Chapter 2 A Bed Made Of Ice

• The bed was too big.
• Espen stretched her legs out just to feel something, anything. But her toes met only silk and emptiness.
• The fire hadn’t been lit.
• Of course not.
• Her wedding night had been cold in every sense. She was a wife now, in title only—nothing more than a pawn dressed in expensive fabric. A doll placed carefully in a glass case and immediately forgotten.
• Her fingers found the velvet pouch still tucked beneath her pillow. It vibrated faintly. Magic always did when it wanted to be used.
• Not yet.
• She whispered the words again and slid it beneath her mattress. Out of sight. Out of reach.
• Let them all believe she was powerless.
• Let them believe she was just another stitched-up royal with nothing but a name and a mouth too smart for her own good.
• She could survive that. She’d survived worse.
• A knock landed at the door—too brisk, too early.
• Espen rose slowly, spine stiff from tension, and crossed the room. Her bare feet touched the cold stone floor as she opened the door.
• A maid stood there, eyes wide, carrying a folded dress and a tray.
• “His Highness requests your presence at court,” she said in a voice that trembled at the edges. “He said to hurry.”
• Espen blinked. “Really?” she murmured. “Did he say why?”
• The girl shook her head, then seemed to remember something. “He said to wear something decent.”
• Espen looked down at the deep green nightdress she hadn’t bothered to change out of. “What a tragedy,” she deadpanned. “And here I thought the post-wedding glow was enough.”
• The maid flushed and scurried away.
• Espen stared at the closed door for another beat, then locked it, turned, and laughed softly.
• So. He remembered she existed.
• Progress.
• 🔥
• The throne room was a cold, echoing slab of stone and gold. Grand in a way that was meant to make one feel small. Cold in the way only palaces could be—no warmth, only wealth.
• Espen stepped through the main doors with every eye on her.
• Her dress—midnight blue velvet with silver detailing—clung tight at the waist, her hair twisted into braids that spiraled like dragons. A crown perched atop her head, delicate but sharp.
• She didn’t smile. Didn’t bow.
• She just walked.
• A ripple of whispers followed her, most too quiet to catch. One louder than the rest: The princess wasn’t summoned yesterday after all? She wasn’t even seen until dawn…
• She let the rumors build.
• Let the silence swell.
• And then her eyes met his.
• Mikko stood beside his father’s throne, arms crossed over his broad chest, mouth a hard line.
• She knew what he saw.
• The gown that cinched just right. The shimmer at her throat. The blood-red stain she’d carefully dabbed just beneath her lower lip—a trick she used when she wanted someone to stare at her mouth too long.
• He stared.
• She smiled.
• “You rang?” she said smoothly, walking to the foot of the dais like she hadn’t just been humiliated the night before.
• “You’re late,” Mikko bit out.
• She tilted her head. “Your request came at dawn. Did you expect me to leap from bed and fly across the castle like a dragon?”
• The corner of his mouth twitched.
• Then hardened again. “You’ll show respect in this court.”
• “You’ll need to define that,” she replied with a honeyed smile. “Is it respect if I arrive on time but wear the wrong shoes? Or does it only count when I sit quietly and look pretty?”
• His father, the king, cleared his throat. “That’s enough.”
• Espen turned to him, offering the first true bow of the morning. “Your Majesty,” she said smoothly. “It’s an honor.”
• He nodded curtly. His eyes were sharper than Mikko’s, though—less cruel, more calculating.
• “You’ll be attending council from now on,” he said. “As princess of this court, your presence will be expected.”
• Expected, Espen thought. But not welcomed.
• She inclined her head again. “Of course. I live to serve.”
• Mikko scoffed, low and sharp.
• She looked at him. “Something amusing, husband?”
• “Don’t call me that,” he snapped.
• “You prefer ‘my prince’?” she asked, blinking innocently. “Or perhaps just ‘yours’?”
• The court sucked in a collective breath.
• Mikko stepped down from the dais. Slowly. Controlled.
