The Yule Prince sits on his father's throne.

He reminds me of winter—with pale blond hair, angular features, and eyes the color of ice.

I hate winter.

Silence hangs in the air, heavy as the scent of smoke and pine that comes from the fire in the hearth. My hands are in fists by my sides, my fingernails digging into my palms. I will myself to keep my mouth shut.

I must hold my tongue. I must not lose my temper.

That is what he wants.

"I hear you are not happy here, Joy." The Yule Prince's cold voice chills my blood.

His gaze travels lazily from my brown breeches and fitted crimson jacket, to the long red braid hanging over my shoulder. His nose turns up in distaste.

"Well?" he says.

"Why have you called me here, Friedrich?" I say through gritted teeth, though I'm sure I know the answer.

He is bored. And I, his plaything.

"You will address me as 'my lord'," he says.

"I will do no such thing. You are not my lord. It is your father, the Great Krampus, that I answer to. Not you."

His father's throne is made of black twisted branches of birch, and he picks at the layer of frost covering its arm. "Yet here you are."

"Because your guards unnecessarily marched me from my chambers."

He flashes me a cruel smile. "Yes. My guards. You may not answer to me, Joy. But they do." He clicks his fingers. "Guards. I think we need to teach Joy a little lesson."

I grit my teeth, but I hold eye contact with Friedrich as they advance from the doorway. It's a challenge. A game of chicken. One we have played many times—like when he goaded me into swimming in the frozen lake when we were children, or when he dared me to go down into the dungeons, knowing that if I was caught, I would be punished.

But he will not have me hurt. His father will not allow it.

His blond eyebrows raise. The shadows of his guards loom over me.

I wait for it.

Then Friedrich exhales and flicks his wrist in dismissal. "Leave us."

The guards are close enough to me that I can smell the woodsmoke on their green cloaks as they spin around and march out of the throne room.

Any triumph on my part is shortly outlived.

Because now we are alone.

I do not want to be alone with him. Like his father, he is a monster. Only he is petulant and unpredictable. I know what his father wants. Power. I have never understood Freidich's motivations or needless cruelty.

He studies his long fingers.

"My spies tell me you were complaining about life here, Joy." He clucks his tongue. "Has my father, the Great Krampus, not been merciful to you?"

He rises. The light from the dying fire in the hearth flicks shadows across his face. Behind him, the horned head of a goat is mounted on the stone wall, and peers menacingly over his head.

He adjusts the cuffs of his coat. It's the color of evergreen trees as is custom for Yuletide royalty and their houses. It's restrictive, too, covering most of his pale skin and buttoned up to his collar. It makes his movements stiff, yet elegant, as he walks over to the fire.

I do not answer. He wants me to say something bad about his father. He wants me to give him a reason to sanction the punishment he longs to dole out.

He picks up a poker and prods at the coals. "Well? Has he not?"

"Most merciful." I do not hide the sarcasm from my tone. I cannot.

He turns. And he waits.

I do not disappoint him.

"If you consider kidnapping a child from their bed on the eve of Christmas merciful," I blurt.

His lips twist into a cruel smile.

"The Yuletide Accords between St. Nicholas, Lord Frost, and the Great Krampus, entitle my father to take twelve misbehaving mortal children per Christmas to bring into his employment and punish as he sees fit. Do they not?"

Poker still in hand he advances toward me. I can feel the blistering heat from the orange tip as he stops inches away.

He is too close.

He smells like woodsmoke and mulled spices.

It turns my stomach.

I hate it.

I hate him.

I hate the way his blond hair is slicked back, neat, from his face. I hate the sharpness of his chin and the slender shoulders beneath his expensive clothes. I hate that he has power over me because he belongs here, and I do not.

I hate that he knows how much I despise him. And I hate that it amuses him that I do.

Friedrich looks me up and down. "And yet, instead of punishing you like the others, he gives you a chamber here in our castle, he allows you to eat with us at our Yuletide feasts, he gives you fine clothes and books and jewels, and you have been allowed to train with his master of weapons. Why do you think that is? What is it that is so special about you, Joy?"

"I do not know, Friedrich."

"No. Neither do I."

He raises the poker. I brace myself for the pain I am sure will come.

Do not strike the Yule Prince. Do not strike the Yule Prince.

Do not teach him the lesson he so seriously deserves.

He is right. His father kidnapped me when I was four years old; but he has been merciful to me for the thirteen years since. Peculiarly so. I do not know why.

But if I hurt his seventeen-year-old son, his only heir to the Yule Throne, then I do not think he will be merciful for much longer.

"Do you want to be like us, Joy?"

Friedrich's eyes flick lazily down to the burning tip of the poker. Then he grabs it. There's a hissing sound but his face remains impassive.

It is a power move. A reminder that I do not fit in with his kind, nor any of the inhabitants of the three Immortal Winter Kingdoms.

His blood runs too cold for fire to burn him.

When he lets go, I feel heat on my cheeks.

"Now you," he says.

Another game of chicken. Do it and I blister my hand– rendering me useless for weapons training; the only thing I enjoy in this cold and wicked place. Don't do it and I lose the game.

I'm right-handed, so I raise my left.

"No," he says. "Other hand."

I force the emotion, the hatred, the fear of pain, out of my expression. But I harden my muscles as I brace myself. I think of the snow outside, of the icy winds, of the frost that bites the thin window frames. Do not show weakness.

I grab the poker.

I breathe in sharply.

But I don't feel anything. My flesh isn't burning. There's no pain. In fact, the iron is bitingly cold against my palm.

For the first time a look of intrigue passes across Friedrich's eyes. He hurriedly masks it – his expression settling into one of boredom once more. I hide the emotion from my face, too. I do not want him to know I am as confused as he is. But my heart is thudding so hard I am afraid he can hear it.

I am mortal. This makes no sense.

I let go of the burning poker.

"Is that all, Friedrich?"

Silence hangs between us. It seems to last an eternity.

Then he takes a step back and flicks his hand dismissively. "You are boring me. Leave, mortal."

"As you wish."

I hold my head high as I walk to the exit of the throne room, but I do not feel the satisfaction I should. He will not take kindly to me surprising him.

I look over my shoulder, and when his cold eyes catch mine, they confirm my suspicion.

I won this round.

But the game is far from over.