Vane Ironclad let out a sound that was half-cough, half-strangled snort. He looked at the sky, his shoulders shaking beneath his silver-plated pauldrons. Beside him, Dante didn't even bother with the sky; he just covered his mouth with a gauntleted hand, his eyes crinkling with a mirth that was entirely inappropriate for a diplomatic hostage exchange.
"I told you the Southern silks were fragile, Alistair," Vane called out, his voice echoing over the chasm. "But I didn't think the Princess would start molting before she even reached the border."
Alistair didn't turn around, but the slight twitch in his jaw suggested he was well aware of his cousins' antics. He remained standing directly in Elissa's personal space, the sheer height of him forcing her to tilt her head back until her neck ached.
"Is there any other part of your attire planning a rebellion, Princess?" Alistair asked, his voice dropping to a low, private murmur.
Elissa, her face still a vibrant shade of scarlet, clutched the remaining fabric of her dress. Her fingers brushed the hard, cold hilt of the dagger hidden in the folds. The irony wasn't lost on her: she was armed to kill him, yet he had just saved her from a very public face-plant.
"I... I am perfectly fine now, thank you," she stammered, trying to find her royal dignity amidst the tattered threads.
"Good," Alistair said. He didn't move back. Instead, he leaned in a fraction closer, his luminous blue eyes scanning her face with a sudden, sharp intensity. "Because Vane is already taking bets on whether you'll make it to the carriage without losing a shoe. I'd hate for him to win. He's insufferable when he's right."
"I am not a bet, Prince Alistair," Elissa whispered, her spark of Starwind pride finally flickering to life.
"No," Alistair agreed, his smirk softening into something a bit more dangerous. "You are a disaster. But at least you're an interesting one."
From the Southern side, Kealen cleared his throat loudly, his hand still on his sword. "If the wardrobe commentary is finished, perhaps we can proceed?"
Alistair finally stepped back, offering a mock-courteous sweep of his hand toward the Northern horizon. "By all means, Prince Kealen. Though if your sister trips again, I'm carrying her the rest of the way. My patience is significantly shorter than this bridge."
Vane chuckled, finally lowering his hand. "Careful, Alistair. You carry her, and the King will think you've actually developed a heart. We can't have the 'Ice Prince' melting in public, can we?"
Dante finally spoke up, his voice deep and dry. "Don't worry, Vane. With the way she's looking at him, she's more likely to stab him than let him carry her. Look at her grip on that dress—she's holding it like a war-hammer."
Elissa froze. Did the Northern cousins know about the dagger? She glanced at Dante, but he was already turning back toward the Northern carriages, whistling a jaunty tune that sounded entirely too cheerful for a kidnapping.
Lyra, seeing the opening, hurried forward to Elissa's side, fussing over the now-shorter skirt. "It's... it's a new Northern fashion, Elissa," Lyra whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear. "The 'Bridge-Cut.' Very avant-garde."
Alistair's eyes flashed with a brief, genuine spark of laughter. He looked at Elissa one last time before turning to lead the way. "The Bridge-Cut. I like it. It shows you have more legs than the stories suggested, Princess. Now, move. Before Vane starts a second pool on the weather."
Elissa looked back at Kaelen and Lyra. Lyra was weeping silently, and Kaelen looked like he was vibrating with the urge to kill. She felt a wave of profound loneliness. She was leaving the only people who loved her to go with a man who looked at her like she was a rare, captured bird.
I am a sacrifice, she thought, placing her small hand in Alistair's large one. But why does his touch feel like the only thing keeping me from falling off this bridge?
The Northern royal carriages were not the gilded, open-air chariots of the South. They were massive, enclosed structures of dark iron and reinforced oak, mounted on heavy, fur-lined springs to navigate the rugged tundra.
Vane and Dante, still snickering into their fur collars, hopped into the lead carriage with a jaunty wave. "Try not to let her trip on the upholstery, Alistair!" Vane called out, his voice muffled by the closing of their heavy iron door. "The leather is imported!"
