Daggers of Ice

Chapter 2

1010.

The Tenth Year of the Golden Age.

Arianna.

She moved through the revelry like a blade through silk.

Laughter echoed behind her as she slipped past the doors and into the cold beyond. The balcony opened onto a sweep of marble steps; the gardens below washed in moonlight. She hoped Raenor had found his way out – trapped in his Adam-suit, cursing every thread of human skin that clung to his form.

Her own heart was a storm, her pulse thundering.

Calm.

Calm.

Calm.

It was a mantra she repeated in her head, over and over.

You are cold.

You are ice.

But she could feel him.

A presence behind her – not loud, but close.

Too close.

Each turn through the garden paths brought only the whisper of pursuit: bootsteps soft against the flagstones, the faint hiss of breath. The air was fragrant with roses and salt and winter. Torches burned in iron sconces, scattering orange light across the pale flowers that would soon surrender their petals to winter's cold kiss.

He was following.

He was not meant to be in the Cair.

He was meant to be in Archenland.

He shouldn't have been there.

Fuck.

She hadn't expected him to be so young, or so handsome. The sketches had shown a severe man – dark hair, sharp eyes, a soldier carved from iron and judgment. But sketches did not capture heat. They did not capture him.

The just King.

Narnia's Knight.

Narnia's shadow, its blade.

She cursed herself for her arrogance. For her foolishness.

The knives hidden in her bodice burned against her skin – cold fire, whispering reminders of who she was, what she was there to do.

Then fingers closed around her wrist.

The warmth startled her more than the force.

A warm hand clamped around her wrist.

She moved.

Her body reacted: twisting, elbow slamming back toward his ribs. He deflected easily, his grip tightening. She drove her heel into his shin, hard, pivoting to strike again. The impact barely staggered him.

Then he pulled – sharp, efficient – and her balance shifted.

The world tipped; she hit the tree, shoulder-first, bark scraping skin through thin silk. Air left her lungs in a gasp that was half snarl, half pain.

He didn't speak.

Neither did she.

His silence was its own language – soldier's discipline, precise and deadly. He moved like someone accustomed to command, no wasted motion. A trained killer, not a courtly knight.

He reached for her free arm; she twisted it, ducking low. Her knee came up, nearly connecting with his thigh, but he was quicker, sidestepping, catching her from behind. The hand that seized her was unrelenting – strong, practiced, impossibly warm.