The Frost Weaver

Chapter 10

The morning did not break; it shattered.

I woke to the sound of ice shifting against the stone roof, a grinding, heavy noise that reminded me the world outside this house was still frozen. For a moment, disoriented by the heavy velvet curtains blocking the light, I forgot where I was.

Then the scent hit me, cedar, woodsmoke, and the faint, masculine tang of the wolf.

Adrien.

The memories of last night rushed back, the dinner, the laughter, the kiss in the library that had felt less like a romantic gesture and more like a treaty signed in breath and blood.

I sat up, the heavy duvet pooling around my waist. The room was empty, but on the bedside table, a cup of tea sat steaming, accompanied by a small, folded note.

I am downstairs. Take your time. Maelle is threatening to bring you breakfast in bed, but I told her you prefer your dignity.

I smiled, tracing the sharp, elegant slant of his handwriting. Even on paper, he sounded like himself.

I drank the tea, Earl Grey, dark and bitter, just how I liked it, and went to the window. pulling back the curtain.

Strasbourg was gone. Or at least, the Strasbourg I knew. The view from the window was a sea of white. The ancestral forest surrounding the house was coated in a frost so thick it looked like diamond dust. In the distance, through the trees, I could see the faint, grey outline of the cathedral spire, anchoring us to reality.

Today was the day. The High Council.

My stomach gave a violent lurch. Today, I had to stand in front of the oldest, most dangerous creatures in Europe and convince them I wasn't a threat. Or, if Maelle was right, convince them that I was a threat they shouldn't cross.

A knock at the door made me jump.

“It’s safe,” a melodic voice called out. “I promise I’m not bringing scrambled eggs.”

“Come in, Maelle,” I said.

The door opened, and Adrien’s sister flowed into the room. She looked infuriatingly fresh for someone who had finished three bottles of wine with her brother the night before. She was wearing a loose silk robe that shimmered like an oil slick, and in her arms, she carried a garment bag that looked heavy.

“Good morning, Weaver,” she purred, closing the door with her hip. “How did you sleep? Did the house speak to you? It tends to mutter at guests.”

“It was quiet,” I said.

“Good. It likes you.” She dropped the garment bag onto the bed with a heavy thump. “Adrien is pacing a hole in the floor downstairs. Lucian is cleaning his guns, which is his version of meditation. And Silas is staring into the fire muttering about timelines.”

“A normal day, then I take it?” I asked with a grin.

Maelle flashed a sharp, predator’s grin. “A very normal day in our home. Now. Let’s get you dressed.”

I looked at the bag. “I brought clothes. I have a suit.”

“A suit is for a board meeting, Elara,” Maelle said, her voice dropping into that siren-hum that made my skin tingle. “You are not going to a meeting. You are going to a court. You need armor.”

She unzipped the bag.

I gasped.

It wasn’t a dress; it was a masterpiece.

As a curator, I had handled textiles from the 17th century, royal velvets, and church vestments. I knew fabric. But I had never seen anything like this.

It was a deep, midnight blue, so dark it was almost black, made of a velvet so plush it seemed to swallow the light. The bodice was structured, high-necked and long-sleeved, modest but severe. But the craftsmanship…

I reached out, my fingers trembling as I touched the hem.

“This is vintage,” I whispered. “Mid-19th century? The stitching is hand-turned.”

“1882,” Maelle corrected softly. “It belonged to the last Heart Witness. We kept it in the vault.”

I pulled my hand back as if burned. “I can’t wear that. It’s an artifact. It belongs in a museum, or a shrine.”

“It belongs on a Weaver,” Maelle said firmly. She reached out, catching my chin in her cool hand, forcing me to look at her. Her eyes were swirls of sea-foam and grey.

“Listen to me. The Council respects two things: Blood and History. You don’t have their blood. So you must wear the history. When you walk in there, you cannot look like a human tourist. You must look like you have been waiting for them.”

I swallowed hard, nodding. “Okay.”

“Good.” She stepped back, her demeanor shifting from mystical to practical in a blink. “Now, get in the shower. I have fifteen minutes to do your hair before Adrien comes up here and drags us out.”

Forty minutes later, I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

I barely recognized myself.

The midnight velvet molded to my body like a second skin, heavy and protective. The high collar framed my jaw, drawing the eye immediately to the mark on my cheek. Maelle had pulled my hair back into an intricate, woven braid that looked like a crown, weaving small strands of silver thread through the dark locks.

I didn't look soft. I didn't look like a curator who spent her days dusting tapestries.

I looked like a queen of winter.

“Perfect,” Maelle whispered, standing behind me. “Adrien is going to lose his mind.”

I took a deep breath, smoothing the fabric over my hips. “Let’s get it over with.”

We descended the stairs. The house was silent now, the playful energy of the night before replaced by a tense, vibrating anticipation.

