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1
MOROZKO
Snow fell onto the cobblestones in the castle’s courtyard, painting the picture of serenity—or at least it would have—had it not been for the writhing body beneath Morozko’s boot.
Whimpers escaped from the mortal, and he clawed at the ice, chipping away his nails in a futile attempt to escape the king.
The wind in the mountains whipped through Morozko’s hair, catching on his nose. “Stop moving. You’re sullying the ground with your blood.” Morozko frowned, motioning to the flecks of red soaking through the snowdrifts. Soon enough, the mortal would cease moving—he was, after all, a treasonous wretch.
Not only had he been milling around the castle, which was forbidden unless summoned, but he—and the entire village of Vinti—had chosen not to hold a ceremony that had taken place for centuries. It was not only Morozko’s honor at stake but so much more. Certainly, the villagers thought it wise to continue celebrating but somehow forgot the most significant part of the ceremony: the animal sacrifice.
Oh, but Vinti believed themselves clever by dancing around their bonfire, drinking, and partaking in food meant to celebrate the animal’s spilled blood. They not only slighted and mocked him but Frosteria as well.
The Frost King would remedy that.
How fortunate Morozko was to send an emissary to witness it all, and said emissary was accompanied by the captain of the royal guard, Andras.
Andras had done well by capturing the flailing man, bringing the mortal to Morozko for him to question and, if he felt so inclined, torture.
Morozko increased the pressure of his boot, and the human’s life spilled further from a gash on his side. The flesh peeled away, revealing muscle and bone. “I—I told the captain,” the male coughed, “it was the chieftain’s decision to pass on the sacrifice. Not all of us wanted to displease you so. But we lost a lot of our livestock in the past storm.” His body convulsed. “Please, sire, please. We only thought—”
“That is just it, mortal. You didn’t think at all. None of you did. You could have easily cast one of your own on the slab instead of an animal and have been done with it.” Removing his foot from the man, Morozko turned away and stepped toward the captain of the guard. The frost demon’s crimson hair danced in the wind, and Andras didn’t so much as blink as Morozko pulled the captain’s sword free.
“But Vinti couldn’t even do that. The village will pay, starting with you.” Morozko narrowed his eyes as fury rose within.
All Morozko had asked once they had slain his mother was to hold a ceremony—a ritual—where they would sacrifice an animal on an altar, allowing the blood to saturate the ground, and speak the words she demanded of them.Let this blood sate you. Let this blood please you. It is freely given in remembrance of your life.Leave it to Maranna to want praise even in death. He snorted.
Morozko’s mother had been a cruel and unfair ruler, which was why she was overthrown and murdered by the mortals. If it hadn’t been for her foresight to hide Morozko in an ice cavern, he likely would have been slain, too. But his guards took pity on him, protected him, and assured the masses Morozko was different, and in some ways, he was.
The mortal slapped his hand at the ground, pulling himself to his feet, and swayed. “Have mercy, Your Majesty, I beg of you.”
Morozko looked into the eyes of the captain, who watched the futile attempt to escape. He shrugged one shoulder and sucked in his bottom lip, then spun on his heel, throwing the sword. It flew hilt over tip until it met its mark in the villager’s back with a sickening squelch. The man fell to the ice at once, twitching until he moved no more.
“A pity your blood is a waste and couldn’t save someone else.” Alas, his body wasn’t on an altar, nor were the sacrificial words spoken. Morozko’s lip curled in disgust as he turned away. “Sever his hand. Make sure Vinti receives their gift ofgratitude,with the explicit instructions that they’re to hold a ceremony in a week’s time. Oh… and clean up this damn mess.” When Morozko stepped away from the captain, strands of his white hair fell into his view. Crimson marred his pristine tresses. He scowled, wiping at his face, which also had flecks of blood. What a mess the mortal had made. Sighing, he walked toward the entrance of the castle, and two guards opened the massive ebony doors.
“Missives have arrived and are in your study, Your Majesty.” Ulva, one of his servants, bobbed a quick curtsy before disappearing down the long, winding hallway.
Letters from peasants in the villages, or perhaps noblemen trying to pawn their daughter off on him, swearing her hair was a fine shade of gold. He was not in want of a wife, but a plaything. He was always in need of one ofthose.
Morozko’s boots fell heavily on the marble flooring, echoing off the walls. Even the promise of a warm body against his wasn’t enough to distract him. The foolish mortals didn’t have any knowledge as towhythe sacrifices needed to continue.
He frowned. His steward, Xezu, was nowhere in sight. There were matters to address, acelebrationto prepare for. Where was he?
Not having the mortal in his reach gave him time to consider the refusal. More than his pride was at stake. Unrest lapped at Morozko’s patience, akin to a dam readying to burst. The mortals did not know what they’d done. Their world as they knew it could crumble with just this one minor misstep.
He gritted his teeth, scanning the foyer and the grand staircase. Xezu was still nowhere to be found. “Where is that mortal?” he growled, flinging his cape back lest it tangle in front of him.
Morozko didn’t want to think of his mother or the curse she’d laid on the land. The queen had protected him from outside evils, but that didn’t mean he was safe fromher. There was a definite lack of maternal instinct.
Morozko never knew his father. In fact, his father hadn’t lived long past Morozko’s conception because Maranna had driven a blade of ice through his heart. It was something she’d gloated about.
To Maranna, her son was another subject, another pawn that was of use to her. A means to continue her line and ensure her rule.
Her death hadn’t struck him in the heart, but ithadmade his blood boil because the humans had thought to rise against their superiors—their prince.
“Xezu!” he bellowed for his steward.
The middle-aged human male rounded a corner. His long, dark hair was neatly braided and fell over his shoulder as he bowed at the waist. Soft lines crinkled the corners of his eyes, but his sun-kissed face was otherwise smooth. “Your Majesty.”
