First Look From Leena Kazak: Between Tides and Thunder

Tides drown me. He’s a stormwielder—he literally holds my greatest fear in the palm of his hand. 

Romantasy Illustrated is excited to offer a First Look into Fantasy + Romance Author Leena Kazak's Between Tides and Thunder, available March 31st.

About Between Tides and Thunder:

She was raised to hate him. Now she shares his bed.

Princess Mayah of Tundrayn isn't allowed to want. Not freedom. Not love. Not even her own future. Instead, she's spent her life healing others' pain and swallowing her own. But when her father strikes a fragile alliance with enemy-kingdom Arbinj to crush a rising rebellion, she is bartered into a marriage she didn't choose for a crown she doesn't want.

She expects a prince. She gets the Dark Commander.

Zevayr is ruthless, unyielding, and a stormwielder with a reputation soaked in blood. He is everything Mayah was taught to fear. Yet as they race across rebel-torn lands, the less certain she is of where the monster ends and where the man begins.

In Arbinj's glittering courts, the Rebellion surges and dangerous secrets stir from Mayah's past-secrets that could shatter her kingdom, and her heart, if she lets them.

The question is not if Mayah will betray, but who: her people, her love, or herself?

Tides, the man has lost his mind. And I’m not about to help him find it. 

Chapter 1

“Come on, Princess,” a deep voice rumbles in my ear. “I’ve taught you better than that.” I struggle beneath him, the ice floor cold against my back, but his heavy weight pins me down. Dark, mischievous blue eyes—ones I know as well as my own—trace my face, settling on my lips.

I scowl and bring up my knee. Hard.

Daak narrowly shifts out of the way with a huffed laugh before jumping to his feet. I ignore his proffered hand and rise on my own.

“Again.” I drop into a defensive position, arms raised.

Amusement dances in his eyes. “If you say so.” 

With a flurry of punches, he attacks. 

Daak gives me no quarter, but I know his routine—he’s been training me for years. I easily deflect his blows. When his leg sweeps out in a roundhouse, I crouch just in time, his boot passing scant inches above my head.

Water burbles in the large fountain carved into the ice wall of the palace’s training room, though its sound is muffled by my own heaving breaths. From the center of the fountain, a massive polar bear—one of my least favorite ice sculptures—glares at me. He’s always glaring. I like to pretend he’ll look pleased when I finally win.

Maybe it’ll be today.

I attack with flying fists and well-aimed kicks, my grunts echoing through the vast, cold room. Daak blocks every single strike, eyes glinting in the sunlight filtering from the large, arched windows. Just when I’m about to land a solid blow, a large wave of clear, cold water surges from the fountain. It flows toward us in a rushing torrent, wrapping around my legs. 

It freezes. 

Before I can blink, another icy wave crashes into me, covering my hips in thick ribbons, before they also freeze. 

“Cheater!” I snap, glaring at him. “We said no wielding.” 

Daak is a skilled waterwielder—the best in all of Tundrayn—and captain of my father’s guard. It’s the only reason Father never sent him into battle.

“I changed my mind.” He smirks at me, palms angled to cheat some more. I lift my hands up, when—

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Three sharp knocks echo through the training room. 

I drop my hands. The door flings open, and a servant barges in, panting. “Princess Mayah! The Healing Chambers. Come quickly.”

The ice holding me captive melts, crashing to the floor with a loud splash. With a wave of his hand, Daak wicks the water soaking my fur-lined tunic and leggings back into the fountain. His eyes reflect the worry that must be mirrored in my own.

“Go,” he says, brows furrowed. “I’ll check in soon.”

My dark braid swings behind me as I follow the servant through the cold palace halls, boots skidding on the ice floors. I could sprint this path blindfolded in the dead of night and not slip once. I’ve done it several times on a dare. But the urgency bracketing the servant’s posture rocks my balance. 

We make it in record time. 

Carved into the palace’s icy heart, the Healing Chambers have smooth, white ice walls that glisten like polished marble. Stone basins brimming with crystal-clear water sit beneath frost-rimmed shelves lined with glass jars of salves and rows of neatly stacked liniments—rarely used, but handy when healers are depleted of reserves. I’ve never touched any of the medical supplies in my entire life. 

I’ve never needed to.

Usually, the air in the Healing Chambers is crisp with the scent of mint and snowroot, but today, the stench of death permeates the room. 

A sharp gasp breaks loose from my chest, and I resist the urge to cover my mouth.

There are no empty cots. Every available surface is littered with broken bodies—warriors with gaping wounds and twisted limbs. Three unfortunate souls are sprawled on the cold floor between cots. 

Tides have mercy. 

The metallic smell of burnt flesh invades my nostrils, and I struggle to stifle my gag. I don’t know why. I should be used to it by now—I’ve treated hundreds of such injuries in this tidesdamned eternal war with Arbinj. 

