Princess Zahara
The high table stretched before us like a battlefield dressed for a feast.
I sat at his right hand—close enough that the unnatural warmth rolling off him chased the usual chill from my skin. He ate with deliberate slowness, each bite measured, as though savoring more than the roasted snow-hare glazed in moon-berry. Dancers moved in slow, liquid circles below the dais, their silver ribbons catching aurora light until the entire hall shimmered like the inside of an ice cave lit by dying stars.
To my left sat Uncle Eirik and the five Elders—faces carved from granite, eyes watchful. To the Emperor's right clustered his retinue: tall, pale-skinned figures in black velvet, eyes gleaming faintly red at the edges, silent except when he permitted them speech.
My stomach churned. Not from the food—I hadn't touched a bite—but from the simple, suffocating fact of him beside me. Every breath I drew carried the faint scent of brimstone and charred roses that clung to his skin. I reached for my goblet again and again, letting the frostwine burn down my throat in sharp, numbing swallows. It didn't help.
"Such a beautiful kingdom," he said at last, voice low and smooth, pitched just for me. "You've ruled well, Queen Zahara. I must say."
I managed a single nod—tight, mechanical. Uncle Eirik's gaze flicked to me across the table; a slight dip of his chin, the silent command: Hold. Endure.
But the words were already rising like bile.
"Your Highness," I said, forcing my voice steady even as my fingers tightened around the stem of the goblet until I felt the crystal creak. "You decide to pay us a visit after so many long years of absence." My eyes met his—hard, unblinking. "I hope the kingdom remains in safe hands under your… distant guidance."
He smiled. Slow. Radiant. The kind of smile that made courtiers forget their own names and children hide behind skirts.
"Queen Zahara," he answered, leaning just a fraction closer so that the heat of him brushed my cheek like summer wind in midwinter, "as beautiful as the northern stars themselves—of course it is. I came only to see once more the richness of this land… and to learn how my people are governed."
The word my landed like a lash across raw skin.
I opened my mouth—ready to spit something sharp, something that would crack the polite mask we all wore—but nothing came. The nausea surged suddenly, hot and violent, twisting my insides. My vision blurred at the edges. I pressed my lips together, swallowed hard, tasted copper and frostwine.
Uncle Eirik stepped in smoothly, voice calm and measured.
"Your Majesty honors us with your presence," he said, raising his own goblet in a gesture that looked effortless. "The North has flourished under your protection. The ice-wraiths no longer harry our borders as they once did, thanks to the demons you graciously loaned us. The aurora lanterns burn brighter, the harvests more reliable. We are… grateful."
The Emperor inclined his head, accepting the praise as though it were his due—which, in this hall, it was.
One of his lords—a lean man with hair like spilled ink—leaned forward. "Indeed. The tribute flows smoothly now. Fewer… incidents. The Queen's hand is firm."
Another murmured agreement. Conversation drifted to taxes eased, livestock protected, borders secure. Safe topics. Empty topics.
I reached for my goblet again—anything to occupy my hands, to keep them from trembling. It was empty.
A maid appeared at my elbow, pitcher tilted. Before she could pour, the Emperor's gloved hand intercepted hers—gentle, but absolute. He took the pitcher himself.
"Here," he said softly, voice velvet over steel.
He poured. Slow. Deliberate. The dark frostwine swirled into my glass, smoke curling up like captured breath.
Our fingers brushed as he passed it back—his leather warm, mine chilled. The contact was brief, barely a heartbeat, but it seared. Electricity raced up my arm, straight to my chest, and the nausea crested like a wave.
I lurched upright. Chair scraping stone. Hand clapped over my mouth.
I didn't see their faces—didn't wait. I fled.
The corridors blurred. Boots slapped against marble. I shoved through the first door I recognized—my chambers—slammed it behind me, bolted it, and staggered into the bathing room.
The porcelain basin was cold against my palms. I bent over it and retched. Again. Again. Until there was nothing left but bile and the bitter aftertaste of wine and shame.
Rose was there suddenly—soft hands at my back, murmuring nonsense comforts. She unlaced the heavy gown with quick, gentle fingers, easing the silk away until I stood in my shift, shivering.
"Easy, my Queen. Breathe through it."
I shook my head, voice raw. "Leave me."
"My Queen—"
"Leave."
She hesitated only a second, then slipped out, door clicking softly behind her.
I crawled to the bed—didn't bother with covers, just collapsed face-down on the furs. The mattress smelled of cedar and snow. Safe smells. Childhood smells.
But safety was a lie.
I pressed my forehead into the pelt and let the tears come—silent, scalding, soaking the fur beneath my cheek. Not just sickness. Not just wine.
Betrayal.
I had sat beside him.
I had let him pour my wine.
I had let our hands touch.
I had not screamed when he called this place his.
I had not drawn the frost from my veins and driven it through his heart.
Mother's face swam behind my closed lids—laughing, lavender-scented, alive. Father's steady voice chanting starlight wards until the very end.
They would have spat in his face. They would have died again before sharing a table with him.
And I had shared a table.
I had nodded.
I had endured.
The sobs came harder, muffled against fur, until exhaustion finally dragged me under.
Sleep should have been mercy.
Instead it felt like the first step into something darker.
Because when the dreams came, they were not of blood and screams.
They were of golden eyes watching me across a banquet table, of gloved fingers brushing mine, of a voice like silk promising we've only just begun.
And in the dream I did not run.
I stayed.
And that was the beginning of the misery.