Chapter 8 :The Winter Princess

Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~11 min read

Princess Kestrel arrived at dawn, when the Fire Court was at its coolest.

Ember watched from her chamber window as the Winter Court delegation materialized in the courtyard below. Frost spread across the obsidian ground wherever they stepped, a visible affront to the Fire Court’s heat.

At the center of the group stood Kestrel herself—tall and ethereal, with ice-white hair that floated around her like a living thing. Even from this distance, Ember could feel the cold radiating from her.

A knock at her door. Lark entered, her expression grim.

“The prince wants you in the throne room within the hour. He said to dress you in…” She held up a gown. “This.”

Ember’s stomach dropped. The dress was white. Pure, virginal white that would show every mark, every stain.

Every drop of blood.

“He’s making it easier for her to see,” Ember realized.

“Yes.” Lark’s hands shook as she laid the dress on the bed. “Ember, you don’t have to do this. Phoenix can create a portal right now. We can get you out.”

“And then what? Kestrel’s suspicions are confirmed, and Blaze dies?”

“Better than you both dying.”

“We’re not going to die.” Ember said it with more confidence than she felt. “Blaze has been doing this for fifty years. He knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s also terrified.” Lark met her eyes. “I’ve never seen him like this. He’s barely slept, trying to find a way to make this convincing without actually hurting you.”

“Did he find one?”

Lark’s silence was answer enough.

Ember picked up the white dress, feeling the softness of the silk. “Help me put it on.”

“Ember—”

“Please, Lark. If I think about it too hard, I’ll lose my nerve.”

Lark helped her dress in silence. The gown fit perfectly, of course. Everything in this cursed palace fit perfectly.

When Ember looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. The white made her red hair look like blood, her pale skin almost translucent. She looked like a sacrifice.

Which, she supposed, was the point.

“There’s something you should know,” Lark said quietly. “About what’s going to happen.”

“Blaze already told me. A whipping. Ten lashes. Phoenix will create an illusion to make it look real, but there will still be some pain from the magic.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Lark took a breath. “The mate bond. When he hurts you—even if it’s illusion—he’ll feel it too. Every lash. Every scream. The bond will make him experience your pain.”

Ember’s chest tightened. “He didn’t mention that.”

“Of course he didn’t. He’s Blaze.” Lark’s expression was sad. “He’ll suffer every second of this, and he’ll do it anyway because it’s the only way to protect you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Nothing about this is fair.”

Ember looked at herself in the mirror again. Saw the girl in the white dress who was about to be whipped in front of a court of monsters.

Saw the fire in her own eyes that refused to die.

“Then I won’t scream,” she decided. “If he has to feel my pain, I’ll minimize it. I’ll stay quiet.”

“Ember, if you don’t scream, Kestrel won’t believe it’s real.”

“Then I’ll act. I’ll make her believe it without making it worse for him.”

Lark looked at her with something like awe. “You’re falling for him.”

“What? No. I’m just—”

“You’re trying to protect him. That’s what the bond does. It makes you want to shield each other.” Lark touched her arm gently. “Be careful. The more you care, the harder the choice becomes.”

“What choice? Accept the bond or die?”

“No. The choice between what you want and what you think you should want.” Lark moved toward the door. “The guards will come for you soon. Remember—no matter what happens, Blaze won’t let you truly be harmed. Trust him.”

She left, and Ember was alone with her thoughts.

Trust him. She did trust him, she realized. Despite everything, despite the humiliation and the performance, she trusted that he would protect her.

The question was whether she could protect him too.

The throne room was packed.

Ember stood in the center, hands bound in front of her with black chains that glowed with runes. The entire Fire Court had gathered, along with the Winter Court delegation.

And on the throne, looking every inch the cruel prince, sat Blaze.

He didn’t look at her. Hadn’t looked at her since she’d been brought in. His attention was fixed on Kestrel, who stood to his right with a smile that was all edges.

“Your Highness,” Kestrel said, her voice carrying across the silent room. “I must admit, I’m fascinated by your newest acquisition. She’s lasted longer than your previous pets.”

“She’s more entertaining,” Blaze replied, his tone bored. “Better educated. More defiant to break.”

“Indeed. But the question remains—have you actually broken her? Or are you merely playing at it?”

The challenge hung in the air.

Blaze finally looked at Ember, and his expression revealed nothing. “What are you suggesting, Princess?”

“A demonstration. Prove to me—to us all—that your reputation is deserved. That you truly are the Ember Prince we’ve heard so much about.”

“You doubt my cruelty?”

“I doubt your commitment.” Kestrel’s smile sharpened. “Rumor has it you’re going soft. That perhaps the great monster of the Fire Court is actually…” She paused dramatically. “Kind.”

Murmurs rippled through the assembled fae.

Blaze stood slowly, and the temperature in the room rose. “Kind,” he repeated, his voice dangerous. “You think I’m kind?”

“Prove me wrong.”

The challenge was clear. Public. Unavoidable.

Blaze descended from the throne, moving toward Ember with predatory grace. When he reached her, he grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

For just a second—so quick she almost missed it—she saw the apology there.

Then it was gone, replaced by cold amusement.

“Ten lashes,” he announced. “In front of the court. If she survives without breaking completely, I’ll make it twenty.”

Kestrel’s smile widened. “How delightfully barbaric.”

