frightened shadow, her face pale.
"My Lady," she whispered once we were alone in my assigned chambers — a tall, narrow room built more like a prison cell than a royal suite. "This place... it isn't safe."
"No place ever is," I said calmly, shrugging off my heavy cloak.
Outside, snow battered against the window, desperate to claw its way in.
I allowed myself a moment to stand before the narrow glass, feeling the ancient cold seep into my bones.
I had expected this.
Coldness.
Hostility.
Isolation.
But somehow, standing here — in the heart of enemy territory, with my fate hanging by a thread — I felt more alive than I ever had under my father's suffocating rule.
---
The next day passed in slow, deliberate observations.
The servants of the keep were not lazy or scheming, like the Southern court's throngs.
They were fast, silent, hardened.
At first, they barely dared meet my eyes.
Until — in the kitchens — I saw an old woman struggling to haul a barrel of water.
Without ceremony, I strode over, grasped the barrel, and lifted it with her.
No words.
No show.
Just simple strength meeting necessity.
The old woman blinked up at me — startled — and offered the barest ghost of a smile.
By nightfall, whispers followed me through the stone halls — whispers not of disdain, but something different.
Respect.
---
That night, Hera curled herself into a tight ball near the hearth, still casting fearful glances at the door.
I sat polishing my dagger by firelight, the blade catching and throwing sparks as I worked.
"You shouldn't do things like that," Hera said nervously. "Helping the servants... they might see you as weak."
I lifted my gaze to her.
"Strength doesn't come from sitting on a throne and shouting orders, Hera," I said softly. "It comes from being able to lift what others cannot... and doing it without asking for praise."
She swallowed hard, but nodded.
Outside, Snowball prowled just beyond the door, his massive form a living warning against threats.
And me?
I was more dangerous than any beast.
They just hadn't realized it yet.
---
Meanwhile... in Caelan's war room
The Duke stood before a table littered with maps and parchment, his brows drawn tight in thought.
His advisors murmured about supplies, about potential uprisings to the east.
He answered in curt, measured tones.
But for once, part of his mind strayed.
The Southern Princess.
She was not what he expected.
Not a spoiled dove.
Not a simpering pawn.
He thought of the way she had faced him — unflinching.
The way she had commanded that monstrous tiger with a single touch.
Dangerous.
And yet...
Intriguing.
Caelan brushed the thought aside.
Emotions were a luxury he could not afford.
Still... he would watch her.
Very closely.
---
End of Chapter 2