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February 6 - February 6, 2024
Her hatred had curdled into something else. Something terrifying and dangerous, if Elma let it thrive. Something that might get her killed, or worse — heartbroken.
In this life, Elma now wanted something she had never wanted before — to be a good queen.
“Your father managed to escape with his life, but only just. And among the men he killed, slaughtered in his escape… was my father.”
When the fighting broke out, I got in his way. He gave me this scar.”
“I was wrong about you,” he murmured. “I’ve known it for a long time. I will protect you, Queen Elma, with my life, if it means true peace between our kingdoms. You are not your father’s daughter.”
“I have wanted you,” he murmured, lifting her up and carrying her into the bedroom, “since the moment I first heard your voice. I have dreamt every night of tasting you, of hearing my name on your lips.”
“Are you always like this, or is it just me?”
Elma fell asleep that night with Rune’s arm draped over her, his breaths steady against her back. And while she could think of a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea, why this would only end in misery and pain, her only feeling in that too-brief moment was a soft and gentle peace.
“I will make Rothen proud,” she said, and she was just a girl then, assuring her uncle. “You have always made me proud,” Godwin said, and his voice caught on the last word as if some strong emotion threatened to break his stolid demeanor.
You should have seen me when I first came to Frost. I’d been floating around in Mekya with short hair, gauzy gowns, and bare feet. I nearly died of shock.” Rune’s face brightened in surprise. “Gauzy gowns, you say? I’d love a more detailed description when your guards aren’t looming in every direction.” Elma snorted, glancing at Luca, who rode two horse lengths in front of her. “I was fourteen.” “But you aren’t fourteen now,” he said, eyeing her appreciatively. “Though you still have the short hair.” She reached up self-consciously, pulling at the black curls where they brushed against her
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“You’re in no danger of dying,” he said, half-smiling. “Not with me at your side. Not in such beautiful surroundings.” Elma sniffed, her nose running from the cold. “You have a very romantic view of things.” “On the contrary,” he replied. “But I happen to be in company that brings it out of me.”
And as Rune fell, his arm shot out and — one second, he was holding his sword, and then his sword was discarded, clattering to the ice. A crackling sound like shattering ice filled Elma’s ears, and Rune’s arm glowed white-blue, suddenly engulfed in a glittering, swirling mass of frost. In a breathless instant, the frost expanded and resolved, solidifying with horrifying quickness, into an ice-sharp blade that seemed to sing as it cut the air, frigid and deadly. Rime Ice.
He stood no chance against the magic blade. Because that was all it could be — magic. Rime Ice was not some strange ice mined from the glaciers of Slödava, forged into weapons. It was magic.
Only a Volta, she thought, heart slamming in her ribs, finds life at the edge of death.
“You speak of peace, yet you hold our Crown Prince hostage. If it weren’t for our queen’s mercy, you would be dead where you stand.”
“Be still, Björn.” Rune’s voice carried over the Slödavan force, interrupting whatever the white-plumed man had been about to say. “You’re making an ass of yourself.”
“Björn,” he said, “there are two injured men in the carriage. See to it that they’re tended to. Bring in the rest for questioning. Oh, and tell my mother I’m home.”
Her assassin’s voice rose above the general din, making orders. He, too, had dismounted. But she did not want to see him. Even his voice was wrong, too formal, too like a prince. He wasn’t her assassin anymore.
She had trusted him. She had believed him to be a friend. She had thought foolishly that he might love her. That she might… But he was not her Rune, her assassin. He was Rune, the Crown Prince of Slödava. His mother was Queen Hildegard. And he had led Elma straight into a trap.
“Your Highness,” Elma said, the chill on her heart solidifying to ice, expanding through her until she was frozen with unspent rage. Rune smiled and closed the door behind him.
“But if I let you go, you’ll try to kill me. And while dying at your hand would be my greatest privilege, I’d at least like a chance to explain myself before that happens.” He paused and took a long, shaking breath. “Please stop moving around like that, I am distracted enough as it is.”
“It’s a tavern, Your Majesty. The purpose is to eat and drink and, if you’re not the Queen of Rothen, perhaps even be merry.”
I stopped wanting you dead the second I laid eyes on you. But rationality has never been my strong suit. My mother always said I’m relentlessly romantic.”
“But there are worse things than being alone. Betrayal is one of them.”
“A good queen always has at least one ace up her sleeve,” Hildegard said, thoughtful. “Let my son be yours and prove himself useful for once.” “I beg you,” Rune said to his mother, “at least refrain from harming my ego until after we’ve eaten.” “My son is more than tolerable,” said Hildegard, moving around the table to offer her arm to Elma, as a close friend or confidante would, “but only when he’s fed.”
“Well,” he said, “you’re a weapon. I had to keep my guard up in case you tried to pierce me through the heart. The only difference now is that I no longer fear such an attack. You could puncture me full of holes, Your Majesty, and I’d only beg for more.”
She hardly knew what her fingers were doing anymore, pressing and circling, following her pleasure. All she could think of was Rune. There was nothing in her world but him, his blue eyes, the blade in his hand, the weight of his knees pressing divots into the bed.
