The King Trials 2: Beyond.

Flakes of snow fall from the blanched, barren skies, polar-white ice petals. My skin kissed by wintry-feathers of holy white, the frozen air like wisps of lace. Everything in the distance enveloped in a powdery haze. The world around me is imprisoned in a glair-white silence. A gentle hush cloaks the ship, the decks carpeted by an elegant veil of scattered snow, glittering with its flash-silver lustre.

The wind grows hostile, the battering gusts whipping as if trying to stave off travellers.

I slowly exhale, an icy plume seeps through my lips, even through the thin material. My head wrapped in the black scarf I wore when I infiltrated Bumlot’s estate. A stretch of it masked over my nose and mouth.

“What are you doing out here?”’

Solaris sidles my flank and slings his arm round my shoulder, reeling me to him, protecting me from an incoming gust.

“Fresh air does me good.”

“Artic air—,” he corrects. “—is good for no living being. It’s freezing out, come inside.” He tugs at my shoulder. “Vince’s currently wrangling the ship’s cook. He wants to be the one to make the stew, at least now we may consume something edible.”

I glance at him. Shimmering beads of white dot his eyelashes, only now realising how thick and luscious they are.

“I loathe the brute, but even I cannot deny that he can make a delectable broth. The only decent thing about him.”

Unable to even force a smile, I say, “Thank you, but I am fine right here.”

His arm remains frozen at my shoulder. “Alright,” he says decisively. “If you are determined to glacially wither in the cold. I suppose we shall have to freeze together.”

Though my face doesn’t, my heart smiles, beaming.

Unphased, I endure the skin-seeping cold, my joints sore, limbs stiff, but still my body quivers. Nose and ears burning, my fingertips sting with a numbing sensation.

“Can I ask you something?”

I hum a yes.

“Are you alright? And do not say that you are,” he says quickly. “I only ask to encourage a genuine answer. For the past week or so, you have been so downcast. Your words fewer, insistent on spending more time in isolation—more than your usual amount, skulking the ship like a tormented ghoul.”

I urge myself to meet his gaze. Those piercing, frosty blue eyes eddy with unabated worry.

“I am well,” I say steadily, so compelling that I even believe my fraudulence.

“Your eyes… they are too dark.” His gaze analysing my own. “The light that burned so brightly within them has ebbed into desolation. It as if the sun itself has lost its brilliance, it’s warmth waning.”

A miniscule smile splinters my gloom. “How very poetic.”

“I will not prod at you any further but know that I am always here to help, to listen,” he says, hoping that it will diminish the grief he sees within me. He twists and broadens the side hug into a full embrace, wrapping both arms around my shoulders. I respond promptly, wrapping my limbs round his waist, drawing slithers of comfort.

I lay my ear on his chest. “You have done it already,” I murmur.

We remain as we are for an extended time, each leaching bits of warmth from the other.

He chuckles softly to himself. “Why don’t you pay a visit to our charismatic Primus? When you are close to him, you are aglow. I’m sure his presence will restore your spirits.”

I say nothing. But my silence alone is a grim response.

“….Or is he perhaps the reason for your crestfallen demeanour?”

“I thought you said you would not prod?”

“Well, I lied,” he says boldly. “Concerned friend takes precedence over a futile promise. Did something happen between the two of you?”

“It’s… complicated.”

He chaffs at the flaccid excuse. “I believe that no relationship is complex, but it is people who complicate them. If two people care for one another, that is enough, and nothing trivial should keep them apart.”

I scoff bitterly. “You are telling this to the wrong person.”

Solaris pauses. “He’s the one that believes you two should be apart?”

I nod rigidly.

“I never knew cold meant idiotic,” he slips in. Louder, he asks, “Is this because of his station? He holds an elite rank in the Avangard, he is more than worthy to court you—”

“It is not that,” I interject sharply.

Solaris rattles off his suspicions. “Is it because of the King Trials? Does he fear what will happen if you are chosen?”

