The door to the banquet hall closed behind them with a sound like a tomb sealing. Erel's breath came out in visible puffs as the temperature plummeted instantly, frost already beginning to form on the walls.
"Jesus," Grey muttered, wrapping her arms around herself. "From cannibalism to hypothermia. This place really knows how to show us a good time."
Stone was already moving, flexing his fingers to keep circulation going. The horror of what they'd just been forced to do still lingered in all their eyes—the memories of those deaths they'd consumed would stay with them forever.
"Temperature's dropping fast," Stone said. "We need to find shelter or figure out what this trial is before we freeze to death."
Adren walked slightly apart from the group, as he always did. His breathing was steady, controlled, seemingly unaffected by either the temperature or what they'd just endured. Something about his composure had always nagged at Erel, though he'd never been able to pinpoint exactly what bothered him.
The corridor ahead sparkled with ice crystals that caught pale light filtering from somewhere above. Their footsteps echoed strangely, each sound hanging in the frigid air longer than it should.
The corridor opened into a ballroom that took Erel's breath away. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, their surfaces clouded with ice that split light into dancing rainbows. The marble floor was covered with frost that created intricate patterns like frozen lace. Along the walls stood what appeared to be ice sculptures of dancers, each captured in a moment of perfect grace.
But it was the figure in the center that commanded their attention.
Lady Isabelle stood motionless in the middle of the dance floor, beautiful in the way winter storms were beautiful—breathtaking and deadly. Her wedding dress flowed around her in frozen waves, fabric that was somehow both solid ice and flowing silk. Porcelain-pale skin showed veins of blue beneath, like a frozen river system. Dark hair crowned with icicles framed a face that would have been angelic if not for her eyes—pale blue like deep winter, ancient and hungry.
"Welcome," Lady Isabelle said, her voice carrying the music of wind through frozen trees. "I have been waiting so long for wedding guests. For dancers to join me in my eternal waltz."
Grey was already shivering despite trying to control it. "What kind of waltz?"
"The most beautiful waltz ever composed," Isabelle replied, gliding toward them across the ice without her feet seeming to touch the ground. "The Waltz of the Snowflakes. From a winter tale of magic and wonder."
Music began to play softly from somewhere in the ballroom—Tchaikovsky's ethereal composition from The Nutcracker. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, the kind of music that could make you forget where you were, lose yourself in its flowing rhythm.
Dancing to death to one of the most beautiful pieces ever written,how poetic.
"The rules are elegantly simple," Isabelle continued, her pale eyes moving from one to the next. "You will dance with me to this divine music. The temperature in my domain will continue to drop—that is its nature. To stay warm, to preserve life, you must maintain perfect form, perfect synchronization with the music."
Stone flexed his hands, already fighting the cold. "And if we don't maintain perfect form?"
"Then winter claims you more quickly," Isabelle smiled, ice crystals sparkling on her lips. "Each mistake, each stumble, each break in rhythm allows the cold deeper into your bones. Make enough errors, and you'll achieve the perfect stillness that my previous guests have found."
She gestured to the ice sculptures along the walls, and Erel realized with horror that they weren't sculptures at all. They were people—frozen dancers caught in their final poses, their faces locked in expressions of terror or desperate concentration.
"They're still conscious," Grey whispered, her training helping her read the subtle signs. "Their eyes are tracking us."
"Of course," Isabelle said cheerfully. "Consciousness preserved in perfect ice, aware of every moment. It's really quite beautiful when you think about it."
Frozen alive and aware.
"Now then," Isabelle continued, "you must choose your partners. I will lead the dance, setting pace and pattern. You must follow my movements exactly."
Adren stepped forward without hesitation. "I'll partner with you."
Is he for real, what a damn nutjob.
Isabelle's eyes lit up with delight. "Wonderful! You have such lovely composure. It will serve you well."
"The rest of you may choose from my collection," she gestured to several ice sculptures that began to move, stepping down from their pedestals with ethereal grace. They were clearly dead—skin blue-white, eyes clouded with frost—but they moved like master dancers.
Stone stared at the approaching frozen corpses. "Dancing with dead people. Of course."
Erel was examining the animated sculptures when Grey spoke up beside him.
"I can't dance with a corpse," she said quietly, her voice shaking.
If he can choose Isabelle, then we can do it together as well. I have had enough of corpses for today anyway.
