Chapter 15: The Frostveil Gambit
The throne room was a symphony of cold grandeur, and today, Ellie and Nancy were conducting. From our positions flanking the dais, Mary and I had the best view in the citadel.
Ellie sat straight, one hand resting on the arm of her ice-carved throne, the other curled protectively over the curve of her belly. Pregnancy hadn’t softened her regality; it had compounded it. She wore a gown of deep emerald wool, simple but for the silver thread tracing the neckline. It stretched over her full breasts and rounded stomach in a way that was utterly, devastatingly feminine. Her blonde hair flowed like a waterfall of winter sunlight. She was listening intently to a valley steward drone on about grain storage, her expression one of thoughtful patience. A queen, utterly. A mother, completely.
On the throne beside her, Nancy was a study in contrast. She leaned into the carved ice, her posture more relaxed, her long curls cascading over one shoulder. Her nurturing warmth radiated out, softening the chamber’s inherent frost. She nodded as a guildmaster presented a sample of newly-dyed fabric, her smile genuine, her fingers tracing the weave. The artistic soul, appreciating the craft. The swell of her pregnancy under her sky-blue tunic looked less like a burden and more like an extension of her lush, generous beauty.
I adjusted the leather strap of my sword harness, the familiar weight grounding me. My own tunic felt tight across my chest, awkward.
“Look at them,” Mary whispered, her voice barely a breath. She stood at rigid attention, her hand on her own sword hilt, her short blond hair sharp against her jawline. “It’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“Pregnancy just… it works on them. It’s like they’re built for it. They look like fertility goddesses who also happen to run a kingdom.” Mary’s gaze was fixed on Ellie. “Ellie looks like she could solve a diplomatic crisis and then bake a pie that would make you weep. Without breaking a sweat.”
“And Nancy,” I murmured back, my eyes tracing the line of Nancy’s neck as she laughed softly at something the guildmaster said. “She looks like she’d comfort the losing side of that crisis and then paint a masterpiece about the emotional complexity of it all. While lactating.”
A short, stifled snort escaped Mary. “Meanwhile, look at us.” She glanced down at her own lean, taut frame, now interrupted by the firm globe of her stomach. Her leathers strained. “We look like someone stuck bladders under our tunics. Awkwardly swollen sticks. Functional. Utilitarian.”
“Pregnant praying mantises,” I agreed, the corner of my mouth twitching. “All angles and pointy parts with a weird central bulge.”
“At least the armor still fits. Mostly.” She shifted her shoulders. “Think they’ll ever see us like that? Like… not just the engineers? Not just the thunder-makers?”
Her question hung in the cold air between us, mingling with the formal petitions. It was a vulnerable sound, rare for Mary. I knew what she meant. We saw the artistry in them, the breathtaking, sensual beauty of their creation-nurture essence. Did they see the stark, functional beauty in us? The elegance of a perfectly machined bolt, the lethal grace of a calculated trajectory?
On the dais, Ellie concluded the steward’s audience with a few soft-spoken words that had the man bowing deeply, relieved. As he backed away, her eyes flickered to us. Just for a second. They weren’t the eyes of a queen in session. They were darker, warmer, a flash of private knowledge that went straight to my core. She saw. She always saw.
Nancy’s gaze followed, and she offered a small, secret smile that was just for Mary. It promised softness, and understanding, and a totality of acceptance that had nothing to do with how we looked and everything to do with who we were.
The official session dragged on. Disputes over water rights from the hot springs, a report on the aurora paths being unusually bright, a petition for a new guild charter. We stood watch, the silent, armed counterpoint to their ruling grace. My back ached. My breasts were uncomfortably full. The phantom kick in my ribs was a constant, distracting echo.
Finally, Ellie raised a hand. “The court thanks you for your petitions. We will take counsel and provide answers on the morrow.” Her voice, gentle but final, carried to the far arches.
The crowd bowed and began to stream out, their whispers filling the vast space like retreating frost.
As the last courtier vanished, Nancy slumped back in her throne with an exaggerated groan, rubbing the small of her back. “If one more person says ‘by your leave, Your Grace’ I might actually have the baby right here. Just to change the subject.”
Ellie stood, a movement that was both ponderous and effortlessly graceful. She walked to the edge of the dais and looked down at us. The official mask was gone. “You two were whispering like schoolgirls through half of that.”
“We were assessing security,” Mary said, her face perfectly deadpan.
“Mhmm.” Ellie’s eyes gleamed. “Assessing our security? Or something else?”
“The structural integrity of your regal bearing,” I offered. “It’s holding. Impressive under the load.”
Nancy laughed, a rich, warm sound that bounced off the marble. She came to stand beside Ellie, looping an arm through hers. “They’re so full of it. They were staring. It was sweet.”
Mary flushed, a faint pink on her cheeks. “We have plans. For after lunch.”
“Oh?” Ellie’s eyebrow arched.
“The royal armories,” I said, my mind already shifting gears, the image of Ellie’s emerald-clad form replaced by schematics. “The bows and crossbows are fine for the guards on the walls. But they’re slow. Inaccurate at real distance. We need a new standard.”
Mary’s eyes lit up with the same internal fire. “A projectile weapon. Self-contained. Manual cycling. Rifled barrel for spin. A bolt-action system. Simpler than the howitzers. More personal.”
“A rifle,” I said. The word felt good in the cold air. A promise of precision. Of controlled, individual violence. A different kind of answer than the Thunder.
Ellie looked between us, her expression softening into that blend of awe and concern she reserved for our more destructive inspirations. “You want to give every guardsman a… rifle.” She tasted the word. “Will it work? Here?”
“The principles are sound,” Mary said. “The metallurgy is better now because of the howitzer forgings. The propellant is the trick. Black powder is straightforward, but we can play with grindstone magic for consistent grain size. Maybe frost-salts for a cooler burn.”
Nancy shook her head, her curls bouncing. “You go from staring at us like we’re the last dessert in the citadel to discussing frost-salts and grain size in a heartbeat. I love you both so much it’s bewildering.”
She stepped down from the dais, came to Mary, and cupped her cheek. The gesture was infinitely tender. “Go. Design your rifles. Make your clever, deadly things.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper meant for all of us. “And later, you can show us exactly how un-goddess-like you think you are.”
Her kiss on Mary’s lips was a promise. Ellie descended next, her hand finding the back of my neck, her thumb stroking the short hairs there. “Bring the schematics to bed,” she murmured against my ear. “I want to see the lines you draw when you’re inventing death for us. I find it… creatively stimulating.”
Then they were gone, leaving the cavernous throne room to Mary and me, the air still humming with their scent and their promises.
“Well,” Mary said, blowing out a long breath. “That was motivational.”
“Extremely.” I turned, the discomfort in my body now translated into a need to do, to create. “Let’s go. I’m thinking a Mauser-style action. Robust. Easy to train.”
“Straight pull might be faster,” Mary argued as we walked, our boots echoing on the marble. “But more complex. We need reliability in the cold.”
The corridors unfolded before us, leading away from the heart of soft power and toward the realm of hard force. My mind was already filling with angles and tolerances, with the satisfying clack-shuck of a bolt sliding home. We would craft a new kind of silence for our enemies—not the quiet of prosperity, but the sharp, final quiet that lived between the trigger pull and the impact.
The world beyond the peaks was watching. Let them see our fertile valleys, our thundering guns. Soon, they would have something else to see. Something precise, and personal, and waiting in the hands of every soldier who owed their full bellies and warm homes to the four women in the ice citadel. The calculation was clear. We would meet whatever came with nurture, and with thunder, and now, with a cold, straight eye looking down a rifled barrel.