❄️❄️ Taming his cold heart ❄️❄️

🎀 CHAPTER FIVE🎀

Edric didn’t answer her.

He stood there, staring at her as if every word left unsaid was already crushing him. His jaw tightened once. Then he looked past her, toward the tall doors of the throne room.

“You may go,” he said quietly.

Zayla blinked. “That’s it?”

No reply.

“Father,” she pressed, her voice rising despite herself. “You can’t just say something like that and send me away.”

Still nothing.

He lifted a hand—not in anger or sharply—but in finality. A dismissal.

“Go,” he repeated, firmer now.

The meaning landed harder than any shout.

Zayla stood there for a moment longer, waiting—hoping—for him to stop her, to explain, to say her name. But Edric had already turned away, his back straight, his shoulders rigid, as though if he looked at her again he might break.

Her throat burned.

Without another word, Zayla turned and walked out.

The doors closed behind her with a dull sound that echoed too loudly in the empty hall.

_________________

Zayla was making her way back to her chambers, her steps slow, her mind still spinning.

“Princess?”

She froze. A familiar voice called her name, calm but sharp. She looked up to see Evelyn standing there, her arms folded, eyes narrowing.

Her spell teacher.

Zayla swallowed. Spell had always been something she dabbled in for fun, for curiosity. Never for real danger. She felt like she might actually need it one day.

“You didn’t come to spell class today,” Evelyn said, stepping closer. Her tone wasn’t angry—but it carried that quiet disappointment only a teacher could muster. “You left the palace again.”

Zayla straightened, trying to shake off the fatigue In her. “Did… did anything happen here in the palace while I was gone?” she asked carefully.

Evelyn hesitated. Her eyes flicked away for a moment, as if weighing whether to speak. Then she said it.

“Lord Asher was here.”

Zayla frowned. “I’ve never heard of him,” she said. “Who is he?”

Evelyn’s expression tightened. She lowered her voice without meaning to. “He’s… not a man people speak of freely.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Evelyn hesitated, then said, “Some call him the Golden‑Eyed Demon.”

Zayla blinked.

That name, she knew.

She had heard it in whispers—half‑drunk soldiers, nervous servants, stories told quickly and never twice. A man with no mercy. A man who did not forgive. A man whose eyes were said to look like molten gold when he was angry.

“So,” Zayla said slowly, “his name is Lord Asher.”

Evelyn nodded once. “Yes.”

Zayla let out a short breath. “I’ve heard things,” she admitted. “None of them good.”

“Nor are they meant to be,” Evelyn said quietly.

Zayla’s unease deepened. “What was he doing here?”

Evelyn shook her head. “I don’t know. He went straight to the king."

Zayla’s heart skipped, hard enough that she felt it in her throat.

Evelyn cleared her throat, as if realizing she had already said too much. “I should go,” she said, stepping back. “Your Highness.”

She inclined her head, then walked past Zayla without another word, leaving her standing alone in the corridor.

Zayla finally reached her chambers. Hilda was pacing outside, hands clasped tightly, eyes darting toward the hallway.

“Your Highness… did His Majesty give you a lecture?” Hilda asked, trying to keep her voice steady but failing.

Zayla shook her head and pushed past her. “It’s nothing.”

She bathed, changed into something light, then tugged Hilda along with her toward the palace lake. The place was quiet, far from servants and guards.

“I want to try again,” Zayla said. “My spell failed earlier.”

Hilda hesitated. “Maybe you should rest—”

“I said I want to try.”

Zayla stood near the water and whispered the words under her breath. She flicked her fingers. Nothing happened.

She frowned. “Why didn’t it work this afternoon?”

She tried again. Suddenly, a glowing rope shot from her hand, whipping through the air with a startling crack. It wrapped around Hilda, lifting her slightly before pinning her in place.

“Oops,” Zayla said.

“Your Highness!” Hilda cried, panicking. “I can’t move!”

“I’ve got it—wait.” Zayla rushed forward, trying to undo the spell. The rope didn’t loosen. It only tightened.

“Stop struggling!” Zayla said, her voice rising. “I said stop—”

A sudden slash cut through the air.

The rope fell apart and dropped to the ground.

Zayla froze. She turned slowly.

A man stood a few steps away, his sword already lowered, expression unreadable.

Crown Prince Nil.

Zayla swallowed.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Nil nodded once, already wiping his blade before sliding it back into its sheath.

Hilda rushed to Zayla’s side, then bowed quickly toward Nil. “I should go,” she said, clearly shaken. “It’s late.”

Zayla didn’t stop her. Hilda hurried away, her footsteps fading down the path, leaving the lake quiet again.

Zayla stood there, unsure what to do with her hands. “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she said. “The spell slipped.”

“You lost control,” Nil replied. His voice wasn’t harsh. Just honest. “It happens.”

She glanced at him. He looked the same as always—calm, steady, like nothing surprised him. Crown Prince Nil. The only son of the king of the neighboring kingdom. A prince, but also a man who led soldiers into battle. People said he’d seen war before he’d seen twenty summers.

He came here often. Not officially. Just… sometimes. Always to this place.

“I didn’t know you were in the palace,” Zayla said.

“I arrived earlier,” he answered.

She nodded. There was a pause.

Zayla had liked him once. More than she should have. She’d let herself imagine things—small things. A smile held a second too long. A look that lingered. Then she’d heard he was to be married.

After that, she’d stopped looking.

Zayla hesitated, then spoke. “How is she… your wife‑to‑be?”

Nil’s expression shifted. Not much. Just enough for her to notice. He lifted a hand and rubbed his forehead, as if brushing the question aside.

“She’s fine,” he said. “There’s nothing to say.”

That was it.

Zayla nodded, even though she hadn’t really gotten an answer. He stood there with his hand on his forehead, his side bangs falling loose over his eyes. Annoyingly handsome. Effortlessly so.

She looked away before she stared too long.

“What are you doing here so late?” she asked.

“I came to see your father” Nil replied. He straightened, his tone turning firm, familiar. “You should go to bed, Princess. It’s late.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

With a brief nod, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading along the path.

Zayla stayed where she was for a moment longer, staring at the dark water.