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Chapter 3
Thorns Beneath the Snow
The invitation — if it could even be called that — came at noon.
One of the steward's pages, a boy barely older than Snowball's meals, appeared at my chamber door, wide-eyed and trembling.
"Her Ladyship... the Dowager Duchess... requests your presence."
I inclined my head without a word and followed him.
Hera scrambled behind me, hastily fixing my cloak around my shoulders.
Snowball rumbled low from where he lounged at the hearth, and I had to raise a hand, signaling him to stay. His golden eyes burned into my back as I left — a silent promise that no harm would go unanswered.
The fortress corridors seemed colder today, if that was even possible.
When we arrived at the Solar — a grand sitting room overlooking the frozen cliffs beyond — the air was thick with frost and unspoken expectations.
They were already waiting for me.
---
Lady Elira Thorne.
The Duke's mother.
She sat like a queen on a high-backed chair carved of blackened oak, her silver hair pinned in intricate braids that spoke of old blood and older traditions. Her sharp, angular face held the beauty of faded storms — something fierce, something that once might have been breathtaking before bitterness etched it into stone.
Two young women flanked her — daughters of the North.
One, perhaps a few years younger than myself, lounged lazily by the hearth, her green eyes gleaming with thinly veiled contempt.
The other stood stiffly by the window, silent, her face unreadable beneath a veil of calm.
The page bowed and fled, leaving me alone.
No one rose to greet me.
No one smiled.
Lady Elira's eyes roamed over me — from the crown of my hair to the hem of my cloak — not with curiosity, but with judgment sharpened to a blade.
"So," she said at last, her voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.
"The Southern princess. The war prize."
I smiled — thin, polite.
Matching silk for silk.
"Princess Irene of Solis," I said evenly. "And yes... that would be me."
The girl by the hearth snorted.
"The way you say it, one would think you are proud to be bartered like cattle."
Her words, sharp as daggers, flew across the room.
Hera gasped behind me.
I felt the tension crackle, thick as a thunderstorm.
But I did not flinch.
Nor did I lower my eyes.
"Pride is not given or taken," I said coolly. "It is carried within. No man, no circumstance, can strip it from those who understand that."
The girl stiffened, as if slapped.
A flicker of something — surprise? admiration? — crossed the silent sister's face by the window.
And Lady Elira... smiled.
Not warmly.
Like a wolf baring its teeth.
"Such clever words," she mused. "Clever enough to get you sold like a trinket. Or perhaps you believe yourself cleverer than all of us?"
"I believe in actions over titles," I said, voice steady. "And from what I have seen so far, the North values the same."
That landed harder than I intended.
The Dowager Duchess's smile vanished, replaced by something brittle.
Good.
---
Before more could be said, the doors opened.
Caelan entered.
Silent. Heavy with command.
He took in the scene at a glance — his mother's stiff pose, the fire in my eyes, the frozen tension thick enough to choke.
He said nothing for a moment.
But then — his eyes sharpened at the lounging sister.
"Elayne," he said, voice like a blade drawn from its sheath, "you will show our guest the respect she is due. Or you will find yourself mucking the stables for the next fortnight."
Elayne's mouth snapped shut.
The silent sister at the window hid a small, quick smile behind her sleeve.
Lady Elira's hands tightened on the arms of her chair — so subtly most would miss it.
But not me.
It was not Caelan's defense of me that sparked her fury.
It was the memory it awoke — an old wound torn open.
Her own husband — a man who had never raised a hand for her, never shielded her from scorn.
And here, now, her son... siding with a Southern stranger.
It wasn't hatred for me.
It was hatred for what I represented: a life she had been denied.
---
After a few brittle courtesies, I was dismissed.
But not before Lady Elira caught my gaze one final time.
"You would do well to remember," she said softly, "that the North buries its dead in the snow... and no flowers bloom here."
A threat.
A warning.
I smiled sweetly.
"Some flowers bloom best in frost," I said.
Then turned and left without waiting for permission.
---
Later that evening, I found a small patch of quiet near the outer training grounds.
Snowball prowled at my side, stalking shadows that dared creep too close.
I stood alone beneath the black sky, letting the icy wind whip my cloak and hair about me.
I had survived court politics.
I had survived assassins.
I had survived my own father.
This?
This was simply another battlefield.
And I would conquer it — frostbite and thorns be damned.
In the distance, atop the battlements, I saw Caelan standing watch — tall, dark against the white.
He was watching me.
Not with anger.
Not with desire.
But something deeper.
Something curious.
And for the first time... I allowed myself the dangerous thought:
Perhaps he and I were not enemies.
Perhaps... we were forged by the same fires.
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End of Chapter 3