“What happened?” I demand, surveying the injured men and women. “We agreed to a ceasefire!”

Jennah, the head healer, snorts, the lines around her mouth etched deeper as she scowls. “Apparently, news of the alliance didn’t reach the front lines in time.” She doesn’t look up, glowing hands pressed against her patient’s bloodied arm. “Arbinj attacked a small battalion. All commons.”

My anger flares hotter at her casual use of “commons,” the derogatory term for nonwielders, but I purse my lips and hold my tongue.

Rolling up the sleeves of my tunic, I set to work. 

First, I treat a warrior with horrific lightning burns covering nearly every inch of his body. His clothing is shredded, fused to his skin in some places. Tides damn whoever did this into uncharted depths. Gingerly, I peel back the fabric where I can, revealing raised, branching scars where the lightning struck.

The work of a stormwielder. A very powerful one.

I tamp down on my rage, summoning the power inside me until my hands glow with soothing white light. Slowly, painstakingly, I skim my palms over the injuries. The warrior groans, his pale face contorted with agony, sweat soaking his dark braids. 

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. He doesn’t hear me or is too consumed by pain to respond. 

“There were no healers at the front lines?” I ask sharply, glancing at Jennah. “These wounds should’ve been treated immediately. Not left to fester.”

“There were,” Jennah responds slowly. The lines around her mouth deepen, her white hair blending with the ice walls. “They were overwhelmed treating the waterwielders.”

I hold my tongue. Again. 

Like I’ve been doing for years.

“Apparently,” Jennah continues, her voice dropping to a quiet hush, “this was the work of the Dark Commander.”

Bile rises in my throat. Tides, I knew Prince Zevayr was ruthless, but this level of violence—

He’s been called the most powerful wielder in the realm. 

And these defenseless nonwielders faced his wrath.

Jennah shakes her head with a soft tsk. “Such brutality. I suppose unchecked power will do that to a man.”

I scoff. “Maybe he’s just angry he was born a second son. He’ll never be king, so he seeks glory on the battlefield. A cruel, mindless soldier.” Even as the words leave my lips, I know them to be false. 

The Dark Commander is anything but mindless. He’s led the Arbinji armies since his early twenties. His war strategies have resulted in thousands of Tundrayni deaths over the years.

I should know—I’ve been healing the survivors since adolescence. 

Taking deep breaths, I focus on my next patient. This one faced an earthwielder. His skin is littered with painful holes where thorny branches and snaking roots emerge. The skin around them is jagged, putrid, and the smell of scorched wood lingers in the air. I press my hands to the warrior’s neck, assessing his internal damage. 

“By the Tides,” I swear under my breath. There isn’t much I can do for him. I’m not sure how he’s still breathing. I share a worried glance with Jennah. Her ice-blue eyes are sharp but undercut with sorrow. She may also think of nonwielders as less-than, but she isn’t coldhearted. My eyes flutter shut as I focus on numbing his pain. 

“Can you summon a heartwielder for him?” I whisper hoarsely. We only have two heartwielders in all of Tundrayn. Though, sometimes, I wonder how many have managed to keep their powers concealed. “I can’t do much more for him. He should feel peace in his final moments.”

“I will,” Jennah promises, finishing up with her patient. She reaches for a small loaf of rootbread from the table beside her and takes a large bite. Her shrewd eyes watch me carefully as she chews. “When did you last eat?”

“Just before I came,” I lie.

Jennah narrows her eyes at me. I give her my most convincing smile. She harrumphs. “Don’t burn through your reserves. Princess or not, you need to eat just the same as any other wielder. You’ll be of no use to these warriors if you can’t heal.”

Such simple words: You need to eat.

But unlike verdant, fertile Arbinj, Tundrayn is the land of ice and snow and scarcity. I don’t want to eat more than my fair share. That just means someone else will go hungry—most likely a nonwielder.

I keep going, treating another two men with horrific injuries, ignoring the drain in my chest. Nonwielders are often placed on the front lines during battle. The injustice grates at my nerves.

Were Sura and Tumaas often on the front lines? Before—

My throat tightens, and I shove the intrusive thought away. 

By the time I’m treating my fourth patient, tell-tale fatigue weighs down my limbs—a sign that I’m close to overusing my powers. I should stop, but there are still so many untreated nonwielders. Still in pain. Still suffering.

Jennah works tirelessly alongside me. She’s not as strong as I am, but she’s been eating between every patient. Jennah is older—she needs the nourishment more than me.

I can keep going.

Luckily, the warrior I’m currently treating only has mild burns. I finish with her quickly, ready to move to the next patient when the carved ice doors swing open and three hulking men stride inside. One of them has a black eye, and the others sport bloody noses. All of them wear blue and white furs—waterwielders, unmistakably. But even without the obvious attire, I’d know. It’s in their gait, the arrogant ease of those raised to believe the world is theirs by birthright. 

