The Frozen Pond

Veila adjusted her hand on the heavy oak door handle to the Great Hall, dying inside as the corset squeezed her ribs. Human fashion was pure torture just to look presentable.

A job was a job, however. She checked her reflection: an emerald dress, pearl necklace and earrings, and her vibrant red hair pinned into a neat, braided updo. Thanks to a layer of illusion magic, there was no sign of her fox ears or tail. She had spent the night memorizing Cael's notes on court factions. She was going to execute this perfectly. 

She took a confident step forward and immediately almost tripped over her high heels. Small issue. 

The blinding sparkle of the courtiers annoyed her, but she maintained a graceful glide, keeping her gaze lowered. Every eye turned toward her. Her sharp fox ears caught hushed whispers, but she ignored them, focusing on the imposing man seated upon the dais. 

“Your Majesty,” Veila sank into a curtsy. “I am Lady Veila of the Northern Marches. I am honored to present myself as advisor to His Highness, Prince Cael.” 

At a lazy wave from the throne, Veila lifted her head. King Aldric offered a gruff, obligatory word of welcome before turning back to the high-ranking advisor at his side. He was already done with her.

Veila’s eyes flicked across the dais, catching the gaze of Prince Dorian. The eldest prince and favorite for the throne was leaning against a pillar, swirling a cup of wine. His eyes tracked her with predatory curiosity, though not viewing an unknown advisor as a threat yet.

Maintaining her demure stride, Veila took her place beside Cael.

She almost didn't recognize him. The messy drunk from the forest was gone. His blonde hair was slicked back, and his royal doublet was buttoned to the top of his throat like rigid armor. He offered only a stiff, courtly bow, his face a perfect mask of polite indifference.

His eyes were so blank that Veila felt a tiny, irrational spark of annoyance. Beneath her glamour, her tail lashed against her petticoats. Her hearing sifted through the noise, catching whispers from nobles betting she was just a mistress meant to embarrass the royal family.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught Cael's gaze. The neutral mask slipped for a fraction of a second. The corner of his lip curved into a faint, familiar smirk, and he rested a hand flat against his chest—right over the contract sigil. I'm still here. Our secret. Her invisible tail perked up in a twirl.

Suddenly, the high-ranking advisor whispered to Aldric. The King sat up, and the Hall fell silent.

“I am pleased to announce that the kingdom is on excellent terms with House Valerius,” King Aldric boomed with mild condescension. “We have accepted a highly beneficial proposal... a marriage match between their Lady Senna, and our prince Cael.”

Great, Veila thought, her jaw tightening. Another variable. Across the hall, Prince Dorian raised his wine glass in a mock toast. He had orchestrated this to clip Cael’s wings and saddle him with a distraction.

She spent the tedious meeting cataloging power dynamics. The majority of the nobles clearly orbited Dorian. His political charisma and deep pockets made the lords eat out of his hand. 

But Cael frustrated her the most. This marriage was blatant sabotage, yet he remained infuriatingly composed. As an ancient spirit, Veila could normally taste a mortal's intent—greed, panic, or lust. But Cael gave her nothing. Her supernatural senses slid right off the frozen pond of his hidden agenda.

***

Late that evening, Veila was summoned to Prince Cael’s private study. The moment the door clicked shut and locked behind her, Veila’s professional front evaporated. Her illusion dropped with an exhausted sigh, freeing her ears and tail.

Cael had already shed his rigid court armor. His doublet was unbuttoned, his hair messy, and that calm smirk had returned. “Someone is not in a good mood,” he noted, swirling his wine.

Veila slammed her stack of strategic notes onto the mahogany desk. “I am already fed up. This place reminds me exactly why I despise humans. Well... except for the taste of their souls.”

“And yet,” Cael murmured, his voice dropping into that soft, raspy cadence from the forest. He tilted his head, golden eyes locking with her silver ones. “You are still drawn to me.” 

For a second, the air in the study pulled taut. But before Veila could process, Cael completely ruined it. He leaned back in his chair, opened his arms wide, and wriggled his fingers at her. “Come here. Part of the deal, remember?”

“I am not a pet,” Veila protested. 

The protest died on her lips. Before she knew it, she was stretched out on the couch, her head resting in Cael’s lap. He casually read over her reports with one hand, while his other scratched the base of Veila's fox ears, earning involuntary whimpers. 

“So, tell me your strategic priorities,” Veila managed, trying to glare up at him. “Who do we bribe? Who do we blackmail?”

A feline smile dawned on Cael's face as his fingers found that specific, devastatingly good spot behind her ear. “Surprise me~”

Veila wanted to tear the prince's smug face off, but she couldn't bring herself to move, not when his hand drifted down to brush out her tail. 

“My directive, Lady Veila, is to let you do what you do best,” Cael murmured, not looking away from the parchment. “I trust your judgment.”

Veila let out a long, defeated sigh. “What about this Lady Senna? Are you actually going to marry her?” she asked, her eyes drifting to a vase of fresh pink carnations on the desk.

Cael's hand stilled. “It is not as if I have a choice. The trade route with House Valerius is crucial.”

Veila glanced up. What she saw relieved her.

“If we play along, we can secure the throne before the worst-case scenario. And Veila—if Dorian tests you directly, do not rise to it. Not yet.” Cael stared at her, golden eyes firm. “And as for Lady Senna, I can manage her personally.” His gaze softened into a teasing smile. “I have a soft spot for the ladies, after all.”

“Sounds like a solid plan, then.” Veila rose, stretching. The cozy atmosphere vanished, replaced by the crackle of ancient magic. “Time for the first toll.”

She held out her open palm. This was the additional interest rate collected at contract milestones. Three things he deemed important—that was the price. 

Cael placed his cold hand over hers. A soft, glowing pink thread flowed from his temple into her palm. He stayed quiet, the gold in his eyes turning a fraction duller.

Veila felt a tight ache in her chest. She frowned, confused as to why the study suddenly felt so sad.

The pink carnations withered into husks.