"Then we'll partner together," Erel said.
Isabelle frowned slightly. "That will make survival more difficult for you both. Living partners cannot generate the heat that a living and preserved partner can. But if you insist..."
Stone looked at the remaining ice sculptures with resignation.
The sculpture he'd chosen—a man in what appeared to be formal military dress—executed a perfect bow. Stone returned it stiffly.
"Excellent!" Isabelle clapped her hands together, the sound like icicles breaking. "Now, the final rule. As my domain embraces you, your bodies will begin to freeze. Perfect dancing slows this process, but cannot stop it entirely. The dance continues until only one pair remains, or until someone achieves the absolute perfection I seek."
The music began to swell—the Waltz of the Snowflakes in all its haunting beauty. Isabelle took Adren's hand and placed it properly at her waist, her other hand finding his with supernatural grace.
Erel turned to Grey and extended his hand. "Ready?"
She took it, and he could already feel how cold her fingers were. "I don't really know how to waltz."
"Just follow my lead," he said, placing his hand at her waist. "Listen to the music. Let it guide you."
The music reached its opening crescendo, and Isabelle began to move. Her steps were absolute perfection—every movement flowing like water given form, her frozen dress swirling around her in patterns that seemed to defy physics.
Adren followed her lead with remarkable skill. Stone struggled initially with his undead partner. The frozen soldier moved with inhuman precision, demanding perfect synchronization. But Stone was adapting, pushing himself with the same determination he brought to everything.
Erel began leading Grey through the basic waltz steps, starting slowly to let her find the rhythm. "Feel the one-two-three, one-two-three," he murmured. "Don't think about your feet, think about the music."
She stumbled initially but began to catch the pattern. "Like this?"
"Exactly. Now feel how the music wants you to move. It's not just steps—it's like having a conversation, but with your whole body."
Grey nodded, concentrating on the rhythm. But Erel could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she kept glancing at the frozen dancers along the walls.
"Look at me," he said gently, spinning her so she faced him directly. "Not the walls, not the sculptures, not what we just went through. Just me and the music. Everything else can wait."
She met his eyes and he saw her make a conscious decision to push the horror aside. Her movements became more fluid, more confident.
"That's it," he encouraged as she executed a smooth turn. "You're getting it."
As they danced, Erel noticed that different pairs were generating different amounts of heat. Isabelle and Adren seemed to radiate warmth, moving in perfect harmony. Stone and his partner created a more modest warming effect. But around him and Grey, the cold seemed to intensify.
"We need to match her movements more closely," Erel realized. "Perfect synchronization generates heat. The more we deviate, the faster we freeze."
Grey was starting to relax into the rhythm now, letting the music guide her movements. "She's barely touching the ground."
They tried to mirror Isabelle's style more closely, and immediately Erel felt a subtle warming. But it was delicate—any break in concentration, any imperfection in form, and the cold rushed back in.
"You're doing well," he told Grey as she managed a particularly difficult turn without stumbling. "Trust the music. Trust me."
"I'm trying," she said through gritted teeth. "But it's so cold, and I keep thinking about... about what we had to do back there. Those people's final moments..."
"I know," Erel said, guiding her through a series of spins that followed the orchestra's crescendo. "But right now, we dance. We survive. We can deal with everything else later."
The music flowed around them, beautiful and relentless. Erel found himself getting lost in it despite the circumstances—Tchaikovsky had written something that spoke to something fundamental about movement and partnership, about finding grace even in desperate circumstances.
"Feel how the melody lifts here?" he said as the music swelled. "Let it carry you up. Don't fight it."
Grey began to understand, her body relaxing into the rhythm.
The temperature continued dropping. Despite their improved synchronization, frost was spreading across their clothing. The ballroom had become a winter hellscape.
Stone was keeping pace with his undead partner, but Erel could see the strain. His movements were becoming less precise, and each small imperfection allowed frost to advance further up his legs.
Adren and Isabelle moved like they were meant to dance together. No hesitation, no uncertainty, just fluid perfection that seemed almost supernatural. Isabelle swept past them, her pale eyes gleaming. "Lovely form! But the true test is yet to come."
The music began to shift into a more complex rhythm, and Isabelle's movements became far more demanding. She started incorporating spins and lifts that required absolute trust and perfect timing.
"Now comes the Allegro movement," she called out. "The true waltz begins!"