RIVEN
I movethe vial to my father’s lips, my other hand keeping the sword at his throat.
Sapphire’s anxiety floods our bond—her magic pulsing in waves that match my quickening heartbeat—but I don’t look back at her.
She’s here for me. She loves me. And I no longer have to see it to believe it. Especially not here, as my blade presses hot steel against my father’s throat, in this moment that could changeeverything.
He parts his lips, and I tilt the vial, the potion flowing into his mouth.
He swallows once, then twice, his eyes locked on mine.
For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then his body jerks, magic sparking off his skin in erratic bursts. It’s only my instinct to pull my sword away that ensures the blade doesn’t dig deeper, killing him and landing myself in the future I’ve been fighting to avoid.
A strangled scream tears from his throat and echoes through the arena, chilling my bones and silencing the crowd.
Fear tightens my chest. Because he’s thrashing violently now, collapsing onto the ice, fighting the potion’s magic as if battling a demon within.
The arena is dead silent, every soul frozen in place, watching their king unravel.
Is this what happened to my mother? Did she scream until the frost swallowed her whole?
Suddenly, he stills, his limbs going limp.
It’s done. Over. Finished.
The floor of the arena bottoms out from under me. Because this is my fault. I killed him. And now, the darkness the Tides showed me will become my reality.
But then slowly, agonizingly, he lifts his head and pushes himself up. His eyes—the same silver as mine—are sharp with intelligence, free from the feverish madness that’s haunted them for decades.
“Riven,” he says, as if he’s speaking my name for the first time.
My heart stutters as he moves to his feet. Because he doesn’t say my name with the bark of command, or the hiss of disappointment. It’s not heavy with scorn or weighed down with expectations I’ll never meet.
For once, he speaks it like it means something. LikeImean something.
Which somehow breaks me more than anything else ever could.
But I keep my expression neutral, ready to defend myself if this is another trick.
“Father,” I respond, tightening my grip on my sword.
He turns in a slow circle, his gaze sweeping the silent faces of the Winter Court. And when he returns his focus to me, his eyes are haunted—guilt, regret, and pain etched into every line of his face.
“The things I said to you. The way I treated you—” He stops abruptly, his jaw tightening, frost crackling along his clenched fists. “You deserved better.”
Another shot of pain through my heart.
But still, I don’t waver.
“I did deserve better. But in some ways, everything you said and did made me stronger,” I admit, watching him carefully, clueless of what this man—this sane version of my father—will do next.
To my astonishment, he sinks to one knee, bowing his head to me. Not in submission—a Winter King submits to no one—but with the quiet dignity of a man facing the truth.
“You were never weak,” he says, steady despite the tremor in his shoulders. “And I only hope that someday, you can forgive me.”
Magic stirs within me, ice and water swirling at my feet as I fight to maintain composure.
