The Winter Palace rose from the mountainside like a crown carved from frost and shadow, its spires catching the pale Yvelian sun and scattering shards of cold light across the snow. Inside, the air was sharper than any blade, humming with old magic and the weight of watchful eyes.

Kingfisher moved through the entrance hall without slowing, his long strides echoing against marble floors. Though he kept his power contained it emanated from him.

“Keep up,” he snapped, voice low and cold enough to cut.

His reluctant companion followed him deeper into the palace, past fae servants who glided through side corridors with soundless grace. Courtiers lounged in glittering alcoves, robes shimmering like icemelt, their conversations falling to hushes as Kingfisher passed. Some whispered his titles — the Living Curse, Ajun’s Bane, Belikon’s Hound — the words slipping like blades between their teeth. Some cursed his existence. And some averted their gazes, too afraid to make eye contact.

Kingfisher ignored them all.

They entered the Hall of the Gods, a massive corridor lined with statues of ancient Gods. The stone statues casting jagged shadows across the floor.

“Don’t look them in the eyes,” Kingfisher warned.

His companion hesitated.

“Why?”

“They look back.”

He didn’t elaborate.

He guided them through the branching corridors beyond. Kingfisher walked with practiced precision, avoiding certain corridors and locked doors.

A shift in the stone caught his companion off balance. They stumbled. Kingfisher’s hand shot out, closing firmly around their arm. For a moment, the shadows around him stilled.

Then he let go abruptly, as though burned.

“Try not to die on my watch,” he muttered. “I’d never hear the end of it.”

At last they reached a set of towering doors. Kingfisher stopped. For the first time since they entered the palace, he turned to face the person he’d been ordered to escort.

His eyes, stark green laced with silver, swept over them with a cold, assessing calm. His necklace that he never takes off caught in the early morning light.

“I wasn’t assigned to protect you,” he said quietly. “Belikon commanded me to watch you.”

A pause. The palace seemed to hold its breath.

“He believes you’ll cause trouble.”

Another beat.

“He’s probably right.”

With a push of his hand, the heavy doors groaned open, spilling pale light across the corridor.

Kingfisher stepped aside.

“Inside,” he said. “And try not to start anything you can’t finish.”