The days that followed the argument were the coldest I had ever known in Frosthold.
It was not the cold of winter, nor the biting northern wind that swept down from the mountains and cut through even the thickest furs. This was a different kind of cold, a cold that settled into the spaces between people, and crept into the great hall and the council chamber and the corridors where we used to walk hand in hand. This cold represented estrangement, unspoken words, and festering wounds.
Kaelen and I still shared meals. We sat at the high table, side by side, as we always had. The servants brought our food, the warriors nodded as they passed, and the children waved from the benches below. However, the warmth that once existed between us had vanished, leaving behind a silence more oppressive than any words could convey.