“You’re so beautiful when you bleed,”
Elma knew then, the tang of Rune’s blood filling her senses, that she could have opened her chest and shown her beating heart to him, and he would not harm it. Instead, he would light her from within, melting away the years of cold and ice until she was herself again.
“If you don’t remove my breeches in the next two seconds,” Rune said, voice shaking slightly, “I’m going to die.” “If you die,” Elma said breathlessly, reaching for the fastening, “I’ll follow you into the after and drag you back here.”
This was what it felt like, then, to bloom unharmed in a frozen wasteland. This was softness and trust.
“He has few weaknesses, my son. But you are one of them. I’d rather you both came back from this in one piece.”
She understood, now, why treachery was such an abhorrent crime, punishable by death. It was a violation of the heart, and those subjected to it would bear the injury for a lifetime.
“None who are loyal to the kingdom of Rothen would stand against me. It is you who have strayed, Your Majesty.” He spat the words as if they were an insult. “It’s nothing personal, Niece. It’s not my place to tell you whose prick to open up for, but as queen—” There was a sudden movement to the left of Elma, and Rune held a knife in one hand. He spun it casually, his head tilted slightly. “Speak like that again,” he said softly, “and you’ll lose an eye.”
“I have not slept soundly,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on Elma, “since ordering your death. The poisoning, the disguised Slödavan… even that barely competent creature your toy made easy work of. I lay awake in the small hours, wondering if I’d done the right thing. If you might be a great queen after all, if only you could divert your path and return to the one laid out for you by your father. A conqueror’s path, one fit for a queen of Rothen.” He sighed and shook his head.
“If he dies,” she had said, her voice thick with blood and spit, “I’ll rip the flesh from your body with my bare hands and shove it down your throat.”
Disgraced queens did not die peacefully.
With a soft clang, Rune let his head fall against the bars. “You would have been a good queen,” he said. “The best kind of queen. You love your people. My mother saw it in you, just as I do. We could have had peace.”
“You saved me,” Rune breathed, kissing her knuckles. “I should have died in the arena, all those weeks ago.” “It was selfishness,” she protested, the words muffled by her tears. “I don’t believe it was,” he said. His gaze caught hers, his eyes clear even in the face of death. “You’re afraid of your compassion. It never fit within the bounds of what your father expected, what you learned. I think your mothers would have saved me, too.” He smiled. “And I am honored to die as your weapon.”
“I don’t hate you,” she managed. “I never did.” Rune huffed a sad little laugh. “You never fooled me for a second.”
“I’ll see you,” she said instead, drinking in that last sight of him, his wan smile, the curl of sweaty hair at his ears, the cocky tilt of his head, even now. “I’ll see you in the after.” He raised one hand in farewell. “In the after.”
There would be no clean kill, no blade through the spine. Even in death, she’d be stripped of all honor. The Death Games were brutal, bloody, and horrific. She would likely die scrabbling desperately, sliced up, and sobbing like a hare in the jaws of a hound. She clutched the green stone in her palm and prayed to the stars or whoever might be listening. Let me die quickly. Let me go home soon.
She may be disgraced, a traitor queen. But there were some who still believed in her. Godwin would win the game, but not wholly. Hope for a happy Rothen still lingered if someone rose up against him.
She loved Rune. She would gladly die just to give him one more second of that world. One more second of cold air on his cheeks, one more second of snow, one more second of glorious breath in his lungs.
No, she thought. This isn’t how it ends. I’m the Queen of Rothen. And I don’t die like this. Rune does not die like this. An inexplicable sensation took hold of her, then. It began in her heart and spread outward, an icy chill. As if the mountains and the frozen rivers and the snow were all inside her, flowing through her veins, filling her up from head to foot. The sensation heightened, almost blinding her, vibrating through her skin. A prickling cold, coalescing at one single point — her hands. Crackling and glinting against the snowfall, its blade extending with the speed of a flash freeze,
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“Well, you can’t just… die,” Elma sobbed, not caring that she sounded like a petulant child. “I love you.”
“And I love you,” he murmured, so quiet, as if it were a secret they held between them, a gentle spring flower untouched by the frost. “I didn’t expect to love a queen of Rothen. I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry. You are inescapable.”
You are finished, Elma Volta. Done. You’ll be remembered only as a traitor until you are forgotten altogether, your memory faded into the snows like every disgraced monarch before you.”
It will turn on you, Rune had told her, back in Slödava. If a heart is ruined with greed or selfishness… one cannot manifest Rime Ice properly. Whether it was Godwin’s cruelty, his hatred for his own niece, his desire for war, or perhaps his rotten heart itself — whatever it was, the Rime Ice had deemed him unworthy.
But she only had eyes for Rune. Falling to her knees, she gathered him in her arms. Miraculously, he was still breathing, and still awake. His eyes fluttered open, and the corner of his mouth twitched. A hesitant joy pressed at Elma’s heart, wanting to be let in. “You’d better not die,” she said, hot tears streaming down her face, “or I’ll follow you into the after and drag you back here to me.” “I have no doubt,” Rune said, squinting up at her, still half smiling. “But how embarrassing for me, to need saving by a Volta.” Elma laughed through her tears, kissing his brow, brushing the hair out
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