The frost-glass doors creaked opened reluctantly on their ancient hinges as if they sensed the gravity of what was to come. Beyond the doors, the grand throne room unfurled like a winter dream, vaulted ceilings carved with silverleaf ice vines.
Chandeliers glittering with crystal snowdrops caught and fractured the dim light casting dancing flecks of white flames across the sapphire blue marble floor.
At the far end where the high dais was, standing in solemn anticipation was Lady Genevieve before the vacant throne.
She did not sit on it.
Clad in a regal blue gown that shimmered like the edge of dawn on a frozen lake. Her bearing was upright, and unwavering. Her silver-streaked hair had been woven into thick braids coiled into intricate cords.
For she was not a merely a woman playing regent, she was the Winter Court in flesh, cold and commanding, a fortress unto herself.
