CHAPTER FIVE: BENEATH THE FROST

Nyxshire’s Eastern Courtyard – The Snow Gardens

The snow did not melt here, not even in sunlight.

Zenaida sat alone on the edge of a frozen fountain, her fingers gently tracing the carvings of sleeping wolves etched into the ice. Silence wrapped around her like a shawl, thick and whispering. The Snow Gardens were eerily peaceful, and that peace made her restless.

She came here to breathe. To think. To feel less watched.

But even here, she wasn't alone.

Behind her, boots crunched the frost.

"You favor solitude," Zypher's voice said, low and unreadable.

Zenaida didn’t turn. “It’s the only thing here that feels familiar.”

A pause.

He stepped closer, stopping just beside the cracked statue of a goddess no one prayed to anymore. “You’re not what I expected.”

She finally looked up at him, pearl-white eyes meeting storm-gray. “And what did you expect, Your Majesty?”

He studied her in silence, as if trying to decide whether or not to speak the truth.

“A girl pretending to be strong.”

Zenaida tilted her head slightly. “And what do you see now?”

Zypher said nothing.

But his gaze lingered.

---

Inside the War Room – Later that Night

Lady Seraphine moved the crystal markers across the war table, eyes locked on the map of the Eastern Border.

“King Ryker’s scouts have crossed into our mountain pass,” she said coldly. “He’s not waiting for diplomacy.”

Zypher leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Let him come.”

“Zenaida is his target,” Seraphine snapped. “He won’t risk open war unless he believes he can take her.”

Zypher’s jaw clenched. “Then let him believe it.”

Seraphine raised an eyebrow. “You’re starting to sound possessive.”

His eyes darkened. “I protect what’s mine.”

---

Back in Zenaida’s Chambers – Midnight

The cracked mirror flickered again. But this time, it wasn’t her reflection.

It was something else.

Something with eyes like burning ink and a voice like rusted steel.

“Daughter of fire and frost… you awaken.”

Zenaida’s breath caught.

The runes beneath her feet glowed faintly again, just for a moment. She didn’t scream.

She only whispered, “What are you?”

And from the mirror, the whisper returned—

“The beginning.”

Midnight cloaked the palace in silence, but Zenaida couldn’t sleep.

The chamber was colder tonight. Not just in temperature—but in essence. Like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

She stood before the cracked mirror again. Its surface shimmered faintly, pulsing with a soft silver hue.

And then—like before—it spoke.

But this time, it was clearer.

> “You are not meant to kneel, child of flame and frost... You are meant to rise.”

Zenaida froze.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

The reflection didn't answer with a name—but with eyes that didn’t belong to her. Glowing faintly. Ancient. Almost... familiar.

> “He watches. He fears. Not because you are weak, but because he knows what you are becoming.”

Zenaida’s breath hitched. "Becoming what?"

> “Power. Reckoning. The key to unmaking crowns and forging thrones anew.”

Before she could respond, the door creaked open.

A shadow stepped in. Regal. Cold.

Zypher.

He paused in the doorway, eyes flickering between her and the glowing mirror.

"Who were you speaking to?"

His voice was calm—too calm. A winter storm disguised as still water.

"No one," she replied, stepping back.

"Mirrors don’t whisper unless they're enchanted," he said, closing the door behind him. "And enchantments don't activate unless called by something… or someone."

His gaze narrowed.

“I told them you weren’t just some peace offering.”

Zenaida stiffened. “I didn’t ask to be your offering at all.”

Zypher’s jaw flexed. “Careful, Empress. You’re mine now, whether either of us likes it or not.”

The way he said mine—low and primal—made the air crackle.

She held his gaze. “So you claim possession now? Like I’m a jewel in your vault?”

He took a step forward. “No, Zenaida. You're a blade in my court. And I don't let people handle weapons I haven't mastered.”

The temperature dropped.

Literally.

A rush of cold swept through the room, the mirror frosting over completely.

Zenaida gasped, stumbling back—her hands glowing faintly, unbidden. The symbols beneath the carpet flared. Light surged up her spine like lightning.

And then—

BOOM.

A burst of power exploded from her chest, knocking Zypher off balance. The mirror shattered. The walls trembled. Frost crept over stone and crystal alike, forming a sigil—a burning white emblem etched in glowing runes—on the marble floor beneath her.

She fell to her knees, breathing hard.

The doors burst open.

Lady Seraphine. Two guards. Panic in their eyes.

But Zypher raised a hand, shielding Zenaida with his body as the guards approached.

“Stand down,” he barked. “No one touches her.”

The Empress clutched the robe around her trembling form. Her breath left mist in the air.

“What’s happening to me…” she whispered.

Zypher didn’t answer.

Because even he didn’t know.

But deep in the shadows, in a distant land beyond the crystal mountains—someone else did.

---

Veilmoor – The Throne of Bone and Smoke