The incense smelled stronger that morning.
Not the usual cedar — sharper, colder, like frost and smoke fighting in the air
Reyja sat quietly on the stool by the window, hands folded over her lap, waiting for her father to speak. He hadn't said a word since returning the night before. He hadn't eaten, either. His robes still smelled faintly of travel and snow.
The slaves had gone still, as if afraid to breathe too loudly. She noticed that some were cleaner than others, more deliberate in their movements — but she dismissed the thought as soon as it came. All she could focus on was her father's change.
"Apa?" she said at last. "You haven't slept."
Her father didn't answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the family crest carved above the hearth — the old mark of the Rao clan. Once, she had traced the curling lines with her small fingers, asking what they meant. He'd told her they were rivers. Now she wondered if he'd lied.
"I am thinking," he said finally, voice even. "And you will learn, one day, that thought is heavier than sleep."
Reyja frowned slightly but nodded.
The Seithr in the room quaked — softly, imperceptibly — as if an old beast had stirred beneath the floorboards. She watched him roll his shoulders as though testing some unseen weight beneath his skin. And then she saw it — faint, flickering under his collar: his markings. The ones that had dimmed years ago.
They glowed softly now, veins of cold light. They coiled clumsily across his skin, as if they had forgotten how to move.
Her heart skipped. "Father, your marks—"
He raised a hand — not harshly, but in warning. "Do not speak of them. I know you're a smart child, but there are things you shouldn't know."
That silenced her. The room was already quiet, but now it felt quiet — like the stillness after snowfall, the kind that muffled even thoughts.
Like the lies of the rivers flowing through the family crest.
"The prince will announce his intent to choose a bride before the week is out. And I'm sure you are aware that this isn't really a choice." His tone sharpened. "The prince will choose one of the Original families. This is nothing more than a ruse; the throne seeks to control us."
I stilled. "So I mustn't be chosen?"
Father approached the table and laid out several sealed parchments, wax-stamped with house sigils. His movements were deliberate — ritualistic.
"Word has been sent to the Palace," he said. "Those who matter will know our loyalty runs deep. You will attend the next gathering at court. You will speak little, observe much. And when the Crown Prince's eyes pass over you, you will bow — not deeply, but precisely. He favors precision and respect."
He said the last part like a man reciting a strategy, not giving advice.
"You believe he'll choose me?" I asked quietly. Then, softer: "No. You want him to choose me. Why?"
Something flickered in her father's expression — something Reyja didn't have a word for. Not fear, not anger. Something older.
"The tides are changing; we must learn to ride the waves lest we drown." He stared at me with deep, unyielding eyes. "Don't forget your duty as a Tao."
"If that is your will, Father," I said, bowing.
"I wonder if it's will or faith," he muttered before turning away. As he did, I caught the faintest shimmer on the back of his neck — his markings pulsing once, briefly, before fading again.
That night, as she prepared for bed, she brushed her hair by candlelight. When she leaned forward to snuff the flame, something caught her eye in the mirror — faint lines tracing her collarbone, no brighter than a sigh.
She touched them, but her skin was smooth.
The marks disappeared as quickly as they came, leaving only the echo of a cold sensation in her chest — a chill that wasn't from the air.
_______________________________
The morning of the court gathering came with snow.
Not the gentle kind that painted rooftops white, but the thin, restless kind that drifted sideways — like ash from a distant fire. The biting cold reminded her of what she had to do today.
Reyja stood before the mirror as the slaves wrapped her in ceremonial silks, white and gray, threaded with faint blue. It was not meant to flatter her — only to mark her as a Rao. The fabric shimmered with frostlight whenever she breathed, and though she was proud to wear her family's colors, she couldn't shake the feeling that the robe was too heavy for someone her size.
Her mother stood behind her, silent as always.
"You will not speak unless spoken to," she said softly, adjusting Reyja's collar. "And if the Crown Prince looks at you, do not look away too quickly. Men of the crown dislike fear, but they despise curiosity more."
"Yes, Mother." She spoke out of habit. But to her, obedience was a foreign concept. Even at her age, she knew she could pretend, but some things couldn't be hidden.
"Good." Her mother spoke. Sometimes she forgot her mother existed; she was always like a doll, always responsive. She hated her for it she wouldn't say it out loud, but some things couldn't be hidden. Maybe that's why their relationship was always so strained.
The carriage ride to the palace was quiet. Her father spoke only once — to remind her to keep her hands clasped in front of her when she bowed. Every so often, the Seithr flickered around him, faint as breath on glass. She caught glimpses of his markings through his collar again — restrained, but alive.
When they passed through the gates of the palace, the world changed.
The Court of Frost was unlike any hall she had ever seen.
It was vast, cavernous, and cold — its pillars carved from translucent ice that glowed faintly with imprisoned runes. Every step echoed as though walking on frozen rivers. The nobles stood in formation beneath banners stitched with ancient sigils. The air shimmered with Seithr, alive and watchful — as though the hall itself were breathing.
Reyja had been to court before, but this time felt different. Everyone was too still. Too careful. She ignored the glamor and focused on the guards on standby. Men and women alike armor on standing like statues, ready and poised. A story of a bygone era of valkyrie.
At the far end of the hall, a throne of black ice loomed — empty for now — and beside it, a smaller dais was set, where the Crown Prince was meant to stand.
When he entered, the air shifted.
Ragor was not what she expected. But then again, she wasn't sure what she had expected at all.
He was young, but his presence felt older — the kind of old that existed in mountains and storms. His markings pulsed faintly beneath his collar, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw frost curl around his hands when he moved. His every movement carried unmistakable arrogance, confident in every step and glance. His etiquette seemed natural, as if the guides learned from his very movement. His black hair, purposefully unkempt, stopped just short of the nape of his neck, and gold dust shone in his hair as if he bathed in gold before this. His eyes, a dark blue, seemed intense and almost dismissive to those around him. His childlike features were set into an expression that surpassed his age.
The nobles bowed, a wave of motion that rippled through the hall.
Her father placed a steady hand on her shoulder, guiding her down into a bow — not too deep, not too slow.
Precise.
Controlled.
Her expression split into anger briefly before she controlled herself again leaning back into her memorized etiquette lessons.
When she lifted her head again, Ragor's eyes swept across the room — calm, deliberate, controlled — until they met hers.
And stopped.
The sound of the hall fell away. The frostlight dimmed.
For a heartbeat, the markings beneath her skin answered — cold fire tracing her collarbone. She tried not to flinch, but the air felt alive, humming between them.
Then, impossibly, he smiled — not the polite smile of a prince, but the kind that remembered something.
And before she could stop herself, she smiled too.