“I have no idea.” I pull away, breaking us apart. “He fears something, something in his past or something about himself that he does not want me to know.” A sob scratches the back of my throat, grinding. “Though I reassured him with every breath that whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. All I want is to be with him, to come to know him. But still, that was not enough.”

He looks at me, his face resolute. “I know this much. I know he cares for you. Even through that steely-eyed reserve, I can see it. The way he focuses on you, like you are a precious jewel, a priceless gem. When he is around you, he seems… awake, enlivened.”

All of this makes everything agonising to hear. My mind torturing me with a replay of his rejection.

“I do not know the nuances of his misgivings. But his actions are relatable. I too would do anything for the ones I love, even if it would hurt me. That is how true love works, putting someone else first.”

A yawning yet untraceable space opens inside me.

“It is possible that the things he keeps from you is for a good reason. He would not deny himself such joy if it were not. He is a Primus, a soldier, after all. He is bred to put the lives of others before his own, including his own happiness. I think he is trying to protect you, perhaps from a future pain if you were to be with him.”

“Even so,” I blurt. “I would bear it, if he told me—”

“I do not think it’s about you but an issue he has, and you must respect his decision, give him time and free him to tell you on his own. But do not give up on him—”

“He gave up on me.”

“—never give up on a chance at happiness. All the wealth, power and prestige in the world is nothing without love. In his mind, what he does is out of care. Give him and yourself time, but do not let him go.”

I snort wryly. “What are you, an expert matchmaker?”

He burst into a short laugh. “If that were true, you would be talking to your brother-in-law.”

I gawk at him, grinning, holding back a laugh.

His humorous expression fades into a serious look. “No, I am someone who merely wants to see his friend happy. And it seems Primus Kelan does just that for you. In a daunting, always scowling kind of way.”

I exhale, a breath blasting through my nostrils. My mind ruminates on his counsel, clinging to that hope of time-heals-all-wounds. I’m indescribably frustrated at what he said, did, and allowed. It is difficult to believe that he cares if he can so easily cast me aside without hesitating, hellbent on the decision to arm himself with his secrets.

So be it.

I have become distracted, averted from my target, the reason I agreed to leave my Regnum.

But my objective, my desire has not changed. It has merely grown.

I stare off into the distance and something emerges on the bleary horizon. Behind the pall of vaporous, grey mist, an expansive lump begins to take shape, the topographic form becomes apparent. Land.

“Nivalis.” The winds carry its name.

The ship pulls into the harbour, anchoring beside the elongated pier with a handful of docked boats. Everyone hustles about, packing their belongings and making ready to enter the frost kingdom. In that time, Nivalis reacts to our advent with sheer displeasure.

The howling winds sounds with mourning. The flogging squalls of winter blows vociferously. Screeching winds occasionally rise up. When they perish, a tomb-like silence haunts our surroundings. Fate strikes again, withholding no mercy.

We are informed that the roads are clogged with heaps of snow, too profuse for our transport to penetrate. Which means we must make the short trek, on foot, through a mild but growing blizzard to a waiting station where a carousine will take us to Aelvebore, the storm castle.

Our convoy assembles grudgingly, and we disembark from the ship, trooping down the pier, towards fields of white. We trudge together, ice crunching underfoot, boots drumming on the wood. The Avangard flank us, the Hitsches are at our rear, Primus Kelan and the Duce at the front.

There is no dawn chorus, no symphony of sound, no avian orchestra. The world is entombed in a dome of silence. Winter’s deadly clutch has choked all life from the land.

The callous winter stifles the world with its icy breath, the cold smothers and suffocates the land with its vice-like grip. Winter’s slavering fangs sink its blades of ice into everything seen and unseen. The lacerating winds like lances of fire lighting up my skin. We all hold up our arms, shielding ourselves against the barrage of ice pellets that assail us. It has gashed and gouged at every living thing, sparing nothing. Doom-laden clouds, bloating with hatred, roiling in the sky before unleashing their vengeful wares.