“We need a healer!” calls the man in front, a towering warrior with tanned skin. The sides of his head are shaved down, the rest of his long hair twisted into intricate braids adorned with bone and beads. He spots me and drops into a deep bow. A satchel is strapped across his chest, brimming with loaves of rootbread and dried seal jerky. I purse my lips, returning my attention to the injured woman before me. 

When I don’t respond, respect bleeds into the warrior’s tone as he adds, “Princess, it would be an honor if you healed us. We’re heading out to investigate a Rebellion attack—we need to be at our best.”

Jennah levels her sharp, disapproving gaze upon them. I’ve often cowed beneath it, but the arrogant men don’t even flinch. She asks, “How did you sustain the injuries?”

The waterwielder has the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “We were sparring, and it became … heated.”

My lips press into a thin line as I eye his overflowing satchel again. A nonwielder child will sleep hungry tonight so these daft idiots can go on an expedition.

“These warriors just returned from the front lines,” I say woodenly, still focused on the pale nonwielder in the cot before me. “Their injuries are more severe. I’ll heal them first.”

A beat passes.

“But Princess … they look to be commons.” The pompous waterwielder doesn’t say anything else, but I understand what he leaves unspoken.

Under Tundrayni law, wielders must receive preference in every instance.

“Nonwielders they may be, but they were gravely injured. In battle.” 

The waterwielder just stares at me. Jennah clears her throat, casting me a meaningful look. 

I grit my teeth and heal the idiots’ minor injuries. 

After I finish, I head back toward the nonwielders, but Jennah stops me with a firm hand on my shoulder. “That’s enough, Princess. You need to rest. And to eat.”

“I can keep going,” I protest, lips twisting as I look at the remaining nonwielders. There are still so many of them.

They need my help.

“Don’t make me bother King Tormik. Pauli will be here soon. Go.” Her stern gaze brokers no argument. She isn’t bluffing about calling Father—she’s done it before. Reluctantly, I rinse my hands in a stone basin and step into the corridor.

Jennah’s voice chases me down the hall. “Eat something, Princess! I mean it!”

Fatigue weighs down my limbs as I trudge to my quarters as if trekking through knee-deep snow. The heavy door swings open.

My exhaustion melts away when I spot Daak waiting on the large sofa in the center of my chambers.

He appraises me, gaze lingering on my face, his lips pursed with disapproval. “You’ve worn yourself out,” he mutters, crossing the room and guiding me to sit. “Again.”

“I’m fine,” I reassure, but his brow remains creased with worry. “I wish I could do more. I wish I could save everyone.”

Daak is silent as he grabs a bowl of dried seal jerky from a small table and places it in my lap, waiting until I finish two entire strips before speaking. 

“Mayah, what happened to Sura and Tumaas wasn’t your fault.”

Tears prick my eyes, ones I’d held back since first gazing at the injured nonwielders. I let myself melt into his chest, his strong arms wrapping around me in a familiar embrace. 

It’s been years, but my grief hasn’t lessened. 

“Sometimes, their faces are blurry when I try to picture them,” I admit quietly, the words muffled in his tunic.

“Tell me what you remember.” He rubs my back, his touch soothing the ache in my chest but not quite erasing it. 

“Sura’s eyes were the brightest shade of blue, like clear ocean water dappled with sunlight. Her face was perfect, heart-shaped with a dainty nose. Long, dark hair that she wore in twin braids. She never met a rule she didn’t want to break.”

Daak chuckles, and the sound sends a warm vibration through me. “You forgot her smile. Near permanent on her face. And lopsided, as if one side of her mouth couldn’t match the excitement of the other. What about Tumaas?”

“A giant polar bear of a man,” I laugh. “The same exact eyes as Sura, but somehow warmer? Less mischievous, for sure. Perpetually exasperated with his twin.” 

Daak runs his large hand over my hair, smoothing the dark wisps that escaped my braid. “You know, I envied the three of you when I first arrived?” he murmurs. “You were so in tune, like extensions of the same person. And all determined to make my life miserable.”

“Well, we were intimidated by you. The much older—”

“Hey, I’m not much older—”

“—extremely powerful warrior come to train me. I know Sura didn’t make those early weeks easy on you.” 

“She wanted you with Tumaas. I was competition.”

I poke his side. “She wasn’t wrong, was she?”

He puffs out his chest. “Not about me being extremely powerful. I’ve been likened to Faerataak the Mighty, I’ll have you know.”

“By who?” I snort. “I didn’t know you could wield blood.”

“I’ve never tried. It’s entirely possible I can.”

I chuckle. “I can’t wait to read the first children’s tale about you: Daak the Daring. Wielder of water, blood, and nonsense. Perpetually bested by Princess Mayah of Tundrayn.”

We share a quiet laugh. It tastes bittersweet in my mouth. 

Daak has a way of making me feel seen. Accepted. Of making me forget. He’s been the only warmth in my life after Sura and Tumaas were sent to battle and never returned.

