Ravenna scrambled back on the stone floor, clutching her throbbing face. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she looked around the sunlit guest room. The vision and the freezing mist of the barren woods had vanished. But the sharp, stinging burn on her left cheek was entirely real.
She pushed herself to her feet and rushed to the tall mirror.
Staring back at her was a vivid, angry red handprint stamped across her pale skin. Ravenna raised her right hand, calling on her wild power. A soothing purple light danced across her fingertips as she pressed her palm to the bruise, whispering a healing incantation that had mended broken bones and closed deep wounds.
The magic flared, but the skin beneath stayed fiery red. The spell bounced off the bruise like rain hitting solid iron.
Ravenna gasped, dropping her hand. The mark was not an ordinary physical wound. It was a spectral burn, a mark from the spirit veil delivered by her own mother's hand. Natural magic could not erase a maternal curse.
She pulled her disguise back over herself, watching her chestnut hair return and her eyes shift to hazel. Yet even through the thick layer of illusion, the faint, swollen outline of fingers remained visible on her cheek, a cruel reminder of the impossible choice she had been given.
Then the chill arrived.
It was not a wind that ruffled the curtains. Outside her window, the castle gardens were bathed in warm, golden afternoon light. Sparrows sang from the stone ledges, and guards walked their posts under a mild breeze. But inside Ravenna’s chest, the temperature plummeted toward zero.
A freezing draft coiled around her ankles like invisible chains. She looked down and saw thin, spiderweb lines of pale frost spreading across the wooden floorboards, creeping straight toward her boots. She stepped back, her breath hitching as she realized the horror of it.
None of it was visible to the mortal world. The frost was an omen meant only for her.
A life for a life, her mother's whisper slithered through her thoughts, cold and sharp as broken glass. Take his heart, or let the grave take yours.
A heavy knock sounded at the door, shattering the quiet.
Ravenna quickly pulled the collar of her dress up and turned her face away as the latch clicked. Draven walked in, closing the door firmly behind him. He had stripped off his heavy steel pauldrons, wearing only his dark leather vest and linen shirt. The harsh lines of exhaustion around his eyes softened the moment he saw her.
"The council is finally dismissed," Draven said, letting out a long breath. He walked toward her with easy, confident strides. "My lords spent three hours arguing about border taxes, but all I wanted was to come back here and make sure you were safe."
Ravenna kept her gaze fixed on the floor, terrified he would notice the chill rattling her bones or the phantom mark on her face. "You should be resting, Draven. You have duties."
Draven stopped a few feet away. His sharp warrior instincts immediately picked up on the tension in her shoulders. "Look at me, Ravenna."
She hesitated, trying to angle her face into the shadows. "I am just tired from breaking the curse."
Draven did not accept the excuse. He stepped close, reaching out with a gentle hand to lift her chin. The moment his rough fingers brushed against her left cheek, Ravenna winced involuntarily and pulled back.
Draven’s gray eyes locked onto the angry red swelling on her face.
The warmth in his expression died instantly. A terrifying stillness settled over the king, the dangerous, lethal quiet that came right before a slaughter on the battlefield. The air around him seemed to thicken with pure fury.
"Who did this?" Draven asked. His voice was dangerously low, a calm rumble that carried more violence than a roar.
"Draven, it is nothing—"
"Do not lie to me!" he snapped, stepping closer, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. His gaze drilled into the distinct shape of the fingers bruised into her skin. "Was it Isolde? Did Lysandra come in here with her guards while I was occupied in the Great Hall?"
Ravenna saw the savage rage burning in his eyes. If she told him the truth, that the vengeful ghost of her mother was demanding his head, she would break the fragile trust they had built. Draven would see her as an instrument of his doom, or worse, he would blame himself for the sins of his father and offer up his own life to settle the debt. And if she let him believe his wives had done it, he would execute them in the courtyard, plunging Valerius into a catastrophic civil war before the sun went down.
She swallowed the terror rising in her throat and placed both hands flat against his chest, feeling the frantic, furious beat of his heart.
"It was not your wives," Ravenna said firmly, forcing her voice to stay steady as she held his stormy gaze. "And it was no guard. I suffered a magical backlash when I pulled Malakor's rusted nail from the foundation. The dark spell fought back before it shattered. It burned me."
Draven stared down at her, his jaw working as he weighed her words. The rage in his eyes shifted into raw agony and guilt. He reached up, his calloused thumb hovering just a fraction of an inch above the bruised skin, terrified of causing her more pain.
"You took that pain for my bloodline," Draven whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "You bled for a kingdom that never gave you anything but grief."
"I did it for you," Ravenna answered softly. The words were entirely true, even if the lie about the mark weighed heavily on her soul.
Draven wrapped his strong arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest and burying his face in her hair. He held her as if she were the only anchor keeping him grounded in a sea of madness.
Over his broad shoulder, Ravenna stared at the corner of the room.
There, standing in the shadows where the warm sunlight could not reach, was the faint, translucent shape of her mother. The phantom's hollow eyes burned with utter disgust as she watched Ravenna embrace the mortal king, her icy presence promising that the clock was ticking down.