Twilight bleeds into the grand foyer of Skarrholm, casting long, bruised shadows across the black marble. Snow swirls through the open iron gates, dusting Elspeth’s midnight-blue hem as she stands frozen on the threshold. Her breath hitches, a small white plume in the biting air, as the silence of the mountain is broken by the dry rustle of silk. From the gloom emerges a woman with skin like creased parchment and eyes that have seen the rise and fall of centuries.
Mistress Beira does not offer a hand or a warm hearth. She simply stops ten paces away, her silver candle-snuffer glinting on a chain at her waist like a small, sharp weapon. Elspeth clutches her mother’s brass reading-candle, the metal biting into her palm through her gloves. The bargain is struck; there are no guards to drag her in, and no bolts to keep her.
'The King is waiting, Princess,' Beira says, her voice a low, raspy scrape. 'But the gate will remain open behind you, should you wish to freeze on the way down.'
Elspeth takes her first step onto the polished stone, the fur at her throat damp with melted flakes. Deep in the throat of the house, a shadow shifts. Heavy boots sound on the marble stairs, descending slowly from the dark.
