The frost-kissed cottage smelled of pine smoke and old parchment. Laken sat cross-legged on a threadbare rug in front of the hearth, the locket with Isolde's portrait open in her palm. Reed perched on the edge of an ancient ottoman, elbows on knees, watching Eliza move between shelves that hadn't existed yesterday. Books had simply appeared overnight, leather spines crackling with frost that never melted.
Eliza pulled down a volume bound in pale-blue dragonhide (actual dragonhide, Reed realized with a shiver) and laid it on the low table. The cover bore no title, only a single rune that looked like a snowflake caught mid-spin.
“This is the Grimoire of the First Ice-Dancers," Eliza said, voice soft but resonant, the way cathedral bells sound miles away. “Your birthright, Laken. And yours