I snare his deep blue gaze with my own. He understands what I need because, ever so slowly, his full lips slant over mine. 

He’s familiar. Comfortable. 

But his kiss is soft. Too soft. And I don’t want gentle from him.

Not tonight.

I want to feel something—anything other than this yawning grief in my chest threatening to swallow me whole.

I straddle his lap, my hands skimming the shaved sides of his head before tangling in his braids. My lips crash against his with a desperation that numbs every gaping wound in my heart. His grip is tight around my hips, our mouths moving together in a passionate rhythm. I roll my hips against his, and a strangled groan rumbles through his chest. 

I press closer, eager for more, and predictably, he pulls away.

He always pulls away. 

“Mayah…” he whispers, voice laced with apology. “Your father will have me impaled.”

“He’d have you impaled just for kissing me,” I point out, scowling. “And I’d heal you.” But I know there’s no convincing him. I’ve been trying for years. So I crawl off his lap and plop down on the sofa, resting my head on his strong shoulder.

Daak looses a deep sigh. “Tundrayn’s future depends on you. You’ll be subjected to the purity test.”

Right. The purity test. An arcane practice observed by both Arbinj and Tundrayn to ensure princesses remain untouched before marriage. 

And Father has just arranged my marriage to Faramir, the crown prince of Arbinj.

Chapter 2

My heart batters my ribcage as I race through the frigid halls of the palace. It’s not the first time I’ve been immersed in the Healing Chambers and was late for a council meeting. Hiking up my thick gown, I dart through the halls. Skidding around a corner, the heel of my boot carves an arc into the packed snow floor. Oops. A palace waterwielder will need to smooth that over.

A loud thud, and the door swings open. Light streams in through large windows, illuminating each weathered face as it swivels toward me. At the head of the long table sits Father, his lips pressed into a line so thin it disappears into his white beard.

“Daughter,” he drawls, eyes flashing with disapproval. “Wonderful of you to join us.” Father waves his hand, and a whip of water shoots out from the carved fountain, pulling back the chair directly to his right. A snarling wolf’s head is carved into this particular fountain—I’ve always thought its cold, icy eyes resembled Father’s.

Daak stands behind Father’s chair, back straight and dressed in his white captain’s armor. His face remains stoic, but his eyes twinkle with mirth as I hurry to my chair. 

I’m barely seated when Father resumes speaking. 

“As I was saying”—he cuts me a sharp glare—“along with the ceasefire, Arbinj will send food stores—meats, grains, and vegetables—as part of the alliance.”

I stare at my lap. Tundrayn will send me.

“Is there anything else we’ve learned about Crown Prince Faramir?” one of Father’s advisers asks, a wiry man in faded blue furs. “I … worry for Princess Mayah.”

At least someone does. 

No, no. I can’t think like that. I’ve known my duty since I was a young girl. This is what I want—a better world, a saferworld for my people. But still … I wish Father cared more about my safety. About what it means to send me into the arms of his enemy.

“Nothing new,” Father replies. “We only know that he’s a powerful earthwielder. Varad keeps him removed from the spotlight.”

Anger churns in my belly, hot and ever-present, at the thought of King Varad. Father may be cold and distant, but Varad is ruthless. 

A monster. A murderer.

I was surprised when I learned the Arbinji king had accepted Father’s proposal—there are years and years of bad blood and broken marriages stacked between us. But it’s a fool’s dream to think Varad wants unity after decades of war. The alliance has more to do with the Rebellion and little to do with peace.

“Sorka, update me on the warfront,” Father rumbles, stroking his long, white beard. 

My gaze lands on the lean, middle-aged man directly across from me, Father’s top general and Daak’s father. Sorka’s familiar blue eyes find mine, and he dips his chin in greeting. 

Sorka has always been kind to me. 

“With the exception of the attack a few days ago, Arbinj seems to be honoring the ceasefire,” Sorka announces to the council. Sunlight streams through the large windows, highlighting the white streaks in his tightly braided hair. “I’ll leave for the border tonight. Make sure they keep to the agreement.”

Father frowns. “Stay for a few more days, Sorka. Spend time with your son. You’re always desperate to return to camp. With a ceasefire in place, surely the warriors can survive without you for that long.”

My gaze flicks to Daak—he rolls his eyes dramatically, and I’m forced to bite my lip to contain my smile. Ironic of Father to insist Sorka spend time with Daak, when he can’t spare more than a few minutes for me at a time.

Sorka waves Father off with a laugh. His face is lined with age—but he’s still handsome. It’s how I imagine Daak will look in his fifties. 

“I wouldn’t be a very good general if I didn’t take my responsibilities seriously,” Sorka says. “Besides, you keep my Daak busy enough as it is.”

Father grumbles but carries on with the meeting. “Any news of the Rebellion?” 

