Chapter 1

Cordelia

The stone floors of Lliandor's kitchens bite through my worn boots, each step a reminder that winter has settled deep into the palace's bones. I scrub another pot with savage efficiency, my knuckles raw from the harsh soap and frigid water that never seems to warm, no matter how long the fires have burned. The carved serpent reliefs that coil around every doorframe watch me work, their obsidian eyes catching the flickering torchlight like they're alive, like they're waiting.

Around me, the other human servants move like wraiths in gray wool, shoulders hunched, voices never rising above whispers. We've learned to make ourselves small here in the dark elf city, carved into cliffsides that never see true sunlight. The shadows are permanent, and so is the fear that crawls up your spine when you remember that to our masters, we're livestock with legs.

"Have you heard?" Marta's voice barely carries over the scrape of my brush against metal. She's hunched over the bread ovens, her graying hair escaping its kerchief. "They're preparing for it again."

I don't look up from my pot. The last thing I need is to appear interested in gossip that could get me flayed alive. But Jorik, stirring a massive cauldron of stew that smells of taura meat and desperation, can't help himself.

"The Thirteenth Night," he breathes, and several servants make warding gestures. "They say King Kres has been meeting with the Serpent's priests daily."

My hands still for just a moment before I force them back to scrubbing. The Thirteenth Night. Every winter, the whispers start, growing like poison in the walls until the entire palace vibrates with a particular kind of dread. Thirteen nights of ritual leading to the winter solstice, all in honor of the Serpent—their patron deity of shadow and winter's bite.

"Superstition," I mutter under my breath, but Marta's sharp ears catch it.

"Superstition?" Her laugh is bitter as burnt kaffa. "Tell that to the girls who've gone missing these past winters. Tell that to—"

"Enough." The word cracks like a whip. We all freeze as Cook Elena emerges from the pantry, her scarred face set in hard lines. She's been here longer than any of us, survived more than any of us should have to. "Work. Don't think. Don't speak of things that don't concern servants."

But her eyes find mine, and in them I see a warning that chills me deeper than the stone floors. Don't attract attention. Don't give them reason to notice you.

I've lived by those rules for three years, ever since they dragged me from my village in chains. Keep your head down. Do your work. Survive another day. The Thirteenth Night is a problem for someone else—some other girl unlucky enough to catch a dark elf's eye.

The heavy kitchen doors explode inward with a boom that echoes off stone walls like thunder.

Serpent priests flood through the entrance, their black robes rustling like scales, silver serpent pins glinting on their chests. The temperature seems to drop another ten degrees as they scan the room with eyes like chips of winter ice. Behind them, palace guards in dark mail form a semicircle, hands resting on sword hilts.

My heart stops beating. Then starts again, too fast, like a rabbit's before the wolf strikes.

"The Serpent has chosen," the lead priest intones, his voice holding the weight of absolute authority. His gaze sweeps over us like a blade, and I press myself smaller, willing myself to disappear into the shadows between the ovens.

Not me. Please, not me. I'm no one. I'm nothing.

"Cordelia of Westmarch."

The ceramic bowl slips from my numb fingers, shattering against the stone with a sound like breaking bones. Around me, the other servants step away as if I've suddenly become diseased, their relief palpable as the priests' attention fixes on me like arrows finding their mark.

"No." The word escapes before I can stop it, barely a whisper but loud as a scream in the sudden silence.

Rough hands seize my arms, hauling me to my feet. The world tilts and spins as they drag me from the familiar safety of grease-stained aprons and honest work into the terrifying vastness of the palace proper. My feet barely touch the ground as we move through corridors lined with more serpent carvings, their mouths open in silent screams.

The throne room doors loom ahead, carved from black wood and inlaid with silver serpents that seem to writhe in the torchlight. They swing open to reveal a scene from a nightmare.

King Kres sits on his throne of polished obsidian, his cruel features highlighted by the crown of serpent bones resting on his silver hair. The assembled court watches with hungry eyes as I'm thrust forward, nobles in dark silks and leather pointing and whispering behind jeweled hands.

"Behold," the priest announces, his voice echoing off vaulted ceilings painted with scenes of serpents devouring the world. "The Serpent's chosen bride for this winter's blessing."

The word bride cuts deep. I've heard the whispers, the fragments of stories quickly hushed. Winter brides who disappear after thirteen nights of ceremony. Winter brides whose names are forgotten by dawn.

Silver bands snap around my wrists with the weight of shackles, each one carved with tiny serpents that seem to shift and move in my peripheral vision. The metal is ice-cold against my skin, burning like brands.

"Rise, Winter Bride," King Kres commands, his smile sharp as winter wind. "Your sacred nights begin tomorrow."

I stare down at my bound hands, at the serpent clasps that mark me as surely as a hunter's brand marks prey. The reality crashes over me in waves of ice-cold terror: I'm not Cordelia anymore. I'm not a servant who might slip through cracks and survive by being invisible.

I'm the Winter Bride. And winter brides don't live to see spring.