• Each step echoed off the marble.
• He didn’t stop until he was inches from her—taller, broader, scent thick with sweat, steel, and the faint bite of whatever he’d bathed in.
• He leaned in close enough that no one could hear what he whispered.
• “You think this is a game?”
• Espen’s lips barely moved. “No. But I do think I’m winning.”
• His hand twitched. Just once. Like he might touch her.
• Then he turned and walked away.
• Coward.
• 🔥
• The meeting dragged on, as meetings often do when half the room is trying to pretend the other half doesn’t exist. They discussed trade disputes and border unrest. Espen said nothing—just sat on her cushioned seat beside the queen, hands folded, face unreadable.
• Until they mentioned Velhara.
• A report from a scout. Something about ruins unearthed after a landslide. Symbols traced in blood and ash. A potential resurgence of old magic.
• Espen’s spine stiffened.
• “Velhara is gone,” Mikko said before anyone else could speak. “It’s nothing more than a cursed crater. Let the crows pick at what’s left.”
• Espen’s voice cut through the room like silk drawn across a blade. “Some would argue there’s always something left. Even in ash.”
• Silence.
• Then the king said, “You have an interest in Velhara?”
• Espen smiled. “Just a fondness for forgotten things.”
• 🔥
• When the meeting ended, Espen left with purpose—only to find her path blocked.
• Kimberlee leaned against the marble wall like she belonged there, her dress dripping like black ink, lips smudged red and cruel.
• “Princess,” she purred.
• Espen raised a brow. “Mistress.”
• A flicker of something passed through Kimberlee’s expression. Rage, maybe. Surprise at the lack of fear.
• “I heard Mikko didn’t visit your bed,” she said lightly. “Shame. That dress was such a waste.”
• Espen’s smile sharpened. “You’re worried.”
• Kimberlee blinked. “Excuse me?”
• “You’re worried,” Espen repeated. “You’re scared. And you should be. Because whatever hold you think you have on him…” she stepped closer, until they nearly touched, “…is going to break. Not because I’ll take him. But because men like him? They always destroy the things they love most.”
• She left Kimberlee standing there—silent, furious.
• And maybe, just maybe, afraid.
• 🔥
• That night, Mikko returned late to his quarters.
• He was drunk. Not enough to stagger. Just enough to feel his heartbeat in his teeth.
• He meant to go to her.
• No, he didn’t. He meant to avoid her. Again.
• But his feet took him to the wrong hall.
• To her door.
• He stared at it.
• Fought with himself.
• And then opened it.
• Espen sat at the vanity, brushing her hair.
• She didn’t startle. Didn’t gasp.
• She only looked at him in the mirror and said, “Got lost?”
• His gaze dropped. To her bare shoulders. Her nightdress. The faint bruise left by the tight gown hours before.
• He stepped inside.
• Didn’t speak.
• The door shut behind him.
• She turned to face him, slowly, like she wasn’t sure what version of him had arrived tonight.
• “Mikko—”
• He crossed the room and kissed her.
• Hard.
• Unexpected.
• And completely without warning.
• Her gasp hitched between them as his hands caught her jaw, holding her still as his mouth moved over hers. Rough. Hungry. Wrong.
• But she didn’t pull away.
• Not until he gripped her waist and realized—too late—what it meant that she tensed, just slightly.
• He froze.
• His voice, when it came, was raw. “You haven’t…”
• She stared up at him.
• Didn’t answer.
• Didn’t need to.
• He stepped back like she’d burned him.
• Espen watched him carefully, the firelight catching the gleam in her eyes.
• “Still want to pretend I’m just a pawn?” she asked softly. “Or do you finally see what you’ve been too blind to touch?”
• He didn’t answer.
• Didn’t need to.
• He left.
• 🔥
• Espen sat back down at the vanity, heart racing, mouth swollen.
• And she whispered to the velvet pouch beneath her bed.
• “Soon,” she said.
• And this time, the magic stirred.