Alistair ignored them, gesturing for Elissa to climb into the second carriage. As she stepped up—blessedly without tripping this time, thanks to her newly "abbreviated" skirt—she realized the interior was unlike anything she'd seen. The seats were covered in thick, silver-fox furs, and a small, enchanted brazier hummed in the corner, casting a soft luminous blue light that matched Alistair's eyes.
Alistair climbed in after her, the carriage dipping slightly under his weight. He sat opposite her, his long legs taking up nearly the entire floor space.
The silence that followed was thick enough to carve. Elissa sat primly, her back straight, her hands still buried in the folds of her dress.
"You can let go of the fabric now, Princess," Alistair said, leaning his head back against the furs. "The dress has been thoroughly defeated. It won't try to tackle you again."
Elissa's face warmed, though she kept her gaze fixed on the frosted window. "It was the wind. And the... the bridge was uneven."
"Of course," Alistair replied, his voice dripping with a dry, melodic irony. "The Iron Bridge, a marvel of engineering that has stood for four centuries, was suddenly 'uneven' the moment a Starwind stepped onto it. A likely story."
"I am not used to such... aggressive architecture," she countered, finally looking at him.
Alistair tilted his head, a stray lock of raven hair falling over his brow. "Aggressive? It's a bridge, not a beast. Though, I suppose compared to the South, where everything is draped in silk and sun-bleached lace, a bit of honest iron might feel like an assault."
He reached out, and for a terrifying second, Elissa thought he was going for her hand. Instead, he simply adjusted the vent on the small brazier. "You're shivering. Is the Southern fire in your blood so weak that a little mist turns you to glass?"
"I am perfectly warm," Elissa lied, her teeth chattering rhythmically.
Alistair watched her for a moment, a small, knowing smirk touching his lips. He reached beside him and tossed a heavy, dark fur cloak into her lap. "Eat your pride, Princess. It's a long journey to the Stronghold, and I'd prefer my hostage not to arrive as a decorative ice sculpture. It would be bad for my reputation."
Elissa hesitated, then pulled the fur around her shoulders. It was heavy and smelled faintly of sandalwood and cold ozone—the same scent that clung to him. "Thank you," she muttered.
The transition from the bridge to the carriage had been silent, save for the rhythmic crunch of iron wheels over permafrost. Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was a pressurized vacuum of Southern nerves and Northern ice.
Alistair sat across from Elissa, his tall frame dwarfing the velvet bench. He didn't lounge; he sat with a terrifying, predatory stillness, his luminous blue eyes fixed on her with the unblinking focus of a hawk.
"Don't sound so pained," Alistair said. His voice was a flat, melodic drone, entirely devoid of the warmth or mirth the words suggested. "I haven't even started the 'fearsome conqueror' part of the trip yet. Currently, I am simply a man trying to survive a carriage ride with a girl who seems determined to destroy her own wardrobe."
His face remained a mask of aristocratic marble, making the sarcasm feel less like a joke and more like a clinical observation.
His gaze dropped slowly, following the line of her arms down to where her knuckles were white against the fabric.
"Tell me," he continued, his tone remaining perfectly level, "do you always hold your dress like you're preparing to go into battle? Or is there something particularly interesting hidden in those layers?"
Elissa felt a cold sweat break out at the base of her neck. She looked for any sign of a tease—a twitch of a lip, a glimmer of playfulness. There was nothing. Alistair's expression was as blank as a fresh snowfall, which only made his words cut deeper.
"It is... a Southern custom," she managed to stammer, her voice sounding thin in the enclosed space. "For stability."
"A fascinating tradition," Alistair replied. He leaned back slightly, the movement slow and deliberate, yet his face remained frozen in that same handsome, terrifying mask. "In the North, we generally find that when people grip their clothing with such desperation, they are either hiding a stolen heirloom or a very poorly concealed weapon. Since you are a Princess, I will assume you are simply emotionally attached to your hemline."