“But you can’t leave without the final toast. It’s tradition. Spring! Summer!” Verdan wheeled around and called to his other daughters. “Bring the wedding cup!”

The two princesses came forward, one carrying a large, jeweled goblet, the other a golden pitcher set with sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. Summer poured a stream of dark red wine into the cup in Spring’s hands, and Spring offered it to her father. He set aside his own wine cup to take the wedding goblet and raise it up so all in the hall could see.

“A wedding toast,” he cried, “to a successful and prosperous union between the Houses of Wintercraig and Summerlea. May my daughter and the Winter King find the happiness they deserve, and may we all find victory in peace.”

Echoing cries of “happiness!” and “peace and prosperity!” rang out across the banquet hall as the wedding guests raised their own cups in response.

Verdan handed the wedding goblet to his daughter. “Drink, daughter. The wine is the blessing, and it must be consumed between the two of you. Half to you, and half to your groom.”

Autumn hesitated, then reached for the cup and took it from her father’s hands. Slowly, she raised the cup to her lips.

Wynter put a hand over hers, halting her. He didn’t think Verdan would harm his own beloved daughter, but the strange, smug, expectant air about him raised Wynter’s suspicions. Something was amiss. “A blessing for peace and prosperity should be shared, don’t you think?” He held the Summer King’s too-bright gaze. “Join us, Verdan.” Without taking his eyes from his enemy, Wynter called, “Bring a fresh cup.”

After a brief commotion, a servant appeared, clean goblet in hand. He bowed quickly and offered the cup to Verdan.

Wynter took the jeweled goblet from his bride’s hands and sniffed it. The overpowering aroma of the heated wine coupled with an overpowering mélange of spices and herbs. The scents were too varied, many of them strong enough to mask the delicate scents of certain poisons. There was only one way to test the safety of the cup’s contents.

He poured a portion of the marriage brew into the Summer King’s cup. “You first, Verdan.”

The Summer King arched a haughty brow. “So suspicious,” he sneered. “Do you think I would poison my own child?” He gave a snort, threw back the wine in one gulp, and tossed the empty cup on the table. The remnant liquid spilled out, staining the white tablecloth between the two kings with drops of ruby red, like blood spilled on snow.

Wynter didn’t take his eyes from the other man’s face. If there was anything in the wine, it certainly wasn’t poison. Even if he might let his beloved daughter Autumn drink a cup of death, Verdan would never sacrifice himself that way. He didn’t have the spine for it. And other than a faint increase of heat in the man’s already-alcohol-soaked veins, Wynter could detect no effects of any possible additives in the wine.

“Satisfied?” The Summer King sneered. Without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention to Autumn, and said, “Drink, daughter, to your future and the future of Summerlea.”

This time, when Wynter’s bride lifted the cup to her lips, he didn’t stop her. She took an experimental sip, paused, then drained half the wine in three continuous gulps before handing the rest to him.

“To the Heir of Wintercraig,” Wynter said. He downed the second half of the wine and thumped the goblet down on the table beside Verdan’s abandoned cup.

“Spring, Summer, see to your sister,” Verdan commanded. His chin lifted, and his dark eyes snapped with haughtiness. “It is tradition for a bride’s female family members to ready her for the wedding night. They will escort her to the rooms we have prepared.”

The two princesses hurried around the table and took Autumn’s arms. “Come with us, sister,” they said, casting nervous glances up at Wynter.

“Valik.” Wynter jerked his head towards the women. His steward snapped his fingers and gestured. Four armed Wintercraig guards surrounded them. “Make sure these royal ladies arrive at their destination without incident.” Before the women could turn away, he reached out to grasp his bride’s bare chin in his hands. A tiny jolt of electricity zinged between them, shooting a thread of heat through his veins that sizzled straight to his groin. His eyelids lowered half-mast over his eyes. “Thirty minutes, wife. And then I join you.” He ran a thumb over her full lower lip and caught her faint gasp on his fingertips.

Her sisters tugged her away, and she went with them. His hand fell back to his side, still tingling with warmth as if her touch alone could banish the chill of the Ice Heart.

Something other than wine had been in the wedding cup, Kham knew. She felt energized. Her senses were tingling, her muscles replete with new strength. The pain from her wounds and bruises had all but disappeared. Everything seemed bright and crisp, every sense heightened, magnified almost.

Blood rushed through her veins, and her steps quickened. If someone were to challenge her to a footrace, the way she felt right now she’d not only accept the challenge, she’d likely win.

What had they put in that wine?

She didn’t dare ask. Not with Wynter’s guardsmen surrounding them.

To her surprise, her sisters didn’t lead her to one of the guest wings of the palace but rather directly into the heart of the family wing. Curious. They were heading towards the family’s bedrooms. Autumn’s bedroom to be exact.

Only, when the doors opened, they revealed a bedchamber very different than the one Khamsin had secretly visited numerous times before.