The wedding feast had been a gruelling affair. Maria had endured hours of solemn toasts, heavy food, and the relentless, assessing gazes of the Northern court. The Great Hall, despite its roaring fires, remained cold, filled with the hum of muted conversation and the clinking of silver that sounded like tiny chimes of doom. Every smile felt forced, every word weighed. When Aedric finally dismissed the court, she practically fled back to her chambers.
Maria's chamber was a world apart from the hall silent, vast, and lit by a single fire that barely touched the corners of the room. The servants had gone, leaving behind a profound quiet that pressed in on her. She sat on the edge of the bed, still in her wedding gown, her fingers pressed to her temple.
Her head throbbed. Every nerve felt alive, too alive.
The residual presence of Eldrin still lingered, faint, whispering, like a phantom hand on her shoulder. He had guarded her through the ceremony, but his close proximity had drained her, and now her magic, usually so contained, felt volatile. She pushed it down, smothering it with a fierce will.
Not now. Not again. I cannot lose control.
A soft knock.
"Come in," she managed, her voice fragile but steady.
Aedric stepped inside. He had shed his heavy armor, replacing it with a simpler, dark tunic woven with silver threads that caught the candlelight, glinting off the rings on his fingers. He had shed his armor, but not the weight of it. He closed the door behind him, sealing them in the vast silence.
"You should be resting," he said, his voice lower than it had been in the hall, almost conversational.
"So I've been told," she murmured, her gaze fixed on the dying embers in the hearth.
He studied her in silence for a long moment, his cold eyes taking in her pale face and the slight tremor in her hands. "Are you ill?" The question came out bluntly, but not unkind.
She forced a faint smile, trying to project a normalcy she didn't feel. "No. I'm simply... not used to the air here. It's quite... invigorating."
"The air?" A slight frown touched his brow, uncertain if she was being poetic or evasive.
"It's heavier," she said, choosing her words carefully. She felt a familiar tremor of power beneath her skin, the lingering exhaustion making it hard to suppress.
He frowned at that, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. "You looked unwell in the hall. Blood from your eyes—"
"It happens sometimes." She forced a little laugh, a fragile, brittle sound. "A sickness I've had since childhood. When I'm tired or frightened. The long journey, the... ceremony..."
"Frightened?" he repeated, his gaze sharpening, challenging her.
Her eyes flicked to him, sharp and searching. "Wouldn't you be, if you were me? Brought to a land colder than ice, married to a king who wears armor to his own wedding?"
Aedric exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a rare display of something akin to weariness. "You'll have to grow used to the North. The court won't forgive weakness easily."
Maria went silent, but a flush of deep crimson rose in her pale cheeks, burning hot against her cool skin. It was not shame, but a furious, hidden spark of defiance at his casual judgment, a raw magical surge that threatened to escape. She pressed her fingers harder against her temple, fighting it down.
He looked at her again, properly this time not as the foreign bride or the political pawn, but as something more complex. Fragile, perhaps, but not breakable. He saw the crimson flush, the tight control in her posture, and the tremor he had mentioned seemed to have vanished, replaced by an unnerving stillness.
"You'll have an apothecary by morning," he said finally, his voice gentler, a surprising note of concern beneath the gruffness. "To tend to your... unique condition. And a guard of your choosing, should you feel unsafe."
"Thank you, my King," Maria said, her voice soft with genuine gratitude for the unexpected consideration.
He nodded, a brief, sharp movement, and turned to leave. He reached the door, his hand already on the latch but stopped.
"Maria," he said without looking back, his voice low, a warning, yet something else too. "You have nothing to prove to them. But don't let them see you bleed again."
Then he was gone. The door closed with a hush, and the fire dimmed, plunging the vast room into a deeper shadow.
She let out a trembling breath, pressing her palm against her heart. The warmth there pulsed once, bright and red beneath her skin, the remnants of her contained defiance, then faded. She was alone again, the Queen of the North, her secrets still her own.
The morning broke cold and grey. Maria was awake early, already dressed in a simple, heavy gown of dark blue wool, a deliberate choice to reflect the North's sombre colours. The apothecary Aedric had promised had come and gone, offering nothing but confusing herbal mixes and deep, suspicious stares.
Maria found Kael waiting for her in an adjoining sitting room. He was already cloaked and gloved, clearly ready for a hasty journey. The atmosphere was tight with unspoken worry.
"They told me the King and Varin left before dawn," Maria said, keeping her voice low. "A sudden inspection of the border garrisons in the Ironwood, I was told. They wanted to surprise a few unready captains and remind the troops who they serve. It feels deliberate."
Kael nodded grimly. "It is. It leaves you exposed. They want to see how you handle the quiet. How the court reacts without Aedric's shadow looming over them. And frankly, they want me out of the picture."
Maria walked closer to him, her composure beginning to crack. "You really have to go now?"
"I do. My mother sent a very frantic raven last night," Kael admitted, though his eyes held deep concern, not urgency. "Aedric's terms for the alliance require me, as Warden, to return and oversee the handover of the southern fleet. It's unavoidable, cousin. And if I stay longer, it gives Varin leverage to accuse Sareen of delaying the treaty terms."
A wave of genuine, cold fear washed over her. She pressed her hands together, fighting the urge to clutch his arm. "Without you... I am truly alone here, Kael. This place is made of stone and suspicion. Aedric watched me bleed yesterday. What if he knows I'm hiding something?"
Kael reached out, placing his hands on her shoulders. His gaze was fierce. "You are never alone, Maria. You have the oath we share, and you have your power. Remember what we spoke of. Use the coldness of this place. Let your fire hide behind the frost."
"My power is a shadow, not a sword," she whispered, her lip trembling slightly. "And I don't trust that Varin hasn't already set a trap for me while the King is away."
