Chapter 3 Week One in Ice

Raven

Naples had heat, blood, betrayal. But Kael's wing?

It was winter. Cold and calculating.

The moment I stepped past the threshold into the north wing, the temperature dropped. Literally. The hallway stretched like a cathedral corridor-marble floors, charcoal-painted walls, sconces that cast shadows instead of light. Even the silence was colder here. It wasn't just absence; it was command. Stillness as weapon.

Kael Nox didn't walk beside me. He didn't lead. He merely turned once, gave a subtle nod, and I followed. Because even silence can be a leash when it comes from someone like him.

He opened a black double door. Inside: a suite more minimalist than regal. Clean lines. Steel furniture. Art that was more pain than beauty-abstract canvases in bruised blacks, rusted golds, and violent reds.

The bed? King-sized. All black. No headboard.

"Your room," he said finally, voice like a shadow brushing bare skin.

"That's it?" I asked. "No speech about trust, or threats, or how I'll regret crossing you?"

His eyes-gray like frost after murder-met mine. "If I have to threaten you, I've already lost. And I don't lose."

I didn't flinch. "That's a bold motto."

"It's not a motto."

I stepped past him into the suite. His scent trailed behind-smoke, iron, and the kind of soap that rich men who don't talk much wear.

"Am I allowed to leave this wing?" I asked.

"No."

"Bathroom?"

"To the left. There's clothing in the wardrobe. Dinner at seven. Don't be late."

I turned back. He was already walking away.

He left without a sound. No footsteps. Just absence.

And for the first time in days, I was alone.

I explored.

Not to be nosy. Not even to find a way out.

I wanted to understand him. Kael Nox, the quietest of the four. The one who hadn't cracked a single joke. The one who handed me my father's blood-stained ring like a knight returning from war.

His wing was surgical.

The books on his shelves were organized not alphabetically or by author-but by death count. War memoirs. Tactician journals. Psychological warfare. One shelf entirely dedicated to interrogation manuals. All annotated.

A framed photo on the desk. I leaned closer.

A girl. Seven, maybe eight. White dress. Laughing. Arms around a younger Kael-maybe sixteen. He looked... normal. Even happy.

Then the frame was snatched from under me.

Kael.

He hadn't made a sound.

I straightened. "She your sister?"

"Was."

I didn't apologize. He didn't look like he wanted one.

Instead, he placed the frame in a drawer and locked it.

"Curiosity is dangerous here."

"So is silence," I said.

He stared. Then walked away.

Dinner was in a private lounge-if you could call a room with no chairs, one table, and two sets of silverware 'loungey.'

Kael stood when I entered. Didn't pull my chair out. Didn't offer pleasantries.

He ate in silence.

So did I.

Until he finally said, "You're not what I expected."

I wiped my mouth. "You thought I'd cry in corners and beg for mercy?"

"I thought you'd beg for freedom."

"From this? From you?"

"From all of it."

I leaned forward. "I don't beg. I bargain. Or I burn."

That made his lips twitch. Almost a smile. Almost.

He pushed a file toward me. "Your father's autopsy. Thought you'd want to see it."

I froze.

"You had this?"

"Requested it the moment we left the cathedral. I don't like loose ends."

I flipped it open.

Cause of death: gunshot wound. Angle: top right. Entry: sniper-level precision. Bullet fragments embedded in the marble.

My stomach turned.

"What is this supposed to prove?"

"That someone on the inside planned it. Only a handful knew the position of the rafters."

"You think it was one of your own?"

He stared.

"Theron?"

"No."

"Silas?"

"No."

"Aemrys?"

Silence.

Kael stood. Walked toward the window.

"I'm not sure anymore."

He didn't offer more.

I didn't ask.

Night came fast in Kael's wing.

I lay on the bed, sleepless. Dressed in silk. The chandelier cast blade-like patterns across the ceiling.

Then: footsteps.

The door opened.

Kael entered. Shirtless. Scar along his side like a lightning bolt.

He didn't speak.

Didn't move toward me.

Just stood by the window, spine straight, watching the night.

Minutes passed.

Then: "They sent her fingers in a box."

I sat up. "What?"

"My sister," he said. "They kidnapped her to punish my father. He paid. They sent her back in pieces. The last was her smile."

I swallowed. Hard.

"That's why you joined the pact?" I asked. "For vengeance?"

He turned.

"No. For order. So no other family gets to choose which child lives and which dies."

The silence grew heavy.

"I'm sorry," I said, finally.

He nodded once.

Then walked to the bed. Sat at the edge.

I didn't stop him.

"You're scared," he said.

"Of you?"

"No. Of becoming like us."

"Too late."

Another long pause.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

I blinked.

Did I?

"No."

He lay beside me, not touching. Just breathing.

The space between our bodies hummed like a live wire.

"You'll hate what you become," he said softly.

"Maybe. But I'll survive it."

He turned off the light.

And in the dark, with our hearts loud, Kael Nox whispered:

"Then I'll teach you how."

The next morning, I woke up alone.

Kael was gone. His side of the bed looked untouched.

But a note lay folded on the pillow:

Library. Eleven. Be late and I'll make you regret it.

I smirked.

He'd threatened me after all.

The library was cold when I arrived. Not just in temperature-but in architecture. The ceiling soared so high, you could whisper sins into it and they'd echo for years. Kael stood at the center, sword in hand.

Not decorative. Sharp. Real.

"Combat training?" I asked, raising a brow.

He tossed me a blade. "Lesson one. Survive."

We sparred.

Not gently. Not with soft words or lingering looks.

He fought like he bled strategy. Every slash tested my patience. Every lunge pulled confessions from my muscles.

"I'm not a soldier," I panted.

"You are now."

He disarmed me twice. I landed one hit.

He let me.

I showered after, muscles sore, blood humming.

And when I returned to my room, I found a gift on the bed: a dagger. Silver. With my initials engraved.

The note read: You survived. Don't make it a one-time thing.

I didn't know if it was affection or a threat.

Maybe both.

That night, I woke to whispers.

From the hall.

Voices. Urgent.

I cracked the door open.

Kael. Arguing with Theron. Silas behind them, arms crossed. Aemrys pacing.

I couldn't hear every word. But I heard this:

"She knows too much."

"She's part of it now."

"She's still a liability."

And Kael: "She's mine for the week. Say another word, and I'll show you what that means."

I shut the door.

Locked it.

And smiled.

Because for once-I wasn't just a pawn.

I was the queen.