We all slave through, the Herems and I bundled in a moving, balled clump. Their ears caught afire, turning an icy blue where their scarves cannot reach. Their wheezy, wind-filled lungs are belching out steam. My eyelids are so heavy, constantly drooping.

All I want to do is sleep.

When all hope seems lost, the last of it wilted by winter’s wrath.

Ahead of us a standalone structure appears, an awning that covers a series of benches overhead. Beside it a carousine awaits, led by a collection of snow-white stallions, their coats immaculate, so much so that they nearly thaw into the laden landscape. Two coachmen sit on the built-in compartment, the boot, bracing their feet on a footboard.

Once they spot us, they debark and slog through towards us. They trade a few words with the Primus before we all deposit our luggage to be uploaded into the boot. Additional ones are to be fastened to the roof. Whilst that is being done, only the Herems, the Duce and I are permitted to enter the carousine. It seems many from our convey will still have to trek on foot.

When I breach the inside, I collapse on the nearest cushioned seat. My eyelids instantly sink close. I hear the thudding sounds of the Herems boots as they all file inside, seating themselves.

I must have nodded off because the next thing I hear is the crackling sound of a whip.

The carousine snaps forward. The journey to Aelvebore begins.

I flutter my eyes open.

“Wh—ilst we—have—the—time.” Duce Merian says, his words quaking uncontrollably. Unaccustomed to this degree of bone-chattering cold. None of us are. “We—might as well,” he forces out quickly, defying his splutters. He swallows, trembling ceaselessly. “We might as well discuss the echelon of Nivalis.”

My bones ache, muscles strained, it’s like a tempest churns within, lashing my insides.

Everyone is too occupied with their own suffering, perpetually shivering and sniffing.

“The Ice Erus, he is—” he sucks in a sharp breath. “He is, in truth, the Frost King. But he holds no real power, his authority reduced to a symbol, he is merely a figurehead. He resides in his own private palace, away from the storm castle.”

I know this, all of this, but my might is sapped, too worn to waste my energy to mute him.

“The p—power is shared among the military tribunal and the Adons—”

“Duce,” Brennon seethes. “We know—we know all of this. Some of our Regnums trade with them, they are not a foreign dominion, but they are not alien.”

“I never asked you if you knew,” he utters through clenched teeth. “For once in your life, keep silent.”

Brennon obeys diffidently, emitting white puffs.

“The Adons are like Nivalis’s Domuses. They sustain the economy; they are the administrative leaders. They control all sectors of trade, debate legislation with the influence to amend, change or add new laws. The fulcrum of any thriving civilisation.”

He lapses into a moment of laboured breathing. “The military tribunal are what they are, military officials. Their strength is in their formidable numbers. Each official, twelve leaders, possess a hundred thousand fighting combatants. Each. They are very powerful, they can either be a useful ally or a dangerous enemy.”

“The Adons hold economic, political and social power in Nivalis, many of them even act as advisors to the Ice Erus. But who do you think you must make a good impression on?”

“It’s obvious,” Markiveus says, his shudders suppressed to stifled pulses. “The Adons, they bear true power.”

“Even though the Ice Erus is a figurehead,” Treyton begins thoughtfully. “Would it not be wise to seek the endorsement of the Frost King himself. By blood and ordinance, it is his kingdom.”

“No, you fool,” Markiveus objects. “The Adons are the one that influence the tides of the economy, they are the ones that have established governance over Nivalis. We need them on our side.”

Vince frees a few loud coughs. “The level of your buoyant incompetence is breath-taking,” he says to Markiveus. “The Adons control the economy, but it is the military tribunal that command its armies. With war looming, the threat of the Ulris nearing. Urium need soldiers, not whatever is trending in Nivalis markets.”

“Precisely,” Duce Merian rewards him with a curt nod. “You are all contenders for one throne but each of you represent your Province, fragments that make up Urium and you speak in its name. You symbolise the Crown, the future of Urium itself, and all of you shall shoulder the burden of kingship. One of you will rule, but the lands of Urium belong to you all, and so you must fight for it. Ally with others to defend it, and if need be. Be prepared to die for it.”