The fortified inn crouched against the night like a beast ready to spring, its timber walls glowing amber from within. Snow piled against the frosted windows in soft, relentless drifts. Anya stood at the pane in her small chamber, tracing idle patterns in the condensation—a wolf, a tiger, then erasing them both with a sweep of her palm.
Downstairs, Dmitri had doubled the guards. The dead from the ambush lay in unmarked graves behind the stables, their secrets buried with them. The rose-crested locket now rested hidden in her jewelry pouch, a cold weight against her heart.
A soft knock.
"Enter," she called, expecting Dmitri with another clipped warning.
Instead, a young maid slipped inside, cheeks flushed from the cold, carrying a tray of tea and dark bread. Her eyes were wide with barely contained excitement.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," she whispered, setting the tray down, "but the whole inn's abuzz. They say the Emperor himself has come."
Anya went very still. "Here?"
The girl bobbed a curtsy. "Not an hour ago. A black sleigh pulled by eight grays—finest I ever saw. The driver wears the imperial crest. His Majesty's inside the private parlor. Alone. No one's to disturb him till dawn."
The maid fled with another curtsy, leaving Anya staring at the closed door.
Why would Nikolai leave the palace in the dead of winter? To personally escort one reluctant bride? It made no sense.
Unless the ambush had shaken him more than Dmitri had let on.
She paced like a caged animal. The inn was old; servants' passages twisted behind the walls like veins. Guards patrolled the main halls—imperial ones now—but the back stairs were quiet.
Ten minutes later, hooded in a plain wool cloak, Anya eased open a side door and stepped into the stable yard.
Moonlight silvered the fresh snow. Beneath a canopy of icicles stood the sleigh.
It was breathtaking: ebony wood carved with snarling wolves and swirling frost patterns, seats lined with white bearskin that gleamed like moonlight on water. Blue glass lanterns cast an eerie, otherworldly glow. The eight horses stamped impatiently, their harnesses jingling softly.
Inside, wrapped in black sable, sat a solitary figure—motionless, hooded, radiating cold even from twenty paces away.
Anya's heart hammered against her ribs. This was madness.
She walked forward anyway.
The nearest horse snorted, tossing its head. The figure stirred.
"Leave us," Nikolai said, voice low and precise.
The grooms bowed and vanished into the shadows.
Anya stopped at the sleigh's edge. Moonlight caught the sharp, familiar lines of his face beneath the hood—older than the boy she remembered, harder, but unmistakably him. Pale silver-blue eyes regarded her without surprise.
"So," she said, steadier than she felt, "the great Frost Emperor braves a blizzard to collect one wayward candidate. Am I truly that much of a threat?"
A long pause. Then he spoke, each word deliberate as falling snow.
"You were attacked on my roads. I do not tolerate failure in my protection."
"Or perhaps," Anya countered, "you simply enjoy dramatic entrances."
The corner of his mouth twitched—the ghost of something that might once have been a smile.
"Get in."
Anya arched a brow. "Is that a command, Your Majesty?"
"A request." His gaze never left her face. "The night is cold. We have things to discuss."
Against every instinct screaming caution, Anya climbed into the sleigh and settled opposite him. The bearskin was impossibly soft; hidden braziers radiated warmth that chased the chill from her bones. The door closed with a soft thud, sealing them in a private world of blue light and swirling snow.
Silence stretched, thick and charged.
Then Nikolai reached inside his cloak and drew out the silver locket—the rose crest of House Voronin.
"You took this from Dmitri," Anya said quietly.
"I ordered him to surrender it." He turned the locket over in gloved fingers. "Sofia Voronina gifts these to her most trusted retainers. A charming token for hired killers."
Anya met his eyes. "You believe she wants me dead before the bride-show ends."
"I believe someone fears what you could become at my side." He leaned forward slightly. "The question is why."
Anya gave a short, humorless laugh. "Perhaps because I have no intention of marrying you."
Something flickered across his face—too swift to name.
"You think this is merely about marriage?" His voice was soft, dangerous. "This is about power, Anastasia. Someone sees you as a threat."
"And what do you see me as?" she challenged. "A partner? A decoration? A broodmare for your heirs?"
"A partner," he said. The word hung heavy between them. "Or an enemy. The court will decide—unless we choose otherwise."
Anya stared at him. "You speak as though I have a choice."
"You always have a choice." His voice dropped, almost gentle. "You simply haven't liked the consequences."
The use of her full name struck like a blade. No one had called her Anastasia since her mother in anger.
"How do you—" She stopped. Memory surged: a boy in the snow, her shouting her name as she dragged him onto her horse.
He couldn't remember. He had been unconscious.
Nikolai watched her closely. "There is something else."
He lifted his hand.
The air inside the sleigh grew sharply colder. Frost bloomed across the windows in delicate, impossible ferns. Between his palms, snow swirled, shaping itself into a tiny white tiger no larger than a kitten. It padded across the air toward her, eyes glowing pale blue, and settled beside her—living ice, breathing softly.
Anya's breath caught.
"You," she whispered. "It was you."
The tiger dissolved into glittering dust.
"I owe you a life debt," Nikolai said quietly. "From the day the wolves came."
The world tilted. "You fainted. I carried you to the manor. You were gone by morning—no one would say where."
"My father did not approve of weakness." His tone was flat, but pain lurked beneath. "I never forgot the girl who saved me."
Anya swallowed hard. "And now you summon her to your palace like a prize."
"Not a prize," he said. "An invitation. One I should have extended myself five years ago."
Silence fell, heavy with everything unsaid.
Outside, snow fell harder, muffling the world.
"If Sofia is behind the attack," Anya said at last, "what will you do?"
"Watch. Wait. Let her believe she holds the advantage." His eyes darkened. "Then strike."
"Cold," she murmured.
"Necessary."
For the first time, she saw the weight he carried—the exhaustion behind the ice, the loneliness of a crown worn too young.
Anya leaned back against the furs. "And me? What role do I play in your plans?"
Nikolai studied her for a long, unreadable moment.
"That," he said finally, "is entirely up to you."
A sudden shout shattered the quiet—Dmitri's voice, sharp with alarm.
"Your Majesty! Riders—bearing the raven banner!"
Nikolai's hand shot to the door. Frost exploded across the wood as he flung it open.
In the distance, torches flickered through the trees—dozens, closing fast.
Dragunov's men. Or Sofia's.
Or both.
Nikolai turned back to Anya, eyes blazing like winter stars.
"Stay close to me."
The tiny ice tiger reformed on his shoulder—now life-sized, fangs bared in silent fury—as arrows began to rain from the dark.