A different adviser stands. “No new attacks, Your Majesty. The alliance with Arbinj must have them scared. The alliance, especially at this juncture, was a fine idea, Majesty.” He clears his throat, hands wringing together. “Though … I’ve heard whispers that even more wielders have joined their cause.”

Father scoffs. “Filthy traitors. Turning on their people and aligning themselves with commons.” My nails dig so hard into my palms, I’m surprised I don’t draw blood.

I understand why the Rebellion exists. It rose up within the last two decades, attacking both Tundrayn and Arbinj alike. At first, they were a minor inconvenience—fires set to supply carriages and stolen food stores. But the rebels have grown stronger within the last ten years, fighting for equality for nonwielders.

And nonwielders are treated abhorrently by both kingdoms. The matter is personal to me. 

Sura and Tumaas had been nonwielders.

My mother had been a nonwielder.

And all of them are dead.

Daak clears his throat, pulling my attention. He looks pointedly at my lap, lips pursed. I relax my fists, inhaling deeply.

“Don’t let them fool you,” Father continues, either oblivious or uncaring of the anguish roiling inside me. “If we’re not careful, the Rebellion will lay claim to even more land. Has there been any progress with the captured rebel?” Father’s stern, ice-blue gaze sweeps the room. 

A large man rises, and I recognize him as the pompous waterwielder who insisted I heal his scraped-up team before the injured nonwielders. 

“Not yet, Your Majesty,” he says, chest puffed out. I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes. “The captain’s men are still working on him.”

Father runs a hand over his long beard. “Have the truthwielder brought in. We’ll get our answers sooner.” Truthwielders are heavily monitored, just like heartwielders. We only have one in Tundrayn—and Father still hasn’t learned her name. “Any other matters?”

Another adviser rises and gestures to the door. It opens, and three guards drag in two prisoners—a young man and woman, dressed in faded blue and white furs. Thick iron collars wrap around their necks, their wrists bound with rope. 

I recognize them as lower-level waterwielders that work within the palace—they help control the flow of water through the structure. And smooth out scuffed paths. The iron collars suppress their wielding abilities.

“These two were caught power sharing,” the adviser announces, his lip curled with disgust.

Father’s mouth curves into a cold smile. “Planning an attack, were you? Consolidating your powers?”

“No!” the young man protests, blue eyes wide with fear. There’s a large, purpling bruise on his cheek. My hands glow faintly in my lap before I clench my fists. “No, we were—”

“Enough,” Father cuts him off. “Send them to the front lines.”

“Your Majesty,” Sorka protests, the lines tightening around his mouth. “They’re young. I’m certain they meant no harm. Perhaps, let them—”

“Are you questioning my ruling? Our law?” Father snaps, fixing Sorka with an icy glare. The room grows quiet and still. Most of the advisers stare at their laps. None look at me.

“Of course not,” Sorka says placatingly. His voice drops to a low whisper. “You know they were—”

“I will hear no more,” Father says sharply, his gaze flitting to me.

With a wave of his hand, the prisoners are dragged away, the door slamming shut.

Father’s sharp eyes cut to me again. I resist the urge to shrink into myself. “As for the other pressing matter … the Arbinji crown prince arrives tomorrow.” 

My heart stops.

“Tomorrow?” I manage. My knuckles bloom white as snow. “We weren’t expecting him for another two weeks.” 

Father shrugs. “Scouts spotted their carriages. They will reach the palace tomorrow. I’ve already instructed the servants to prepare for the betrothal ceremony. You will be ready, Daughter?”

I wish I could turn and look at Daak, but Father’s cold gaze pins me in place. My heart hammers in my chest, and a shrill ringing sounds in my ears. 

Tomorrow? I thought I had more time.

“Mayah,” Father snaps, and I flinch. “You will be ready.”

“Yes, Father.” It’s a battle to keep my voice firm.

After the meeting adjourns, the council shuffles out of the room, but I linger behind. Daak shoots me a questioning glance, but I just shake my head. The doors close behind him with a heavy thud, and silence stretches across the council chamber.

I don’t move. I remain seated beside Father, hands clasped in my lap.

He rises, walking away, but I speak before I lose my nerve. 

“Father.”

He pauses. Doesn’t turn.

“The betrothal means I leave Tundrayn tomorrow.” 

“Yes.” He still doesn’t face me.

“I—I’m afraid.”

That’s what finally makes him turn. 

“You are a woman of twenty-five. Not a frightened, sniveling child.” Something inside me shrivels. Father’s mouth opens and shuts, and then he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mayah,” he sighs, shoulders dropping slightly. “You are giving Tundrayn a new future. The one it deserves.” 

I flinch beneath the weight of his heavy gaze. 

“I know. I’m ready. And I’ll—”

He steps closer, then slowly, almost reluctantly, removes one of his fur-lined gloves. With bare fingers, he brushes a strand of hair behind my ear—an unfamiliar gesture, awkward and uncertain.

