Selene Frostborne tightened her cloak and stepped onto the frozen ridge. Below her stretched the trial grounds, where she meant to claim the frozen throne or die trying. Cold moved through her veins like a second pulse. She had hidden that gift her whole life. Today, she would finally use it. A bronze bell rang from a stone tower at the field's edge. A herald had climbed it that morning and shouted the trial open to all comers. The sound carried far. Too far. Now bright canvas pavilions bloomed across the snow. Fur-wrapped poles rose beside them, hung with bold clan banners snapping in the wind. Rivals. Dozens of them. They were closer to the ice than she was. Selene's jaw set. She would not arrive last. A pale shape moved at the treeline — a frost antelope, antlers like clear glass rails. She approached slowly, palm open. Ice whispered from her fingers and laid a thin trail at its hooves. The animal lowered its head and let her climb on. They burst across the snow, faster than any rival on foot. Selene reached the trial circle first and pressed her hand to the ice. The cold answered. Her claim was staked — but every banner behind her now marked an enemy who had seen her ride in on impossible speed.