Cold Queen - K Webster Page 0,2
my own kingdom.
Why are you here, King Bloodsun?
His eight black steeds pull his chariot that flames with torches effortlessly through the snow. As he grows nearer, I catch a glimpse of the man himself. The king. He wears a black cape that flaps in the wind behind him and he cracks a whip, keeping his steed charging along at a breakneck speed.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. And tap.
Warmth chases the constant chill away as Yanna stands behind me. Her fingers run through my hair in an affectionate way as she peers out the window.
“King Bloodsun,” she says breathlessly. “Is he coming to harm us?”
I turn, taking her warm hand into my cold ones, and give her a reassuring squeeze. “You know I will never let anyone hurt you, sweet sister.”
She kisses my cheek before pulling away. “Have you eaten anything today?”
Returning to my position, I continue tapping away.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. And tap.
“Your non-answer tells me the answer is no. Why must you starve yourself?” she admonishes. “I swear, if it weren’t for me, you’d wither away and die.”
Guilt swells up inside me. “I lost track of time.” I’ve been watching for hours as the Volcs came into view as far as my eye could see. I have watched their every move toward us.
Yanna leaves the room and returns with a tray filled with treats and tea. The steam coming from the white teacup draws my attention and keeps it. Despite the Volcs marching furiously toward us, the farsop tea calls to me. Bitter but hot. Yanna sweetens it for me, though. She always sees to it that I take care of myself. I’m too much like my father. Obsessed on the demise of those who intend on hurting us. To the point it consumes my every thought.
My sister arranges the items on the tray in a way that pleases me. I have particular obsessions. One being that I like items placed a certain way. I like order and routine and neatness. She aligns the four pastries in a single row beside the farsop tea. A sprig of jazzyroot sits beside the teacup. Also straight.
“You need something in your stomach before you meet with this wretched man,” she complains as she sits the tray on the ledge in front of me.
“How do you know he’s wretched?” I ask with a lifted brow.
She pulls a silly face at me, making me smile. Her lips are full and red to my pale blue ones. Somehow her coloring remains a soft brown despite never seeing the sun. Mine is as white as the snow and tinged in blue. And her hair is dark, silky, and vibrant. My tresses are silvery white with streaks of blue that I often try to hide by rubbing gray ash along the streaks.
We are two opposites.
I am cold and she is warmth.
But we are sisters. Bound by blood and love and friendship.
“I assume he’s wretched because everyone besides us is.” She smiles at me. “I dare you to argue.”
A small laugh escapes me as I take the hot tea into my hands. It makes my fingertips sting as they begin to thaw. “I suppose you’re right. They’re all wretched. However, we’ll still entertain the king. See what it is he comes all this way for.”
Her nose scrunches in a cute way that reminds me of when she was just eight. Now, she’s eighteen and all grown up. “I am worried,” Yanna says, frowning. “We were doing fine without him showing up. What could he possibly want?”
“My head,” I tease.
Her mouth pops open in horror and I feel chastised. “Elzira!”
“I do not know what he wants,” I admit. “But no sense in fretting over it.” I sip my tea and wince. Always so bitter.
She smiles at me as she picks up the jazzyroot sprig. Gently, she stirs the tea, darkening it with the sprig. When I bring it to my lips, it tastes sweet. It goes down the hatch much easier this time.
A rap on the door has me straightening my spine and setting down my teacup. I rise on shaky legs, searching for my crown. Dizziness swarms around me, blackness eating at my vision, but I blink it away. Yanna worries when I show signs of worsening. I refuse to worry her when we have the King of the Souta Volcanoes charging to our doorstep.
One of my many crowns sits near the hearth of my fireplace. It’s long since been devoid of fire. Inside, no matter how many times