"He probably has," Kael agreed calmly. "Which is why you must become predictable in your strength and unpredictable in your timing. And never show fear." He paused, lowering his voice further. "If anything goes wrong, if you need me, send a raven marked with the sun and the silver leaf. I will return, treaty or no treaty."
Maria finally let herself lean into him for a brief, tight embrace. The contact, the familiar scent of home, was heartbreaking.
"Go safely, Kael," she murmured into his shoulder. "And do not let your mother worry too much. Tell her her crazy niece is finally a queen."
He pulled back, a ghost of his usual swagger returning. "She knows you're crazy, Maria. It's why she sent me with you. Now, Queen of the North, go find out what the ladies of this court gossip about. I'll send you the warmest wool I can find."
He turned swiftly, heading for the door. Just before he left the chamber, he glanced back one last time. His eyes met hers, and in that brief moment, his fear for his cousin was naked and undeniable.
The door closed, leaving a profound, echoing silence in the vast stone chamber. Maria felt a sudden, devastating sense of vulnerability. Her anchor was gone. She was the flame, surrounded by an entire kingdom of ice.Two weeks passed. Two weeks of silence from the Ironwood border. King Aedric Veyne and his most trusted advisor, Lord Varin, were gone, leaving Maria to navigate the vast, suspicious palace alone. Their absence felt less like a necessary trip and more like a deliberate political trial.Maria quickly learned that the Northern court was not prone to sudden displays of drama, but rather a slow, suffocating coldness. The nobles, accustomed to Aedric's stern rule, were wary of the foreign queen. They watched her every move, waiting for her to make a misstep, display the "Southern weakness" they clearly anticipated.
Maria spent those first days forcing herself to follow the routine: rising before dawn, studying the dense, unforgiving lineage maps of the North, and conducting herself with an unnatural, rigid grace. She suppressed the constant, low hum of her magical exhaustion, allowing only the cold composure of her persona to show. She knew the moment she showed panic, the court would move in like wolves.
Aedric, before he left, had assigned Maria a household staff composed entirely of Northerners, a guarantee of loyalty to the Crown, not to the new Queen.
Her guard captain was Torvin, a man built like a granite slab, who rarely spoke and whose eyes never left the shadows. Her personal maids were two women from remote Northern holds, their dialect thick and their manners stiff.
Maria approached her new staff with a subtle, strategic softness that was foreign to their rigid court. She didn't demand service; she requested it. She learned their names, their families' holds, and their few, hard earned comforts.
The key to her small breakthrough was Mara, her head maid.
Mara was a woman in her late twenties, fiercely loyal to Eldrath and initially intensely distrustful of the Southern Queen. She moved with precise, silent efficiency, her face a mask of polite indifference.
One morning, while Mara was fastening the heavy clasps of a woolen dress, Maria spoke without looking in the mirror.
"I find the gowns of the North are better suited to battle than to sitting by a fire, Mara. But they are practical."
Mara stiffened slightly. "The North values practicality over pretense, Your Majesty." She paused, her eyes catching Maria's reflection, admiring the contrast between the dark wool and the Queen's luminous skin.
"But it is said in the kitchens that even the plainest wool cannot hide your light, Your Majesty. We have not seen such fairness here before. The courtiers whisper that you look like a moon goddess come to earth."
Maria glanced up, a genuine, startled softness in her silver eyes. She wasn't used to compliments filtered through court gossip, much less delivered by a stiff Northern maid. "Gossip travels fast, even in these silent halls."
"It does," Mara confirmed quietly. "And it is the first thing they have agreed upon since the King departed: your beauty. It has caused a stir."
"And what does Mara think?" Maria asked gently, seeking honesty. "I will not pretend I understand your King or your land, Mara. But I must. Tell me what I should wear for the mid-day gathering. What color speaks of strength, not aggression, to the old lords?"
Mara hesitated. No one had ever asked her advice on court politics. She was a maid, not a strategist. But the request was genuine, seeking knowledge, not flattery.
"The Lord of Bearhold is present today," Mara replied slowly, her voice still cautious. "He finds red to be an affront. Wear the grey, Your Majesty. It is the color of stone. It is immovable."
"Grey it shall be," Maria confirmed, turning to smile at Mara, a small, genuine expression of thanks. "Thank you, Mara. I am learning that in the North, even the fabric of a dress is a diplomatic tool."
Then, Mara leaned in slightly, lowering her voice, letting a rare piece of personal insight slip. "When the King looked at you in the Hall... I saw his face. He is accustomed to commanding. But you are a vision, Your Majesty. Even the King, who is like frozen river water, is definitely taken away with such beauty. It broke his stillness."
Maria held Mara's gaze, a quiet understanding passing between them. Mara wasn't just a maid; she was becoming a cautious confidante, a loyalist shifting her allegiance. This was the true beginning of their small, crucial friendship in the icy court.
Within days, Mara's briefings became routine. She offered quiet warnings about which courtiers were Varin's allies, which hallways to avoid at night, and which Northern dishes were considered "impolite" to refuse. Maria listened intently, knowing Mara was her eyes and ears in a kingdom determined to blind her.
As the two-week mark approached, Maria was still desperately tired, the cold magic of the palace a constant strain on her powers. But she had achieved a measure of superficial calm. She had secured the loyalty, or at least the professional respect, of her immediate staff. She walked the halls with an unwavering stillness that the Northerners mistook for innate strength. She had made herself immovable, like the grey stone Mara had suggested.
But every night, as the fire died down, Maria stood by the window and whispered a familiar name into the shadows. She needed Eldrin's presence, not for magic, but simply to remind herself that somewhere in this cold land, her true self was still known.