My throat tightens.

“I didn’t want this for you, Daughter. But there is no other way.” He doesn’t wait for my response, just turns away again as if he can’t bear to be in my presence alone.

“Father, please.” I freeze him in place with my words once more. “Before I leave, I—the nonwielders. Their treatment is—”

“Not this again, Mayah.”

“They wouldn’t join the Rebellion in droves if we didn’t—” 

“Enough.”

“Look at Volca! A land of formidable firewielders, yet they treat nonwielders with dignity and—”

“I said enough!” His angry shout cracks through the room like a whip. “They are beneath us, Mayah.” His tone is flat. Final. “It’s well past time you learned that.”

My voice is quiet, defeated. “But, Mama…”

“Your mother is dead.”

Without another word, he sweeps from the room, leaving the weight of his words—and his silence—behind.

The door shuts. 

I don’t move. 

The chill in the room has nothing to do with the ice walls.

***

The rest of the day passes in a blur. I go through the motions as servants put the finishing touches on my ceremonial dress—an ice blue gown studded with crystals and lined with fur along the collar and sleeves. 

“Would you like to see the Grand Hall, Princess?” one of the servants asks me, a middle-aged woman with streaks of white in her dark hair.

The Grand Hall is where Crown Prince Faramir will accept me as his betrothed, sealing both my fate and my kingdom’s.

I shake my head.

The woman’s hands still, lingering on the fabric of my gown. 

“I’m sorry, Princess.” A lump forms in my throat as her pitying gaze meets mine in the mirror. She squeezes my hand, her eyes glistening. “When … when he comes to your bed, just do as he says, Princess. It will be easier.” 

I nod numbly, but inside I’m screaming. 

How many women before me were told the same thing? 

How many will come after?

She says nothing more as she hems a few threads that had unraveled. 

When she finishes, I undress in silence. 

I try not to let it suffocate me.

***

I’ve barely settled into my bed, heavy fur blanket tugged up to my chin, when the door creaks open. 

I don’t need light to know it’s him.

Daak slips in like he always does, a quiet presence in the dark. His silhouette crosses the room, and the mattress dips beneath his weight. I shift, making space, and he gathers me against his chest like he always has.

His scent washes over me—fresh snow and spruce—and for a moment, I let myself forget what tomorrow holds.

“I’m so sorry, Mayah,” he whispers into my hair, his voice cracked and raw. It fissures something in my chest.

“I know,” I breathe. My heart aches. It hurts how much I find comfort in him. In this. In pretending, just for tonight, that nothing will change.

But everything will.

“I wish things were different,” he murmurs, stroking soothing patterns down my spine. “That I’d met you in another life. One where you weren’t a princess. One where I wasn’t bound to your father.”

My throat tightens.

“One where I wasn’t promised to the enemy,” I say softly.

He doesn’t respond for a long time. 

Then—“You’re more than just a promise to me, Mayah. My heart is yours.”

A beat. And then he pulls back, just enough to see my face in the dim light. His blue eyes are aching with all the words we never dared say.

“I love you,” he whispers, finally letting them crystallize. 

I blink. The words land somewhere deep inside me, like a drop of warm water in an endless, frozen sea.

“I love you, too, Daak.” My voice is soft, as if saying the words too loud will shatter the precious moment around us.

“I know,” he whispers back. “I’ve always known.”

Another beat of silence.

“I’ll always love you, Mayah. And I’ll find you.”

The words linger between us—fragile, final.

Fleeting.

A sudden boom of thunder rattles the icy walls of my chambers, and I gasp, instinctively burying my face in his chest. 

There hadn’t been a storm in weeks.

Daak tightens his hold. “It’s just noise,” he says, but he knows it’s more than that. He’s seen what it does to me.

Thunderstorms used to be rare in Tundrayn, but they’ve grown more frequent in the last two decades. And every single one steals the air from my lungs. They reduce me to a child again—small, sniveling, helpless.

What will I do in Arbinj, the land of brutal stormwielders and their violent thunderstorms?

“Mayah,” Daak says, gently tilting my chin. His forehead presses against mine. “You’re going to survive this. You’re going to do what you’ve always done. You’ll create a better future for all of Tundrayn. And you’ll do it with that stubborn fire in your chest that terrifies half the palace. And me, if I’m being honest.”

I laugh, but it’s watery. “You make me sound like a force of nature.”

“You are.”

Another rumble shakes the windows. I flinch, and Daak holds me tighter.

“I’ll see you again,” he says, voice fierce in the dark. 

He holds me until I fall asleep, the storm raging around us.

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Chapter 3

Daak is gone when I wake, but I’m not surprised. A flock of servants rush in and dress me for the betrothal ceremony. 

By the end, I don’t recognize myself in the mirror. My dark hair is left loose, gentle waves cascading down my back and a few loose curls framing my face. Dark kohl lines my blue eyes, and the effect is so dramatic they appear almost too large for my face. My lips are dotted with rouge, a soft pink against my pale skin. Snowpowder, dusted across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose, conceals my faint freckles.

