Page 173 of Winter Gods & Serpents

“Tell me then, what is that ridiculous face I cannot stand?”

He shook his head, his hands rustling the back of his hair before he dropped them down and turned to leave me there with no answer and more frustrated than before.

Adriatians did not deserve to give me pity, him the most—I hated his pity the most.

“You are quick to judge him, while I’ve known him for a life time and still rely on using my magic to understand even fragments of him,” Mal said silently from my side, he had heard us argue. “His facial range expands from stern to extremely stern—the in-between is very limited. He doesn’t open up or let anyone open him up. The closest to that I have seen is with you.”

I turned to the young brother, somewhat surprised and overthinking again. “Why? Because I will people out of their heads?”

Mal smiled shaking his head. “No, but that it's Kilian’s truth to give. All I am trying to say is, whatever makes you so upset with him is your own assumptions, not the truth. Kilian is difficult in many ways, but I’ve recently learnt that it takes a certain emotion to get him to change.”

I scoffed. “Anger?” That’s how I got most people to react to me. Kilian did not need me to anger him, my existence alone did that. He’d always refrained himself from acting on it, I could bet he would very much like too.

“You will have to ask him.”

Chapter 32

Witches and Blood

Kilian

We reached inside Venzor. Before approaching the open coast line of Seer sea, we turned riding between a black stoned street similar to Sable Abyss, all surrounded by walls of tall century old conifers. After a little less than a mile we reached a stone fence imitating those around the cities. Four guards stood affront, but not in Isjordian soldier uniforms. A large grey stoned house laid in the middle of the tall wall fencing, surrounded by statues of guardians, possibly from Krig’s realm, Hodr.

My eyes had settled unmoving from the dark-haired princess whose thoughts of coming here had sent her sick. That exterior she put up always held well, but a wall built with uneven stones is the easiest to fall out. Even falling apart she tried to hold herself to the might of heavens, those hidden marks behind what she had been through, the flicker of her eyes, how she dug in her palms, when she shivered, the nightmares, sleeping out between her families resting place, all of them gave it away. You had to be blind not to see her suffering. She had already been broken before my people even approached her, known hurt and pain since a child and then drowned in it twelve years ago.

The air inside the manor was filled with tobacco smoke and musk, walls severely decorated—overly decorated but dimly lit, lifeless. A young servant directed us to the main room, a large conservatory overlooking the coast. A woman who didn’t look beyond her fifties stood by the large lace curtained windows, propped in Isjordian attire of olive-coloured ruffles and a large skirted dress that took most of where she stood. She remained still despite our presence, her white hair propped tight to the back of her head and a hand fluffing smoke onto the air, the presence of a late queen.

“Hello, Cerelia,” Snow greeted in a tight cold voice I had very rarely heard her speak in. She had the traits of a teaser. It was how she played people in her trap and how she hid her truths. Did she feel as if she had entered someone else’s? Caiden and Nia had reassured us about a thousand times, but I felt myself reach for my sword.

She patted the cigarette butt in a golden tray before turning to us. “You used to call me nanna, what happened to that?” she questioned, studying her granddaughter. As her eyes rested on Snow’s face her smile faltered, and she pulled her gaze away as if the sight of her was painful. Silas took after his mother, the same eyes, as did Snow. But theirs looked paler and unnatural compared to hers.

Snow straightened herself slightly, tugging in her fists tight, she said nothing. I wanted to run to her, to hold her hands, to smooth over the dents she was about to leave again.

Cerelia let out a short cold laugh, but it didn’t meet her eyes. “You are still upset I see.”

My eyes glistened black allowing her shadows to flickered in sight. Muted tones of fear, regret and guilt.

At Snow’s silence she threw glances at us, moving to pour herself a drink before sitting down. “I have heard of your marriage with the spiritual King,” she expressed in a sigh of disappointment but not disapproval. “I had not expected your father to do that I have to admit.”

Snow’s head dropped forward while she chuckled under her breath. “My, but why? He is your son after all, like calls to like, right?”

Cerelia straightened, her face falling to stern lines of unyieldingness. Her shadows fluttering around in a mixed array of all emotion, a strange cocktail one stirred with fear. “I was dowager queen and I had a decision to make, Snowlin. A choice between saving what could not be saved or preserving the line of our royals. It was my duty, I could not spare to lose all, the least I could do for my son, for his kingdom, was save them.”

“That weren't royals, while directing soldiers to save the two half breeds you let Thora and Eren die.” Snow revealed, crossing her arms back seizing her pray. “For that I hold no king responsible, neither father nor the Adriatian. I hold you solely responsible for their deaths, you owe me what cannot be owed.”

She half stood from her chair, almost aghast upon Snow’s accusations. “The hall had set aflame beyond what could be saved, screams had stopped long before any guard reached there.”

“You heard me beg, you heard me cry, you heard me plead and crawl to you. All that time you could have used, but weren't you good with all the pretending. Could have fooled me had I not seen and heard what I did.” Snow picked a vase studying it intently, almost as if to distract her from the murderous flow of the ire she radiated on. “What was it again? Ah, ‘I will not have Olympian breeds on the throne, save the upper hall first, our better chance to preserve Isjord’. You used to call me sharp-wits when I was younger, my, weren't you right.”

We all turned our attention to her grandmother who slowly cowered in her faults. Faults that had possibly cost Snow her soul. To know that they had burnt, to know that they died while they could have lived, to know that they had died while she had not been able to save them. It had cost her the restlessness of her nights, the ache of her feel.

Cerelia swallowed her guilt. “Thora and Eren were dead the moment that blast sounded. Whatever you heard me say, they were dead. Thora and Eren had been dead,” she repeated, her voice raising and shaking in tension.

“Do not dare say their names,” Snow bit in anger, throwing the glass vase she held across the room. Crystals floated in the air and her grandmother flinched. “We will never know, will we? If they had been dead or not, like no one found out all the damn load you truly did behind my mother’s back all while playing nice to her. But let’s not dive through that, shall we not, dear nanna? One doesn’t have enough lives to pay those debts.”

The older woman sat back down, refusing to meet her granddaughter's eyes. “I suppose you have come to collect it?”

“You will live to pay it. I don’t give easy deaths to those that owe me lives.”