The doors loomed before them like monoliths of ice and steel, tall enough to make Arlo crane his neck and swallow hard.
They weren't carved wood or iron but a strange crystalline alloy, shimmering with the faint hue of magic that bled into the air like smoke.
Wide enough for three cars to pass through side by side, the gates stood ajar, spilling cold light into the passageway.
He followed in silence, boots crunching against stone polished so smooth it reflected his shadow.
The cold still clung to his skin even after leaving the tower bridge; it was as if the walls themselves radiated frost. Every breath he took stung.
The courtroom opened before him.
It wasn't what he expected.
It didn't look like some medieval throne room where a single ruler sat towering above all.
No—this was structured.
Tiered rows of stone benches stretched in a semicircle, forming an arena that descended toward the center floor.
The walls were carved with spiraling reliefs of dragons, wings spread wide, eyes inlaid with gemstones that glimmered under the blue-white light.
At the far end rose a dais with a throne carved from solid glacier, its back jagged and sharp like a crown of ice.
Dozens were already assembled.
Nobles in flowing robes of fur, jewels embedded in their scaled brows.
Advisors and ministers with scrolls tucked under their arms. Warriors with armored tails coiled neatly at their feet.
And then there was him—Arlo, pressed against a corner like a servant who had lost his way. He had never felt smaller in his life.
He quietly found a dark conner and disappeared into it.
Though it seemed almost everyone in the room was staring daggers at him at the moment.
The queen ascended the throne with no ceremony.
She moved like a blade—smooth, inevitable, cold. Her cloak trailed across the frost-polished steps before she sank into her seat, one arm lazily resting on the armrest, the other propping her cheek.
"Begin."
Her voice cut through the chamber, low and resonant, carrying no warmth.
A minister stepped forward. "Your Majesty, the council gathers to deliberate upon the matter of the northern trade routes. The blockade has grown intolerable."
Murmurs rose immediately.
"The winter roads are impassable," one noble growled, tail flicking against the stone. "The peasants waste days trudging through snow, carrying what little they can on their backs. Our estates rot. Our storerooms grow bare."
Another spoke, voice sharper. "We are the blood of dragons, yet we live like beasts clawing at scraps. My serfs die in droves transporting firewood. Last week, two caravans froze solid before reaching the gates."
A third noble leaned forward, robes heavy with sapphires. "If the blockade is not lifted, famine will follow. Trade from the Fire Dominion has dwindled to embers. Even salt cannot reach us."
That one caught Arlo's attention. Salt. Something so basic it barely registered back home, yet here it was treated like a precious resource.
His mind began spinning as he glanced at the queen.
She hadn't moved. She listened with her cheek propped in her hand, bored eyes half-lidded.
"Always the same," she murmured finally, and the words carried across the chamber like a frost wind. "Always whining about shortages. Have you grown so weak that snow defeats you?"
The council stiffened, but no one dared contradict her.
Arlo wrapped his arms around himself, fighting not to chatter his teeth. Weak? If this was weakness, he'd collapsed hours ago. But he kept his mouth shut.
The nobles continued, voices layering over each other. They argued about sending more guards with caravans, about forcing lesser bloodlines to work in shifts, about demanding aid from the other dominions.
Arlo frowned, pieces snapping into place.
It seemed civilization wasn't that advanced here yet.
To them, transport was the bottleneck. No roads. No sleds. No wheels. No beasts of burden. Just bodies slogging through ice with sacks on their shoulders. Primitive to the point of insanity.
And all it would take was something simple—sledges, pulleys, a half-decent road cleared by magic—and their so-called blockade would crumble.
Back home, he wouldn't have lasted a week in engineering class. But here… here, even the dumbest freshman project could look like sorcery.
But then he remembered where he was—freezing, trapped, and utterly powerless. He couldn't exactly raise his hand and volunteer. Not unless he wanted to get stepped on like a bug.
The queen let the debate drag for nearly an hour. Arlo watched the lines on the nobles' faces deepen with frustration. At times, he thought they might turn on one another. But her expression never changed. Cold, detached.
Until, finally, she exhaled the faintest sigh.
The room stilled.
Her gaze swept lazily across the chamber. "You have wasted enough of my time. If snow buries you, then dig yourselves out. That is all."
Murmurs of discontent rippled through the court, but none dared raise their voice against her decree. The discussion collapsed, like a fire doused in water.
And then, almost casually, she shifted. "Since you are so desperate to consume my hours, let us move on to the matter of my marriage."
The silence was instant and suffocating.
The nobles exchanged startled glances.
No one had expected her to actually bring this matter up.
They had been pressuring her for years now, but she never had any interest in the topic and had even gone as far as threatening to have the head of anyone who brought up the topic again in her court.
One cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, we… only wish for your prosperity. A union would strengthen the dominion's future."
"Yes," another added quickly. "Several esteemed houses have put forth candidates of impeccable bloodline—"
"Candidates." The queen's voice dripped with amusement now, mocking. She leaned back against her throne, one leg crossing over the other. "You mean leeches eager to suck at the crown."
The noble flinched, but pressed on. "It is… tradition, Majesty. Without an heir—"
Her sigh cut him off. Low, exasperated, like she'd endured this performance a thousand times already. "Tradition. Heirs. Dull words from dull mouths."
Her gaze swept across them again, and this time it lingered.
On him.
Arlo froze.
For a moment, he thought he'd imagined it. But no—the queen's eyes had settled on him, sharp as blades, glinting with something unreadable.
She smiled.
Not warm.
Not kind.
A smile that belonged to a predator who'd just noticed a new way to amuse herself.
"So," she said softly, almost purring, "you truly want me to choose a husband?"
The council shifted uneasily. Her tone was different—less disdain, more… entertained.
They nodded, though none looked entirely comfortable.
"Fine." She rose to her feet, the motion fluid, her cloak spilling like liquid frost around her. "Then I have chosen."
Excitement flickered through the chamber.
Nobles leaned forward, hope alight in their jeweled eyes.
For the first time in years, the queen sounded cooperative.
"Who might that be your majesty?" They eagerly asked.
Arlo's heart pounded. A creeping dread crawled up his spine.
Her eyes returned to him.
"You there," she said, her voice slicing the air. "Your name."
The chamber turned as one.
Dozens of eyes immediately pinned him to the wall.
Arlo's mouth went dry. He opened it, shut it, then croaked, "Arlo."
Silence.
The queen's smile widened. "Well. You heard it right. His name is Arlo."
"..."
The words detonated like thunder.
Gasps. Murmurs. Disbelief rippled through the chamber. Some nobles stared in horror, others in fury, others in sheer confusion.
And Arlo—Poor Arlo felt the ground tilt beneath him.
He'd been dragged headfirst into a nightmare.
He felt hundred of murderous gaze fall on him simultaneously.
The queen returned to her throne, amusement glinting in her eyes, as though she had just played the cruelest joke of her life.
The chamber was silent, save for the pounding of Arlo's heart.