Servants lead me through the corridors, three carrying the train of my gown, until we arrive at the Hall of Ancestors. They form a neat line outside the towering double doors, arms folded and heads bowed.

Only Tundrayni royalty may enter the Hall of Ancestors.

I steel myself with a deep breath. 

The door thuds shut behind me. 

Hundreds of ice sculptures line the vast room, tall statues of men and women that no longer tread the snows. Icicles hang from the high, vaulted ceiling, casting long shadows across the carved faces—some are still sharp, though others bear features blunted by time.

“Honored ancestors,” I whisper, my breath misting in the cool air. “Today is my betrothal. I seek your blessing and wisdom.” I clasp my hands together and bow my head before weaving a path through the aisles. Though I stop briefly at each statue, there is one in particular I seek.

Turmah. My grandmother.

I crane my head, eyes squinting against the filtered sunlight. Her features are still crisp, not yet weathered by the years. Turmah appears regal and serene. In the straight bridge of her nose and smooth curve of her chin, I see Father. 

Her ice robes are cold beneath my reverent fingers. 

I’m not the first Tundrayni princess that was sent to Arbinj with the hope of peace. My grandmother made the journey decades before me. Her marriage lasted only three months—three months of agony and humiliation and abuse—before a group of Tundrayni warriors rescued her.

I trail my fingers higher until I reach Turmah’s sleeve. The ice here is sharp, jagged, where a piece of the sculpture was hacked off.

Because when Turmah returned, she was missing her left hand. 

Before she escaped, her Arbinji husband had chopped it off, along with her betrothal ring. After she returned home, Turmah married one of the warriors who had rescued her, later giving birth to my father. According to stories from white-haired servants, she was never the same after her ordeal, always easily startled. Haunted.

The war with Arbinj has escalated since then, claiming more lives on both sides with every passing season. 

I swallow around the lump in my throat and pray my marriage yields better results for my kingdom than Turmah’s, even as icy dread chills my heart.

With one final look, I briefly greet the remaining sculptures, then leave the Hall of Ancestors behind.

There is no statue of Mama.

***

The ice throne is freezing beneath me. My delicate betrothal gown is beautiful, but Tides, what I wouldn’t give to be wearing something warmer. My pajamas, even. 

The murmurs of the assembled Tundrayni nobility, all dressed in their finest blue and white furs, ripple through the Great Hall. Even with such short notice, the servants managed to ready the large, circular room for the ceremony. 

In the center, where I sit shivering, is a large dais made of solid ice. Beside me is another ice throne, gleaming in the sunlight seeping in through the large windows. The twin seats were carved specifically for the ceremony and are smaller than Father’s majestic seat that sits in the Throne Room.

Father enters shortly thereafter, dressed in formal sapphire furs, his white beard gathered together with a thin blue ribbon. On his head sits the ice crown, its sharp, translucent spears rising toward the heavens. The echoing stamp of boots rumbles through the hall as the nobility rises to greet their king as he sits beside me. Father appears at ease, raising a regal hand to the assembled guests, but tension lines the set of his jaw.

Does he regret his decision? Sending his only child into the arms of his enemy? Especially given what King Varad did—

No. No, I must stop thinking this way. Father is doing this for Tundrayn. For its safety and future. And I must do my part. I want to do my part.

Minutes pass, but it feels like time has stopped.

My hands are clasped tightly in my lap, knuckles flaring white. Father strikes his staff repeatedly against the floor of the dais, the rhythmic tap, tap, tap echoing the beat of my heart.

The door swings open.

The hall goes silent.

There’s no sound save for the thud of heavy boots in formation.

Arbinji soldiers, clad in dark leather and armored chest plates march into the Great Hall. 

My breath catches. 

I’ve never seen an Arbinji soldier before, but I’ve heard enough tales of their prowess—and their cruelty. And I’ve certainly treated enough wounds inflicted by storm- and earthwielders for dread to pool in my lungs at the sight of so many of them within my palace.

They march closer. 

At the head of the line is a towering, muscular man. A metal helmet conceals the entirety of his face. Except his eyes. They’re gray—like thunderclouds just before the rain starts—and calculating as they sweep across the room, scanning every face before settling on me.

Our eyes meet.

My brow furrows as I study him. Metal helmet, dark leathers, a large sword strapped to his waist. My gaze sharpens on the Arbinji crest on his chest plate—a massive tree with a bolt of lightning struck through it. He’s not dressed like the crown prince I expected. No, he’s dressed like—

Realization washes over me in a frigid wave.

It steals my breath, frosting over my lungs like a sheet of ice.

The Dark Commander stops at the foot of the dais, his soldiers flanking him.

Life crashes back into the stunned hall with hushed whispers and muttered disapproval. The temperature in the room seems to drop once my people realize the Dark Commander stands amidst them. 

