Princess Zahara Frostveil
The world was rotten, and I had tasted its bitterness since I was eight. It clung to me like frost on bare skin—cold, sharp, impossible to shake off. Every breath I took in this frozen palace felt heavy with it.
I stood at the arched window in the high gallery, my fingers digging into the cold stone sill until my nails ached.
The glass in front of me fogged from my ragged breaths, blurring the scene below like tears I refused to let fall. Down in the great hall of Starhold, my people bustled like nothing was wrong. They laughed—real, warm laughs—as they hung garlands of silver ice-vines from the rafters.
The vines sparkled under the light, twisting like veins of false hope. Lanterns filled with trapped aurora glow bobbed gently, casting greens and purples across the gray stone walls. It should have been pretty. Instead, it made my stomach twist.
A little girl, maybe seven or eight, spun in circles under one of the half-raised banners. Her skirt flared out like a snowflake caught in wind. The banner showed the Emperor's sigil—a black serpent coiled around frost-roses, like it was claiming them. Owning them. The girl's mother knelt down, fixing her braid with a smile. "This is for the Emperor's honor," she said, her voice full of excitement. "What a blessing he'll bring us."
Blessing.
The word hit me like a slap. My chest tightened, and for a second, I couldn't breathe. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, willing the chill to numb the fire building inside me. How could they say that? How could they smile while preparing to welcome the monster who tore my world apart?
I closed my eyes, and the memories flooded in uninvited. Eight years ago. The same hall, but different.
No garlands then—just screams and shadows. I was hiding behind a thick tapestry, my small hands clutching the fabric so tight my knuckles hurt. The air smelled of my mother's perfume—lavender and fresh snow—mixed with something darker, like burning promises. Shadows grew thick, twisting into shapes with red eyes and claws.
My father stood tall, his voice steady as he chanted a ward of starlight. It flared bright, pushing back the dark for a heartbeat. My mother pulled me close, her hand warm on my shoulder. "Zhara, stay hidden," she whispered.
Then he came. Lucifer. The Devil himself. Not some story from old tales, but real—tall, beautiful in a way that made your skin crawl. His golden eyes glowed like embers in a dying fire. He offered them a deal. "Kneel," he said, his voice smooth as silk but sharp as ice shards. "Join me, and your kingdom lives."
My parents refused. My father's ward shattered like glass under a boot. My mother's scream cut through me— "Zhara—run!"—before it choked off. I peeked out just in time to see the Devil raise his gloved hand. No fire, no blade. Just a gesture. And they fell. Blood on the flagstones. Ashes where their light had been. The smell of brimstone stuck in my throat for weeks.
I ran then. But not far enough. Never far enough.
My eyes snapped open, pulling me back to now. The letter had come three days ago. Black wax seal, like dried blood. The words inside were neat, almost polite: I shall visit the enduring North and behold its star. Enduring. As if we had a choice. As if surviving under his rule was something to be proud of.
To my people, this visit was a gift. The Emperor—ruler of the whole world—coming to our frozen lands. Maybe he'd ease the taxes. Maybe he'd send his demons to hunt the ice-wraiths that stole our livestock. Survival wrapped in pretty words. They had learned to bend, to smile at the chain around their necks because it meant food on the table and roofs over heads.
I hated them for it. A hot, ugly hate that burned in my gut. But deeper, I hated myself. Because I was the princess. The last Frostveil with royal blood. And I had failed. Failed to avenge my parents. Failed to spark a rebellion. Failed to keep even this shred of our kingdom pure. Now I had to play along—order the feast, approve the decorations, pretend it didn't make me sick.
The menu mocked me from the table nearby. Roast snow-hare with moon-berry glaze. Frostwine that smoked when poured. Bread twisted into shapes like northern stars. I had signed it all. My hand hadn't shaken. But inside? Inside, I was screaming.
Footsteps echoed behind me. Slow. Careful. I knew them without looking.
Uncle Eirik.
He stopped beside me, his presence like a steady rock in a storm. He smelled of cedar smoke from the fire in his chambers—the same scent that had wrapped around me when he pulled me from the ruins and hid me in the glacier caves. He had raised me. Taught me magic. Been my father when the real one was gone.
"You're staring like you want to shatter the glass," he said softly.
I didn't turn. "They're happy, Uncle. Actually happy."
"They're alive."
The word stung. Alive. As if that erased everything. As if breathing meant forgetting.
I spun to face him, my voice low but sharp. "Alive under him. Decorating for the man who killed my parents. Who rules us like we're toys."
His face was lined with worry, his pale blue eyes— so like mine—holding a sadness I couldn't bear. "They do what they must. We all do."
"Must?" My hands balled into fists. Frost crept across my gloves, unbidden, as my magic stirred with my anger. "I must prepare a banquet for the Devil? Smile while he sits where Father used to? Thank him for the 'honor'?"
Eirik reached out, his hand hovering before he touched my arm. "In three days, he arrives. Lucifer sees everything—every glance, every whisper. Do not act in anger. No poison in his cup. No curse under your breath. It would cost your life. And theirs."
I laughed, but it came out broken, like cracking ice. "You think I'm that stupid? That I'd throw it all away in one reckless moment? I'm not a child anymore."
"No," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "You're nineteen. And rage like yours… it blinds. It burns everything in its path."
I stepped back, the cold from the window seeping into my back. My heart pounded, each beat a reminder of the fire inside—the one that wanted to scream, to fight, to make him pay. "I remember everything," I whispered. "The way he smiled when Mother's light failed. The blood. The silence after. I want him to feel it. To come apart like they did."
Eirik's hand finally landed on my shoulder, warm against the chill. "Then live. Live long enough to make it happen. Rage is a tool, Zhara. Sharpen it. Don't let it cut you first."
I nodded, but it felt hollow. Below, another lantern went up. The serpent banner snapped in a draft.
Three days.
Three days until the Devil walked in.
Three days until I looked into those golden eyes and hid the storm inside me.
I would smile.
I would serve.
But the rot—the anger, the pain—it would keep growing. Spreading like frost across glass.
Until it cracked everything.
Until it reached him.