Chapter 3 · free to read
The dead do not ride out of blizzards. Yet here was a face Yanjun had buried in his memory ten winters ago.
The prince had thought the curse was Yanjun's alone. Now he saw it ran in blood, like an inheritance no one asked to receive.
Every instinct the frost had taught him said: let the cold take its own. He had spent ten years believing his brother already gone.
Two thrones had wanted the frost to do their killing. Instead, one warm southern hand had bought the whole night back from death.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.