Chapter 9: The Ice Queen Warning

The grand dining hall of the Ashborn estate was designed to seat thirty. Tonight, only five sat clustered near the hearth at the far end of the dark oak table.

The silence in the room was heavier than the ironwood doors. The only sounds were the scraping of silverware and the sharp hiss of sap popping in the fireplace.

Arthur sat quietly, meticulously dissecting his roasted mutton. He wasn’t eating; he was hunting. In a hostile environment, information was the only currency that kept you breathing, and he was waiting for the adults to slip.

The fare was modest: root vegetables, mutton, and dark bread. It was the absolute best the Ashborn kitchens could muster, but compared to the immaculate midnight-blue carriage sitting in the courtyard, Arthur knew this looked like peasant rations to their guests.

Across the table, Elara poked at her vegetables with the tines of her silver fork as if they might be venomous. Her eyes flicked to her mother, silently pleading for permission to stop eating.

Viscountess Sylvia didn’t touch her plate. She held a goblet of Ashborn vintage—a wine notorious for its sour finish—and swirled it slowly. Her eyes missed absolutely nothing.

“The road,” Sylvia said suddenly, her voice slicing through the heavy silence like a scalpel.

Roderick looked up, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. “Pardon?”

“The main thoroughfare leading to your gates,” Sylvia clarified, setting her goblet down with a sharp, definitive clink. “It is unpaved for the final three miles. My carriage nearly snapped an axle in a rut the size of a shield. And the bridge spanning the Ironwall River? It groaned, Roderick. The masonry is visibly failing.”

Arthur kept his eyes on his plate, chewing slowly. She’s completely right. The structural integrity of the outer perimeter is compromised.

Roderick exhaled a breath that seemed to age him ten years. “We are navigating a difficult season, Sylvia. Repairs are slated for the spring thaw.”

“And your garrison?” Sylvia pressed, leaning forward. The candlelight reflected in her eyes, turning her amber gaze into something resembling cold, fossilized resin—a stark, terrifying contrast to Cecilia’s warm, liquid gold. “I counted six men at the gatehouse. Six. Two were wearing chainmail with more rust than iron. Is this how you protect my sister and her only son?”

“Sylvia, please,” Cecilia whispered, her voice trembling as she reached for her husband’s hand. “We are doing all that we can.”

“Your ‘best’ nearly put your child in the ground a week ago,” Sylvia snapped, her gaze snapping back to Roderick.

The room instantly froze. The atmospheric pressure plummeted. Elara dropped her fork; it clattered loudly against the porcelain plate.

Arthur pupils dilatated slightly. He carefully cut another piece of meat, his mind racing. It seems I was wrong, it doesn’t appear that Viscountess Sylvia is an enemy.

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“The poisoning was… an unprecedented incident,” Roderick said, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous edge bleeding into his tone. “We have doubled the kitchen guard. We test every ingredient.”

“The kitchen?” Sylvia let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “You think a disgruntled scullery maid brewed a Tier-Four alchemical toxin? You think a local bandit scrounged up Nightshade that only grows in—”

“Viscountess Sylvia, that is enough!” Roderick commanded, his voice echoing off the high stone ceilings. “We will conclude this discussion in my study. Not here.”

Sylvia stood instantly, her dark silk dress settling around her like armor. “Finish your meal, Elara. The maid will escort you to our quarters.”

“Yes, Mother,” Elara murmured, her eyes glued to the tablecloth.