There’s a good chance every person in this room mourns someone because of him.

Father eyes him with derision, lips curled with disdain.

“Prince Zevayr. We weren’t expecting you. Has Prince Faramir been delayed?”

“Faramir sends his regrets.” His deep, gravelly voice is quiet, yet somehow still booms like thunder. “I’ll perform the ceremony in his stead and deliver his betrothed to Arbinj for the wedding.”

Deliver? I bristle at being likened to goods. 

Father’s scowl deepens. “It is beyond insulting that Varad expects me to betroth my heir via proxy.”

Zevayr gives a casual one-shouldered shrug. A wave of outraged murmurs sweeps the hall at his blatant disrespect.

“Prince Zevayr,” I say sharply before I can stop myself. His gray eyes snap to me. “Recently, several warriors returned severely injured from the border. After the ceasefire was negotiated.”

Father stiffens, and the hall falls silent once more, like the quieting of the wind before a catastrophic storm.

The Dark Commander studies me with that cool, unyielding gaze. His helmet hides most of his face, but I catch it—a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly smothered by anger. The sky darkens, dimming the light in the hall.

Tides drown me. 

He’s a stormwielder—he literally holds my greatest fear in the palm of his hand. 

I swallow, refusing to break his heavy gaze.

“My apologies, Princess,” he finally rumbles. I blink in surprise. “We had reason to believe that particular battalion was planning an attack. I only received notice of the ceasefire afterward.”

I regard him carefully, then give a small dip of my chin.

“Shall we begin the ceremony, King Tormik?” Zevayr asks. 

Father doesn’t respond, just rises from the throne and descends the dais, gesturing for Zevayr to take his place. As the Dark Commander climbs the stairs, I realize how massive he is—when he finally looms before me, his broad, muscled torso blocks out everything else. 

He sinks into the vacant, too-small throne without a word of complaint. Once again, those unreadable gray eyes study me. I hate that I can’t see his face. 

But I don’t wonder long.

He unstraps his helmet. I brace for a monster—for the ugly face of the murderer I know him to be.

My lips part in surprise.

His cheekbones are sharp, jawline chiseled and darkened with stubble. Black hair, mussed and slightly matted. He rakes a hand through his dark locks like he has all the time in the world. 

He’s handsome. Irritatingly so. And I hate that more than anything.

The Dark Commander is a ruthless killer. A murderer.

It’s only fair he look the part. 

His eyes lock on mine, and a smirk tugs at his mouth—as if he can sense the reluctant shift of my thoughts. But I won’t cower before him, this man who thrives on terrorizing my people. I narrow my eyes, meeting his gaze with defiance. The smirk ebbs, but he doesn’t look angry. He seems curious.

Father clears his throat, and I tear my eyes away.

Zevayr addresses me directly, his deep voice impossibly low, as if meant only for my ears. “Before the ceremony, I need a demonstration of your powers.” Before I can respond, he pulls a dagger from his belt and slashes his palm. Bright red blood oozes from the deep wound, dripping onto the white floor.

I purse my lips at him, half-tempted to leave him bleeding. 

He arches a brow in challenge.

With a loud sigh, I call to my power and quickly heal his cut, leaving his skin flawless and smooth. When I steal a glance at him, his eyes are wide, as if awestruck. My lips tip up at the corners. It pleases me more than it should that I’ve impressed this formidable wielder.

Zevayr retrieves a small box from within his heavy, leather-lined cloak, opening it to reveal a sparkling ring with a massive dark stone—a black diamond, perhaps? 

It’s flashy and ominous. I hate it.

“Princess Mayah of Tundrayn, on behalf of my brother, Crown Prince Faramir of Arbinj, I accept you as his betrothed. I vow to protect you from all harm and deliver you to him safely. Lightning strike me should I fail.” 

Zevayr reaches for my hand when—

“It is customary in Tundrayn for the man to kneel before his intended when accepting her as his betrothed,” Father drawls, arms crossed over his chest, his staff dangling casually between his fingers.

It’s a bald-faced lie. There’s no such custom.

A hush falls over the audience. Every eye is pinned to the Dark Commander.

Zevayr glares at Father, his fingers curling into tight fists. A powerful rumble of thunder rattles the hall. My heartbeat ratchets up, palms growing damp.

“Would you dishonor my daughter?” Father demands when Zevayr doesn’t move.

A muscle jumps in the Dark Commander’s jaw. “I would never dishonor my brother’s intended,” he grits out. Then, he gracefully kneels before me and takes my hand in his larger one, his callouses scraping against my palm.

My mouth parts in surprise—I was certain he’d refuse. His eyes don’t leave mine. I want to look away, but I can’t.

A begrudging flicker of respect blossoms in my chest before I regain my senses.

He’s a murderer.

Zevayr slides the ring onto my finger and seals my fate.