Adrien was waiting at the bottom of the landing.

He was wearing a suit of charcoal grey, cut sharp and modern, but over it, he wore a long coat with a fur collar that looked ancient. He was turning a ring over and over on his finger, a nervous tic I had never seen before.

When he looked up, his hands stopped.

The air in the hallway seemed to vacate, leaving a vacuum of silence. His amber eyes traveled from the hem of the dress up to my face, and his pupils dilated until the gold was nearly swallowed by black.

“Elara,” he breathed.

Lucian, leaning against the front door, let out a low whistle. “Damn. If the Council tries to execute her, I’m pretty sure she could just order them to stop, and they’d listen.”

Adrien ignored his brother. He walked to the foot of the stairs, extending a hand to me.

“You look…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You look like you belong to the old world.”

I took his hand. His grip was warm, solid, grounding me in the present.

“Maelle said I needed armor,” I said.

“Maelle has excellent taste,” he murmured, lifting my hand to press a kiss to my knuckles. “Are you ready?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I’m going anyway.”

“That,” Silas said, emerging from the shadows of the living room, “is the only definition of bravery that matters.”

The Elder walked past us, his cane tapping rhythmically on the stone. “Car is waiting. We’re burning daylight. And the High Priestess hates lateness almost as much as she hates joy.”

The drive into Strasbourg was silent.

Lucian drove a sleek, black vintage sedan that looked like it belonged in a noir film. He drove with a terrifying, casual speed, weaving through the snowy forest roads as if friction was merely a suggestion.

I sat in the back with Adrien. He didn't speak, but he kept his hand on my thigh, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the velvet of my dress.

We didn't head toward the modern European Parliament buildings, nor did we go toward the famous Cathedral. instead, Lucian drove us deep into the Petite France district, the historic quarter of the city where the half-timbered houses leaned over the canals.

He stopped the car in front of a narrow, unassuming alleyway that ended in a wrought-iron gate.

“Here?” I asked, looking at the dead end.

“The Council doesn’t rent office space,” Lucian said, cutting the engine. “They exist in the folds.”

We stepped out into the biting cold. The air here smelled of river water and old snow.

Silas stepped up to the iron gate. It was rusted shut, welded together by time. He didn't use a key. He simply raised his driftwood staff and tapped the metal three times.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The sound didn't echo. It was absorbed.

Before my eyes, the rust seemed to bleed away. The iron turned from brown to a gleaming, oily black. The metal groaned, twisting like living vines, and the gate swung open.

Beyond it wasn't an alley.

It was a garden.

A winter garden, trapped in perpetual twilight. White roses bloomed from bushes made of ice. The trees were weeping willows, but their leaves were made of frosted glass that chimed in the wind. In the center of the garden stood a massive, glass-domed conservatory that glowed with a pale, blue light.

“The Sanctuary of Glass,” Adrien murmured in my ear. “Neutral ground. No blood can be spilled here.”

“That’s comforting,” I said, my breath misting in the air.

“It’s a lie,” Maelle whispered from my other side. “Blood can be spilled anywhere if you’re creative enough. Stay close to Adrien.”

We walked down the frozen path. The crunch of our footsteps was the only sound. I felt the weight of the dress, the history of the woman who had worn it before me, a woman who had died during a Great Frost.

Not me, I thought fiercely. I am not going to break.

Adrien stopped at the double doors of the conservatory. He turned to me, placing both hands on my shoulders.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “They will try to bait you. They will ask you questions designed to make you doubt your own mind. They want to prove you are unstable.”

“I know,” I said.

“You don’t have to answer them with words,” he said. “You are a Weaver. If they push you… push back. Show them the threads.”

“I don’t know how,” I whispered.

“You do,” he promised. “Trust the instinct that made you fix the tapestry. Trust the hands that mended the silk.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to mine for one brief, strengthening second.

“I am right beside you. I’m not the Wolf of Strasbourg in there. I’m just yours.”

He pulled back, his face settling into a mask of cold, imperious indifference. My protector was gone, replaced by the ancient Alpha.

He pushed the doors open.

The warmth hit us first, a humid, tropical heat that smelled of orchids and decay.

The conservatory was massive. In the center, arranged in a semi-circle of high-backed wooden chairs, sat seven figures.

They were diverse in appearance; some looked young, some ancient, some human, some distinctly other. But they all radiated a power that made the air feel thick and gelatinous.

In the center chair sat a woman with hair like spun silver and eyes that were entirely black.

The High Priestess.

She didn't look at Adrien. She didn't look at Lucian or Silas.

Her black eyes snapped directly to me. A slow, cold smile spread across her face.

“Ah,” she said, her voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over pavement. “The Curator wears the dead’s clothes.”

She leaned forward.

“Come closer, little Weaver. Let us see if you are strong enough to fill them.”