Cold Queen - K Webster

The Sinister Fairy Tales Collection

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Books by K Webster

In a cold, empty castle, a young queen is dying.

Weak. Fragile. Disgraced.

But Queen Whitestone is not alone in her final days.

She has her beloved sister.

Until a wicked king rides onto her land.

Arrogant. Insufferable. Demanding.

King Bloodsun has come with an offer…peace in trade for a bride.

He wants the princess.

The fiery king won’t take no for an answer.

He vows to keep the cold queen captive until she gives in to his demands.

A queen bows for no one, though.

Not even when she’s frail and fading away.

She’ll tap into her strength, protecting the only family she has left.

The king is about to learn why they call her the cruel one…

To my husband—you’re the fire to my ice.

Elzira

Fifteen Years Old…

Snow falls silently, chilling my face, as Yanna and I wait for Father to kiss us farewell. Yanna fidgets, always eager to get into mischief, but I keep her still beside me with my hand clutching her shoulder. Father quietly instructs the Eyes of the White. His powerful voice drifts my way and I catch pieces of his commands.

Keep them safe at all costs.

Protect the Norta Icelands from those of the Souta, the Easta, and the Westa.

Those who fail will pay with their lives.

Finally, Father finishes and turns to regard us. He is tall, with the palest hair and skin. His eyes resemble the blue stones his wife, and Yanna’s mother, Plyrienne, wears around her throat. Plyrienne already kissed her daughter and forced a smile at me. I know Father loves Plyrienne, but she doesn’t love me. I gave up hoping for motherly affection from her years ago. Yanna, however, owns my heart. She may be my half-sister, but she is my everything.

“Yanna,” Father starts, opening his arms to her.

At only eight years of age, she barely comes to the middle of his chest. He easily picks her up, hugging her to him. An ache forms in my chest. I miss the days when Father would pluck me up and carry me around the palace grounds. But I’m no longer a child. I have crossed into womanhood, just recently taken the journey via The Bloods. Now, every thirty days, I’m reminded I am a woman. Often, painfully so.

Father murmurs things to Yanna that have her giggling. Eventually, she wiggles out of his arms and takes off running back into the castle, her long dark-brown braid bouncing. When she’s indoors, Father frowns at me.

I lift my chin in the regal way Plyrienne does since I know he always smiles when she does it. Father does not smile at me, though. His brows deepen as he lifts a hand to cup my cheek.

“Loveliest Elzira,” he says softly. “You look just as your mother did the day I met her.”

Loss claws at my heart. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my mother. She caught an illness that weakened her. We watched her die before our very eyes. Slowly as the disease took her.

“Thank you, Father.”

He purses his lips together. “If I do not return—”

“Father!” I cry out.

His hand cuts through the air, silencing me. “Enough, my heart. There are words that must be spoken. Words you must hear.”

I fight tears that threaten to spill over my cheeks. Father would see that as weakness, so I quickly blink them away. “Go on.”

“If we do not return, this kingdom will be yours. Your sister will become your duty. The people of Norta Icelands will call you their queen. The Eyes of the White will be your army to command. You will become The Punisher of The Damned.”

I shudder thinking of