Rozati GoDh walked toward the glacier that stole his family's throne, and the blizzard arrived to kill him first. He had crossed four ridges since dawn. The ice crown his bloodline once ruled lay somewhere beyond the white wall of snow ahead. His grandfather died in exile cursing that throne. Rozati meant to sit on it. But a king who freezes in a snowbank claims nothing. The wind drove ice into his white hair and crusted his pale lashes. His ice-blue eyes could barely open. He had no fire, no tent, no cave. His fingers stopped bending an hour ago. He stumbled, caught himself, and knew he would not rise a second time if he fell again. Then a weight dropped onto his shoulder. He twisted and saw a raven, black feathers marked with tawny spots like a wildcat's coat. It gripped his cloak and tugged, hard, toward the north. It cawed once, then launched into the storm and hovered, waiting. Rozati had nothing left to lose. He followed the strange bird. It flew low and slow, a dark shape he could just track through the snow. Each time he slowed, it circled back and screeched until he moved again. His legs burned. His teeth cracked together. He did not stop. The bird led him over a final rise. Below stood a castle of green stone, its walls wrapped in moss and vines. A huge mushroom spread above the tower like a roof, sheltering the keep from the worst of the snow. Firelight glowed in a lower window. Rozati's chest heaved. Shelter. Warmth. Life. He half ran, half fell down the slope. The great doors stood shut. He pounded them with a fist he could no longer feel. "Open," he croaked. "Please." Something brushed his boots. A white cat sat in the snow, watching him. Pale wings rose from its back, thin and ribbed like a dragon's. The cat pressed a paw against the doors. They swung inward without a sound. Rozati crawled across the threshold. Heat struck his face. He lay on warm stone and gasped as feeling crawled back into his hands like fire. The spotted raven settled on a beam above him. The winged cat curled near his chest and watched him with calm eyes. He was alive. He would not freeze. But as his sight cleared, he saw the hall around him. Old banners hung from the walls, each marked with the same ice crown he carried in his memory. The sigil of his exiled house. This keep was not empty, and it was not an accident. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Slow. Certain. Someone had sent the animals. Someone had been waiting for him. Rozati pushed himself up on shaking arms and faced the dark stairway, because whoever ruled this place already knew his name.

Rozati reached for the spinning gate. Before his hand touched the ring, the winged cat sprang off the rug and hissed at the door. Its fur stood straight. It paced the floor, ears flat, eyes fixed on the castle entrance. Weyala went still. "Something followed you through the snow," she said. "It's here." The outer doors shook. Frost crept across the stone floor from the gap beneath them. Rozati backed toward the gate. The cold bit through his boots. The doors burst inward, and the blizzard poured through. A red beast crouched in the doorway. It was small, furred, with wide green eyes and a slit for a nose. When it grinned, Rozati saw long pointed teeth. It stepped inside without fear. "The heir," it said, voice high and sharp. "They sent me to test your blood. A false king dies here. A true one earns his throne." It drew a thin blade from its belt and lunged. Rozati dove behind the gold-trimmed chair. The blade split the wood where his head had been. He had no weapon. Weyala shouted his name and threw the soup pot. The beast ducked it easily and turned back to him, grinning wider. "You claim a throne," it said. "Then bleed for it." It sprang onto the chair. Rozati pressed his palm flat against the spinning gate. He did not know if it would answer. He only knew the beast meant the ring was the one thing it feared. Blue and violet light flared under his hand. Cold rushed from the ring, far colder than the storm. The floor cracked. Ice spread in white veins across the hall. Something rose through the ice. A great serpent uncoiled from the splitting floor, scales like frost, horns of gold, eyes of cut diamond. A green mist dripped from its claws and ate the stone where it fell. The ice basilisk turned its head toward the red beast and loomed over it. The beast froze. Its grin fell away. "Bloodline confirmed," it whispered. It lowered the blade and dropped to one knee. "The test ends. You passed." Then it fixed its green eyes on Rozati. "But I was not the only one they sent. The others will not kneel." The basilisk sank back into the floor. The ice drew inward and closed. The hall was quiet again, the broken doors swinging in the wind. Rozati lowered his shaking hand. The gate still spun behind him, patient. "Who sent you?" he asked. The red beast rose. "Those who hold Mosscrown Keep," it said. "They knew you would come. They do not want the throne opened." It slipped toward the ruined doors. "Close the gate behind you, heir. By morning, they will know I failed." Rozati spoke with a growl, “I need you to stay and walk with me to provide back up as I walk into the tests that lie ahead.” Weyala spoke, “Will you walk with your new king?”

The red beast stopped at the broken doors. The wind pulled at its fur. It did not answer Rozati's question or Weyala's. Instead it pointed one claw at the floor, where the frost basilisk had sunk back into the stone. "You summoned it," the beast said. "That is not the same as ruling it. Summon a thing you cannot command, and it will turn on you." Rozati felt the warning land. The beast was right. When the serpent had risen, it had looked at him last, as if deciding. He had been lucky. Luck would not open the gate. "Then I will command it," Rozati said. He turned back to the spinning ring. Beside it stood a tall silver pedestal. A glowing handprint marked its top. A thin needle waited in a slot below, meant to draw blood and read his line. He had passed the beast's test by chance. This machine would judge him on purpose. "Wait." The beast crossed the hall and planted itself between Rozati and the pedestal. Its green eyes narrowed. "My duty is to the true heir. If you fail here, you are not him, and I owe you nothing. Prove it, or I leave." Its tail lashed. The sharp teeth showed, but it did not reach for its blade. It wanted him to succeed. Rozati pressed his palm to the scanner. The handprint flared blue. He pushed his finger onto the needle. It bit. One red drop slid into the chamber. The pedestal hummed. Then the floor cracked again. The basilisk rose, scales white with frost, horns of gold, eyes like cut diamond. Green mist dripped from its claws and ate the stone. It swung its huge head toward Rozati. This time it did not sink away. It waited for him to break. Rozati did not run. He raised his bloodied hand. "I am the blood that called you," he said. His voice shook, then steadied. "Kneel to your king, or I close the ring and send you back to nothing." The serpent hissed. Its jaws opened wide enough to swallow him. Rozati held his ground and set his palm flat on the pedestal's crown-and-gem crest. The hum rose to a scream. For one breath, nothing moved. Then the basilisk lowered its head. It pressed its horns to the floor at his feet. The mist stopped dripping. The pedestal chimed one clear note, and the moss-draped gate behind it unlocked with a heavy click. Icicles cracked loose and fell. The red beast let out a slow breath. "Now you command it," it said. "Now you are worth following." It dipped its head, the closest thing to a bow it had given him. The gate stood open. Cold air poured through from somewhere deep and old. But the basilisk did not vanish. It coiled at the threshold, blocking the way, waiting to see what its new master would do next.