The towering gates of the Winter King's palace loomed ahead, crystalline and shimmering in the dim light. Aeon could feel the sheer magnitude of the place even before she set foot inside. The gates, made entirely of ice, stood as a testament to the power and artistry of the Winter Fae. Each spire and curve seemed to catch the pale light of the frozen sky, refracting it into a thousand different shades of blue, silver, and white. It was beautiful in a way that only something cold and unyielding could be, and yet there was something deeply unsettling about it—like staring into the heart of winter itself.
As she approached, her boots crunching over the frost-encrusted ground, Aeon's breath quickened. She could feel the eyes on her—guards stationed at the entrance, their forms barely distinguishable from the surrounding ice. These were not ordinary guards, nor were they human. They were Fae, their tall, slender figures barely clothed against the biting cold. Their pale skin, almost translucent, shimmered with an otherworldly sheen, and their eyes glinted like shards of ice, cold and watchful.
Aeon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold wind sweeping across the frozen courtyard. These were the Winter Fae—ancient, powerful, and known for their merciless ways. The stories she had heard about them as a child flashed through her mind. They were creatures of frost and darkness, capable of freezing a man's heart with a single glance. The humans who ventured into their kingdom rarely returned, and those who did were never the same.
Swallowing her apprehension, Aeon approached the gates. The fae guards said nothing as she neared, their expressions as cold and still as the ice itself. Without a word, one of them raised a hand, and the massive gates began to part with a low, groaning sound, as though the ice was reluctant to release its grip.
As the gates creaked open, Aeon felt a rush of cold air sweep over her, sharper and more biting than anything she had experienced on her journey. It was as though the very essence of winter resided inside those walls, waiting to consume her. She steeled herself, stepping forward into the Winter Court.
The moment she crossed the threshold, Aeon was struck by the overwhelming grandeur of the palace. The walls were made entirely of ice—clear, smooth, and polished to perfection. They rose high above her, stretching up into the sky like towering cliffs of frozen water. The ceiling, if it could be called that, was a mass of icicles hanging down like a forest of glittering spears, reflecting the pale light in a dazzling array of colors. Every surface shimmered with a cold, ethereal glow, as though the palace itself was alive, pulsing with the magic that sustained it.
It was breathtaking and terrifying all at once.
The cold, however, was unbearable. Despite her heavy cloak and the layers of fur and wool she wore, Aeon could feel the chill sinking deeper into her bones with every passing second. The air itself seemed to cling to her, wrapping around her body like a vice. Her fingers were already numb, and her breath came in sharp, white clouds that dissipated into the freezing air.
Ahead of her, a grand hall stretched into the distance, its floor a sheet of perfect ice that glittered underfoot. At the far end of the hall, elevated on a raised platform, was the throne of the Winter King. Aeon could just make out the figure sitting upon it—a tall, still form, draped in white and silver, crowned with a circlet of frost. His presence filled the hall, as if the very air responded to his existence, bending to his will.
This was King Aelion, the ruler of the Winter Fae, the man whose heart had been turned to ice.
Aeon's steps echoed in the vast hall as she made her way toward the throne, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She kept her head high, her posture straight, though every instinct screamed at her to retreat. There was something about this place that felt... wrong. As though it had been frozen in time, trapped in a moment that should have passed long ago. The air was too still, the silence too oppressive.
As she walked, Aeon caught sight of the fae courtiers who lined the hall, standing like statues along the walls. They were beautiful, in the way that a glacier is beautiful—cold, perfect, and untouchable. Their skin was pale, almost translucent, and their hair shimmered like spun silver, falling in soft waves down their backs. Their eyes, however, were what unsettled her the most. They were wide and bright, but there was no warmth in them, only the cold reflection of the ice that surrounded them. They watched her with interest, but it was the kind of interest one might have for a strange insect crawling across the snow.
They whispered as she passed, their voices too soft for her to catch, but Aeon could feel their judgment in the air. She was an outsider, a mortal, stepping into a world where she did not belong. Their gazes followed her, and she wondered how many humans had walked this path before her—and how many had survived.
Still, she pressed on, her focus narrowing to the figure at the end of the hall. King Aelion. The man she had come to reason with, to negotiate with. The man who held the fate of her brother and her people in his hands.
As she drew closer, she could see him more clearly. Aelion was tall, even sitting on his throne, his figure lean and regal. His hair was the color of snow, falling in smooth, straight locks around his face and shoulders. His skin was pale, as though the warmth of the sun had never touched him, and his eyes—those piercing, ice-blue eyes—glowed faintly in the dim light, as cold and unfeeling as the land he ruled.
For a moment, Aeon hesitated, her breath catching in her throat. The stories had not done him justice. There was something terrifyingly beautiful about the Winter King, something otherworldly and distant, as though he were not entirely of this world. His gaze was fixed on her, but there was no emotion in it, no recognition of the plea she carried in her heart.
Aeon had known this would be difficult. She had prepared herself for a man hardened by centuries of rule, by a curse that had frozen not only his heart but his soul. But standing here, in his presence, she realized how small her chances were. How could she possibly reach him? How could she, a mortal, break through the ice that encased him?
She forced herself to speak, though her voice trembled slightly in the cold.
"King Aelion," she began, her words forming white clouds in the air. "I come as an envoy from the human kingdom. I seek peace between our people."
The silence that followed was deafening. The courtiers stilled, their whispers silenced. Aeon could feel the weight of their gazes on her, waiting for the Winter King's response.
Aelion's gaze did not waver. For a long, agonizing moment, he said nothing, his expression unreadable. The cold seemed to deepen, the air growing heavier around them.
And then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and smooth, but carrying the weight of winter itself.
"Peace," he said, the word slipping from his lips like a breath of frost. "You speak of peace, mortal, in a land where no peace exists."
YOU ARE READING
Heart of the Winter King
FantasyIn a kingdom frozen by a centuries-old curse, Aeon, a mortal diplomat, is sent to broker peace between the human world and the Winter Fae. Her mission takes an unexpected turn when she finds herself falling for the enigmatic Winter King, Aelion, a m...