Cold Queen - K Webster
Elzira
Fifteen Years Old…
Snow falls silently, chilling my face, as Yanna and I wait for Father to kiss us farewell. Yanna fidgets, always eager to get into mischief, but I keep her still beside me with my hand clutching her shoulder. Father quietly instructs the Eyes of the White. His powerful voice drifts my way and I catch pieces of his commands.
Keep them safe at all costs.
Protect the Norta Icelands from those of the Souta, the Easta, and the Westa.
Those who fail will pay with their lives.
Finally, Father finishes and turns to regard us. He is tall, with the palest hair and skin. His eyes resemble the blue stones his wife, and Yanna’s mother, Plyrienne, wears around her throat. Plyrienne already kissed her daughter and forced a smile at me. I know Father loves Plyrienne, but she doesn’t love me. I gave up hoping for motherly affection from her years ago. Yanna, however, owns my heart. She may be my half-sister, but she is my everything.
“Yanna,” Father starts, opening his arms to her.
At only eight years of age, she barely comes to the middle of his chest. He easily picks her up, hugging her to him. An ache forms in my chest. I miss the days when Father would pluck me up and carry me around the palace grounds. But I’m no longer a child. I have crossed into womanhood, just recently taken the journey via The Bloods. Now, every thirty days, I’m reminded I am a woman. Often, painfully so.
Father murmurs things to Yanna that have her giggling. Eventually, she wiggles out of his arms and takes off running back into the castle, her long dark-brown braid bouncing. When she’s indoors, Father frowns at me.
I lift my chin in the regal way Plyrienne does since I know he always smiles when she does it. Father does not smile at me, though. His brows deepen as he lifts a hand to cup my cheek.
“Loveliest Elzira,” he says softly. “You look just as your mother did the day I met her.”
Loss claws at my heart. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my mother. She caught an illness that weakened her. We watched her die before our very eyes. Slowly as the disease took her.
“Thank you, Father.”
He purses his lips together. “If I do not return—”
“Father!” I cry out.
His hand cuts through the air, silencing me. “Enough, my heart. There are words that must be spoken. Words you must hear.”
I fight tears that threaten to spill over my cheeks. Father would see that as weakness, so I quickly blink them away. “Go on.”
“If we do not return, this kingdom will be yours. Your sister will become your duty. The people of Norta Icelands will call you their queen. The Eyes of the White will be your army to command. You will become The Punisher of The Damned.”
I shudder thinking of The Damned. Their crazed screams and snapping teeth find their way into my slumber, stealing my safety even in sleep. The Damned are those who are driven from their kingdoms and are forced to starve. They are banished to Equatoria—barren wastelands separating the four strongest kingdoms. When The Damned have completely lost their minds to madness, Volcs—from the Souta Volcanoes—drive them into our land in hopes to exterminate them. But The Damned seem unfeeling of the cold. Their toes and fingers and ears fall off, but they keep coming. They storm into our land only to be slaughtered by the Eyes of the White. I have seen them with my own eyes. Seen the Eyes of the White paint the snow red as they cut through each and every one of them with their diamondblades.
Father thrives on being The Punisher of The Damned. I’ve seen the glee glimmering in his eyes after a hunt. I’m terrified of them. The thought of running through the snowdrifts after them makes me shudder.
Father, sensing my feelings, scowls at me. “You cannot be weak, my heart. This is our legacy. I count on you in my absence. And if my absence is permanent, your sister will count on you too. Vow to me you will rule this land with a diamond fist.”
A tear leaks out, freezing on my cheek. “I promise, Father.”
He brushes away the frozen tear and smiles. “Trust your instinct. Trust only yourself. Trust in the cold.”
His breath blows out hot air in front of him, but then with a flourish of his hand, he freezes his breath. The gift my father proudly