Page 75 of Burning Star

“Anything.”

She looks up, her eyes fierce with determination. “Promise that no matter what happens in the arena, you won’t become the Lonely King from the vision.”

My eyes flutter closed as I give her forehead a soft kiss, then pull away enough to meet her gaze. “I swear on every drop of magic I possess,” I whisper, tightening my hold on her, “that no matter what happens in that arena, I’m not going to lose you—or myself.”

She clings to me for a moment longer, then straightens, her water magic settling into calmer currents. “Then let’s make sure you’re ready to kick your father’s ass,” she says, her voice gaining a hard edge.

A surprised laugh escapes me. “That’s definitely the plan.”

We leave the throne room, Ghost and Nebula at our sides, as servants and guards rush by to spread the word. Already, I sense the murmurs through the palace halls—shock, excitement, and a hint of dread.

The Winter Court is about to witness something it hasn’t seen in centuries.

And I’m about to face everything my father ever taught me. Every icy lesson about control and emotionless perfection, and every brutal training session where weakness meant failure.

This isn’t just a fight for my father’s sanity.

It’s for everything I’ve become since meeting Sapphire—for this version of myself that feels, loves, and refuses to be the cold, hollow prince my father tried to forge me into.

RIVEN

The Frost Arenais like a crown of winter carved from a frozen lake, the smooth ice reflecting the sun’s rays with blinding brilliance.

Guards escort Sapphire and me through the entrance tunnel, Ghost and Nebula walk beside us.

“Remember your promise,” Sapphire says as we reach the point where we’re told to separate.

“I will,” I promise, inhaling the steady pull of her magic—the warmth of her skin, and the heartbeat that grounds me. “I love you.”

She tightens her grip on my hand, frost—myfrost—crackling at her fingertips. “I love you, too. And I need you to fight like the man I fell in love with—not the prince your father tried to carve you into. Because you’re stronger than him, Riven. Don’t ever let him make you doubt that.”

I exhale slowly, the weight of her faith settling onto my chest like armor.

“He rules with fear,” I tell her, but even though my voice is low and steady, inside I’m a blizzard held barely in check. “I’ll win because I don’t need fear. I have purpose. I haveyou.”

A guard approaches, breaking the moment. “Princess, this way to the royal viewing box,” he says, motioning to where she’ll be heading—a box I’ve sat in many times, shielding my heart with ice as I watched countless displays of horror and bloodshed.

Sapphire gives my hand one last squeeze. “Don’t let him get in your head,” she reminds me, and then she follows the guard to the box.

Ghost and Nebula follow at her heels.

Alone now, I walk to the center of the arena, every step measured, every movement deliberate as I study my surroundings.

Walls of ice stretch toward the sky, circling the sunken combat floor. Tiered seating accommodates nobility in the lower stands, and commoners in the upper ones. At the highest points of the structure, massive ice sculptures of past Winter Kings loom over the battlefield, their frozen eyes following my every movement.

This isn’t just a fight. It’s a spectacle. A ritual as old as our court itself. And my challenge has drawn every winter fae who can squish their way into the stands from their homes to watch as father fights son—king against prince.

Across from me, my father enters, controlled, cold, and cruel. He doesn’t stop until he stands ten paces away, chin lifted, eyes full of disdain.

He unsheathes his sword and examines the blade.

The Master of Ceremonies stops the chatter, his voice loud enough to fill the arena from the box across from Sapphire’s.

“The Winter Court bears witness!” he says, his arms raised in excitement. “King Nivian Draevor and Prince Riven Draevor are bound by blood and now separated by challenge. The Trial of Frost and Blood has been invoked and accepted!”

My father’s eyes remain on mine as he takes his position opposite me. There’s no warmth there—no acknowledgment that I’m anyone of note to him. There’s only cold calculation and the madness that’s consumed him for far too long.

“You were always weak, boy,” he says, his laugh low and mocking. “Did you really think you’d become anything more than a trembling shadow at my feet?”

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