Chapter 2 – Frostfall Citadel

“Get up. He’s waiting.”

Eileen opened her eyes before the second knock. She was already dressed.

The servant at the door looked uneasy. “He asked for you personally. That’s… new.”

She nodded, following the narrow corridor down five flights. Cold stone met every footstep.

The doors to the north wing loomed ahead—black oak inlaid with silver veins that pulsed faintly in the dark.

“Good luck,” the servant whispered before fleeing.

Eileen pushed the doors open herself.

—

Cyr Ulmir sat by the fire again, shoulders wrapped in wolf-fur, steam rising from a tea cup untouched.

His silver gaze flicked toward her. “You’re early.”

She bowed.

“Still mute?”

She stepped forward, holding the heated compress and bandages.

He extended a leg slightly. Metal braces clinked.

“Don’t botch it,” he warned.

She knelt, unstrapped the brace with deft hands, then pressed the warm cloth to his knee. The prince hissed but said nothing.

After a long silence, he muttered, “You flinched less than my generals. That’s… disturbing.”

She ignored him, beginning the massage—precise, rhythmic pressure along the muscle lines.

“I had an aide once,” he continued. “Lied to me. Thought she could cure me with leeches and optimism.”

He smirked. “She lasted two days. Left in tears.”

Eileen reached for a salve, applying it without comment.

Cyr narrowed his eyes. “And you? No questions? No pleading? No curiosity?”

She met his gaze briefly, then looked away.

“Ah,” he said softly. “You are curious.”

He leaned closer.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

No response.

“Or are you just that broken?”

She finished wrapping his thigh, then stood, waiting.

He grunted. “Leave. Before I start liking the silence too much.”

She turned, but before reaching the door—

“Wait.”

She paused.

“Tomorrow. I want you to read the day’s supply report aloud.”

Still facing the door, she didn’t move.

“I know you *can’t*, girl,” Cyr said sharply. “But I want to watch you try.”

She dipped her head once. Acceptance? Defiance? He couldn’t tell.

She left without a sound.

—

Later that afternoon, in the servants’ attic, Captain Varek appeared unannounced.

“Stand,” he ordered.

Eileen rose.

“Did he touch you?”

She shook her head.

“Did he speak of the fire? Of his condition? Of the war?”

She blinked.

“Good. Keep it that way. The prince may have use for your silence, but I see a dangerous little rat under that shawl.”

He stepped closer. “Speak a single word, and I’ll have your tongue cut for real. Understood?”

She nodded.

He left.

Only then did she reach under her cot and pull free a cloth pouch—inside, dried silverleaf and pale moonroot.

Smuggled from the south. Forbidden to commoners. Yet she recognized every stem and vein.

And she hadn’t forgotten how to use them.

—

By evening, Cyr was back in his chair, reading a half-burned book by firelight.

“You again,” he muttered when she entered. “Persistent little ghost.”

She bowed and knelt, beginning her routine.

He watched her hands move, bandages folded with surgical precision.

“Do you understand what it means to care for someone who can no longer feel?” he asked suddenly.

She paused, just a fraction.

“I do,” he said. “It means becoming a mirror. Nothing more.”

He reached out abruptly, gripping her wrist. “But you… you’re not nothing. Are you?”

Her pulse remained steady under his touch.

“Fine,” he said, releasing her. “Don’t answer. You’re better as a riddle anyway.”

When she finished, she placed his tea on the side table.

He didn’t touch it.

“I don’t trust anything I haven’t made myself,” he said.

She didn’t respond, didn’t urge him.

Eventually, he sighed and took a sip.

“…Needs honey,” he muttered. “Or hemlock. Hard to tell these days.”

She left quietly, and behind her, Cyr watched the door long after it closed.

—

That night, as blizzards howled across the citadel spires, Eileen sat cross-legged on her cot, grinding herbs into powder over a tiny flame. The compound shimmered faintly—silver resonance. Just a trace.

She tapped out a single dose into a wax-sealed vial, tucked it under a loose floorboard, and whispered into the dark.

Not words. Just tone.

Not volume. But *intention*.

The air around her pulsed faintly in response.

The silver song within her blood hadn’t dulled. Just hidden.

For now.

She looked toward the frost-coated attic window, where the wind carved ghostly claws across the glass.

And beneath that wind… wolves howled.

But she wasn’t afraid.

She had heard that cry before—long ago, when the world burned, and a silver-eyed boy had sworn to protect her.

She would not speak his name.

Not yet.