Guards materialized, dragging Ember toward a post that rose from the floor—obsidian black, with iron rings for binding. They chained her wrists above her head, stretching her arms until her shoulders ached.

The white dress exposed her back perfectly.

Ember’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was happening. This was really happening.

Blaze circled to face her, and his expression was carefully neutral. But she could see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands clenched and unclenched.

He was hating this as much as she was.

“Any last words?” he asked, loud enough for the court to hear.

Ember met his burning gaze. And in the language of their shared dreams, their private moments, she mouthed: I trust you.

Something flickered in his eyes. Gratitude? Pain?

Then he turned away, moving behind her.

Ember heard the crack of a whip unfurling. Phoenix’s magic whispered across her skin—subtle, almost imperceptible. The illusion was in place.

The court held its breath.

And Blaze spoke, his voice carrying across the throne room: “Count them. I want to hear you scream each number.”

The first strike came without warning.

Pain exploded across Ember’s back—not the agony of a real whip, but the sharp sting of magical feedback. Phoenix’s illusion made it look devastating, made her skin appear to split and bleed.

But it was bearable.

She could handle this.

“One,” she gasped.

The second strike hit before she’d caught her breath. This one worse than the first, the magic building on itself.

“Two!”

The third made her vision blur.

“Three!”

By the fifth, she understood what Lark had meant. The pain wasn’t just in her back. It was in her chest, radiating out from the bond. She could feel Blaze’s anguish as clearly as her own.

He was suffering every strike with her.

“Six!”

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Each one harder to count. Harder to breathe through.

The court watched in rapt silence, drinking in her suffering like wine.

And Kestrel watched Blaze, studying him for any sign of weakness.

The tenth strike never came.

Instead, Ember heard a sound she’d never heard before: Blaze’s voice, cracking.

“Enough.”

The throne room erupted in whispers.

Kestrel’s eyes gleamed with triumph. “Only nine, Your Highness? You promised ten.”

“I said ten lashes, not ten strikes.” Blaze moved back into Ember’s line of sight. His face was ashen, his hands shaking. “The last one will wait. Let her anticipate it. Fear is half the torture.”

It was a clever save. A way to stop without looking weak.

But Kestrel wasn’t buying it.

“How unexpectedly merciful of you,” she purred.

“Merciful? I’m extending her suffering. Drawing it out.” Blaze’s voice hardened. “Would you like to see the final strike now, Princess? Or should I wait until you’ve left, rob you of the entertainment?”

It was a trap. If Kestrel pushed, she’d look like she was questioning his authority in his own court. A grave insult.

After a tense moment, Kestrel smiled. “I’ll leave it to your expertise, Your Highness. Though I must say…” She moved closer to Ember, examining her back. “The illusion work is excellent. Phoenix’s touch, I assume?”

Ember’s blood froze.

She knew. Kestrel knew it was an illusion.

Blaze’s silence confirmed it.

“What illusion?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“Please.” Kestrel trailed a finger down Ember’s spine, right over the illusory wounds. Her touch burned with cold. “I’ve been studying magic for centuries. This is Phoenix’s work. Beautiful. Realistic. But not real.”

The room held its breath.

“You’re testing me,” Blaze said.

“I’m revealing you.” Kestrel turned to face him. “You’re protecting this mortal. Pretending to hurt her while actually keeping her safe. Which means the rumors are true—you’re not the monster everyone fears. You’re a fraud.”

The court erupted into chaos.

And Ember realized they were about to die.

Unless she did something.

So she did the only thing she could think of.

She laughed.

The sound cut through the noise, sharp and slightly unhinged. Every eye turned to her.

“You think—” Ember forced the words out between gasps of laughter. “You think he’s protecting me?”

Kestrel’s eyes narrowed. “You dare speak—”

“You stupid, arrogant fae,” Ember spat. “You have no idea what he’s done to me. What he does every night when there’s no audience. No witnesses.”

Blaze had gone very still behind her.

“The whipping?” Ember continued, pouring every ounce of pain and rage into her voice. “That’s mercy compared to the rest. He wants you to see the performance. The pretty torture. But the real breaking happens in the dark. Doesn’t it, Your Highness?”

She met Blaze’s eyes, begging him to play along.

After a heartbeat, he smiled. Slow. Cruel.

“Clever pet,” he murmured. “Trying to make them understand.”

He moved close to her, gripping her chin. To the court, it looked possessive. Threatening.

But his thumb stroked her cheekbone, gentle. Apologetic.

“The illusions,” he announced, “are for my court’s benefit. So they can witness the artistry without being disturbed by mortal weakness. But the pain?” He leaned in, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear: “That’s very, very real.”

Ember shuddered—not from fear, but from the bond screaming at her to trust him.

“Fascinating,” Kestrel said slowly. “Then you won’t mind if I verify?”

Before anyone could stop her, she pressed her palm against Ember’s back.

Ice flooded through Ember’s body. Not illusion—real, agonizing cold that froze her blood and stopped her breath.

She screamed.

And the sound that tore from her throat was so raw, so genuine, that no one could doubt it was real.

Kestrel pulled back, satisfied. “My apologies, Your Highness. You were right. The pain is quite real.”

She’d just tortured Ember to prove Blaze’s cruelty.

And now she believed.

Blaze’s face was a mask of controlled rage. “Are we satisfied, Princess?”

“Completely.” Kestrel inclined her head. “My apologies for doubting you. Your reputation is well-deserved.”

“Then get out of my court.”