Fangs and frost

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Chapter 4

Fangs and Frost

The North was a land carved from stone, blood, and storms.

Nothing here was soft.

Nothing here was kind.

And yet, somehow, I felt... less out of place than I should.

Snow crunched beneath my boots as we crossed the wide, windswept courtyard. The soldiers and servants stopped what they were doing to stare at the strange scene: a Southern princess walking calmly through a fortress built for war, with a massive white tiger pacing beside her like a silent guardian.

The Duke's wolves — beasts almost as large as Snowball — watched from the shadows, hackles raised.

One wrong move and blood would spill.

Snowball growled low in his throat, muscles tense.

The largest wolf, a silver giant with battle-scars across its muzzle, bared its teeth.

Before anything could happen, both Caelan and I spoke at once:

"Down."

The single word cracked through the air like a whip.

Snowball immediately lowered his head, sitting obediently at my side.

The wolves slunk back, whining softly, submitting to their master's command.

A ripple of tension broke — and for a moment, a kind of stunned silence followed.

I caught Caelan glancing at me from the corner of his eye.

A rare flicker of something crossed his face — surprise, then faint amusement.

It passed quickly, swallowed by the frost of his usual indifference.

"You have a steady hand," he said, his tone unreadable.

"So do you," I replied lightly, brushing a clump of snow off Snowball's fur. "It's almost like taming wild beasts is a shared specialty."

For a heartbeat, I thought he might smile.

Instead, he turned and began walking toward the fortress without another word.

I followed, Snowball trailing behind like a silent, hulking shadow.

---

The halls were dim, lit only by torches along the walls.

Heavy banners hung overhead, stitched with the sigil of the Northern House: a black wolf on a field of silver and white.

As we walked, he spoke again — casually, but with intent behind the words.

"Snowball," Caelan said, glancing back at the tiger. "He's not truly tamed, is he?"

I arched a brow. "No. He chooses to listen. There's a difference."

He made a low sound in his throat — not quite laughter, not quite agreement.

"A wise answer," he said. "Animals that are broken lose their spirit. They're easier to control... but far less valuable."

I met his gaze briefly. "The same is true of people."

Another pause.

Another flicker of interest in those ice-blue eyes.

We crossed a covered walkway, the cold wind snapping at our cloaks, and entered what looked like an old training ground — stone pillars, broken weapons, the ghosts of battles long past.

Caelan stopped near a shattered practice dummy, his gloved hand resting lightly on a sword hilt at his side.

"You've heard the rumors, haven't you?" he asked.

He didn't look at me when he said it.

His gaze was fixed far away, on the horizon where the snow met the clouds.

I didn't pretend ignorance.

"That you killed your father," I said quietly.

The words hung between us, sharp and heavy as an axe.

He nodded once.

"Not for ambition," he said, voice flat. "Not for glory."

His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword — just slightly. A tension so subtle most would miss it.

"He was a tyrant," Caelan continued. "A man who believed strength was measured by cruelty. My mother. My sisters. They lived as prisoners in their own home. The people lived in fear. So I ended it."

Still, he didn't look at me.

It wasn't shame.

It was calculation.

He was measuring me.

Would I flinch?

Would I recoil from the blood on his hands?

I took a slow breath, feeling the cold slice into my lungs.

"I would have done the same," I said, steady and sure. "But I wouldn't give my father an easy death. Not after what he's done."

Now he turned to me.

Really turned — as if seeing me not just as a bargaining chip or a political pawn, but as something dangerous in my own right.

His expression was unreadable, but the air between us shifted.

Sharper.

Heavier.

Two wolves circling.

Not enemies.

Not yet allies.

Just... recognition.

"You may survive here after all," Caelan said softly.

"Survival was never my goal," I murmured. "I intend to thrive."

A beat of silence.

Then — unbelievably — the faintest curve of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before it vanished again.

---

Later that night, Hera fussed anxiously as she unpacked what little belongings we had brought.

"You must be careful, Your Highness," she whispered. "The Duke is... different."

I smiled faintly, stroking Snowball's fur where he lay sprawled at the hearth.

"I know."

"And the people... they respect him," Hera went on, wringing her hands. "But they fear him too."

"As they should," I said calmly. "He is not a man who bends easily. And neither am I."

Still, Hera's fear was contagious. Her eyes darted to the heavy oak door, as if expecting assassins to burst through at any moment.

Sighing, I stood and crossed the room, throwing open the door.

Two guards snapped to attention.

"I require a tour of the fortress," I said crisply. "Now."

They hesitated — unused to orders from anyone but their Duke — but obeyed.

And so, under the watchful eyes of soldiers and servants alike, I walked the halls of my new prison-turned-home.

I met the stares head-on.

I listened to the whispers.

I catalogued the secret passageways, the hidden glances, the scars etched into the very stones.

This was not my father's court, with its poisonous smiles and jeweled daggers.

Here, power was raw. Unvarnished.

And I would not just survive it.

I would master it.

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End of Chapter 4