The Duke tsks softly, feigning disappointment. “Ah. A shame.”
There’s a smattering of soft, polite laughter from the balconies. My cheeks burn and something hardens in my chest.
“She’s not one of ours,” the Duke declares. “But at least she’s lovely to look at, so she’s not entirely worthless.”
Sylvin moves forward before the Duke can speak again, voice sharp and dangerous. “She doesn’t need to pass your parlor trick to prove her worth.”
“She failed,” the Duke says, not unkindly. “It’s not an insult. It’s a fact.”
Sylvin takes another step forward. “The magic of this court may not answer her, but if you ever attempt to humiliate her again, I won’t be as courteous in my response.”
My chest squeezes with the show of his support. I shouldn’t want it after what I saw in him earlier. It shouldn’t matter, but it does…I don’t want to look worthless to him.
The court goes quiet and the Duke holds Sylvin’s gaze, and for a moment, the sweetness drains from his face. “How protective you've become.”
Sylvin doesn’t respond, he settles for raising his chin higher.
The silence stretches between the tiers of blooming balconies and the ground we stand on as the Duke narrows his eyes.
I watch Sylvin’s own eyes narrow in response as he whispers, “You’ve forgotten who took your mantle of High King.”
The air around us chills with his words.
So that’s why there is so much animosity here. The Duke was the High King of all fae before Sylvin rose to power in the Winter Court and contested the title.
It starts beneath his boots, a fine lace of frost spreading outward in delicate spirals across the stone. The warmth of Spring falters beneath it. Flower petals curl inward and vines flinch.
The Duke’s smile remains in place, but the light behind it shifts.
“Sylvin,” he says lightly, fingers lifting as if to dust the air, “I know Winter is fond of dramatics, but surely you wouldn’t freeze the garden simply because your companion didn’t bloom.”
“This place,” Sylvin mutters with disdain, “forgot the difference between theater and cruelty.”
A flurry of snow dances suddenly in the amphitheater and frost clings to every surface.
The Duke waves his hand with aflourish, and a surge of magic pushes outward like a tide. Flowers erupt from cracks in the ice as the vines lash from beneath the frost, shaking it off.
Sylvin may have a flair for dramatics, but his magic is all brute force. It simply endures, reclaiming the new life in his cold grasps. He freezes them mid-bloom, locking thorns and petals in time.
Gasps ripple through the balconies above us as the power-struggle unfolds. I swallow the lump growing in my throat, rubbing my bare arms for warmth as winter prevails.
The Duke steps forward, but he no longer smiles as he lifts both hands and grits his teeth. I imagine he’s calling forth every ounce of power he has to push back Sylvin’s.
Though his court pretends not to see it with gazes averting and fans fluttering.
“I came to get answers,” Sylvin murmurs casually as he tilts his head. No part of him seems to struggle to overpower the Duke. “Not to have my guest mocked, and certainly not to see you attempt to judge a power within her that you can’t begin to understand.”
“She stepped up to take the test of her own free will,” the Duke says, voice quieter now but brittle at the edges as he forces the words out between clenched teeth. “And she received her answer.”
“You readily agreed to host us,” Sylvin replies, gazehardening as he lifts his hands. “But if this is how you treat your guests, then perhaps Spring needs a long, hard frost to reevaluate itself.”
The final pulse of magic unfurls from Sylvin wordlessly as ice crawls up the side of the Duke’s throne, creeping along its gilded vines until it’s completely covered in a sheen of ice. Sylvin’s outstretched hands suddenly tighten into balled fists and the throne crumbles into blocks of ice.
The Duke doesn’t speak as Sylvin lowers his hands back to his sides, but I can see the fury in his trembling frame and tightly pursed lips.
He would lash out if he could, but it’s clear from the averted gazes and murmurs in his crowd that he can’t combat Sylvin.
Sylvin’s power settles through the Duke’s court as a reminder of who holds that mantle now.
