Ice Queen

They called me the Ice Queen now.

It was a title earned, not given—a badge pressed into me by years of discipline, by a thousand practiced dismissals, by the careful cultivation of distance as if it were another layer of silk to be arranged each morning.

Yet today, in the soft glow of the palace's east chamber, I almost believed I was the legend they whispered about.

I sat perfectly still as the maids circled, their hands deft and quick, weaving my white hair into a cascade of braids and intricate loops, their eyes skimming my reflection without ever daring to meet my gaze.

The mirror in front of me offered no comfort, only a study in contrasts. My skin, pale as polished moonstone, was untouched by the sun.

My lips, painted with the faintest suggestion of rose, curled ever so slightly in irritation.

The gold dress stitched with threads so fine it seemed to catch and hold the light itself clung to me with the cold intimacy of armor.

Every detail was designed to dazzle, to stun, to convince the world that I was made for crowns and coronations.

My purple eyes, sharp and bright, looked back at me with the same unyielding indifference I offered the world.

There was beauty, yes—beauty so refined that I could have named its price in any court, beauty that had inspired foolish princes and daring princesses to send me letters, jewels, the occasional poem.

I had said no to all of them, each refusal delivered with the soft precision of a falling snowflake. It was not cruelty, not really.

It was simply that I felt nothing but the pressure of expectation, and it pressed too tightly for anything else to bloom.

The maids worked in silence, their movements measured and careful. One adjusted the drape of my gown, another fastened delicate earrings to my lobes, their hands trembling slightly at my studied indifference. I let them, unmoved.

I was used to being handled like a relic, like something fragile and precious that might crack if spoken to too fondly.

At last, the chief maid presented the tiara—white gold and amethysts, wrought into the shape of frost flowers.

She set it atop my head, pinning it into the braids with silent skill. I almost smiled at the symbolism. How appropriate: even my crown was made of ice.

A knock at the door. My mother entered, radiant in velvet and pearls, her eyes soft with pride. Behind her, my father tall, stern, and infinitely patient smiled in the way he reserved only for me.

They crossed the room, pausing just far enough away that I would have to meet them halfway if I wanted an embrace. I did not move.

"My beautiful daughter," my mother whispered, smoothing the skirt of my gown with a mother's practiced touch. "We are so proud of you, Isolde."

My father nodded, his gaze lingering on the tiara. "You make our house strong just by being yourself."

I said nothing, only dipped my head in acknowledgment, hoping they could not see the way my hands clenched in my lap.

They spoke as if I had already accepted my fate, as if all my quiet resistance was nothing but a childish tantrum.

They did not understand—I had no desire for the throne, no hunger for power. I wanted only to be free, to disappear into the background, to live a life untouched by the sharp edges of royalty.

But each year the pressure increased, and the circle of escape grew smaller. It was almost working, I told myself. If I remained cold enough, distant enough, surely they would see the folly in crowning an iceberg. Surely they would give up and find someone warmer.

No, whispered a voice inside me, amused and cruel. You are delusional. They will never stop. The world loves its ice queens as much as its sun-kissed heroes.

I rose, smoothing my skirt, the weight of the dress oddly comforting. "Shall we?" I said, voice level and crisp. They smiled, reassured, and led me from the room.

The banquet hall was a riot of gold and crystal, music swelling and fading in a hundred currents.

Every noble house, every neighboring realm, every minor dignitary worth impressing was present. The air itself seemed to tremble with expectation and jealousy.

I walked the length of the hall on my father's arm, my mother following close behind, the tiara catching the light and throwing it back in tiny rainbows.

Eyes followed me, hungry and appraising. Some looked at me with awe, others with thinly veiled resentment, but none could look away.

The herald announced us with booming solemnity. "Her Royal Highness, Princess Isolde of Blackwell, Daughter of Winter—"

I barely listened, barely cared. Presentation after presentation blurred together. Young lords and ladies, flushed and nervous, bowed low and offered bland compliments.

I thanked them with a smile that never reached my eyes. Somewhere in the crowd, I heard murmurs: Even more beautiful than the rumors. Cold as death, that one. Dangerous, too. Watch yourself around her.

I drifted through the ceremony, polite but impenetrable, a snowstorm behind glass. My parents made their speeches, the musicians played, and servants glided between the tables with dishes too rich for hunger.

All the while, I felt the ice in my veins—every word, every glance, every expectation driving me further behind the mask.

A toast was made. Glasses clinked. My name, the title I dreaded, was spoken again and again—"Our future queen!"—until it echoed in my skull like a curse.

The banquet itself was a blur of light and laughter, the tables groaning under the weight of food and gifts.

I ate little, answered questions with practiced brevity, and kept my posture regal. The world was content to admire me, and I was content to remain untouchable.

As the evening wore on, I let myself drift toward the far end of the hall, where the air was cooler, the noise less deafening.

I did not notice the stranger at first—a man moving against the tide of the crowd, eyes sharp with something darker than awe.

He wore a servant's garb, but there was nothing servile in the way he walked. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched, but his hands betrayed him—one gripping the hilt of a hidden blade, the other twitching with anticipation.

I saw the knife only a second before he moved. It flashed up, wicked and hungry, and for the first time in years, I felt something close to fear.

Time slowed. I tried to step back, but my dress caught on a chair, pinning me. The crowd parted around us, too slow to realize the danger, their laughter still ringing in my ears.

The man lunged, the knife aimed straight for my throat.

But he never reached me.

A blur of red light cut through the chaos—a streak of flame, hotter and wilder than anything I'd ever seen. It caught the attacker's arm, twisting the blade from his grip, then wrapped around his wrist, yanking him back with brutal precision.

The crowd screamed, scattering away from the blast. The man shrieked as the flame spun him to the floor, pinning him in place.

Only then did I see the figure who had conjured it—a tall, imposing stranger in a dark uniform, red and white hair spilling over broad shoulders, tattoos glinting on muscular arms.

I stared, stunned. For a moment, all I saw was the fire, the danger, the wild magic snapping in the air.

Who—? I tried to ask, but the words stuck in my throat.

The red flame tightened, holding the would-be assassin helpless. And as the light flickered over her face, I felt the first stirrings of memory—a familiarity I couldn't quite place, a shadow from my past returned in living, burning color.

She stood between me and the attacker, eyes bright with fury, every inch a warrior forged by hell.