Chapter 6 The Opening
Midnight came without ceremony.
No bells rang. No horns sounded. No ward flared bright enough to warn the palace of what was about to be undone. The hour slid into place as quietly as a breath held too long, and Clara felt it settle in her bones with a terrible certainty.
She stood alone in the Winter Reliquary.
The chamber was circular, its walls carved from glacial stone etched with scenes older than the palace itself, wars of snow and fire, mortals kneeling before crowned figures whose names had been intentionally erased. Frost-lanterns hovered in slow orbit near the ceiling, casting pale blue light that never quite reached the floor.
At the center of the room rested the Nutcracker.
It stood on a pedestal of black ice, taller than she remembered. Or perhaps she had simply grown smaller beneath its gaze. The figure was carved from whitewood veined with silver, its painted uniform faded to the soft red of old blood, its crown simple, almost humble. Cracks traced its face, time or magic, she no longer knew.
Her magic stirred at the sight of it.
Not violently. Not eagerly.
Recognitionally.
“You should not be here alone.”
Elias’s voice echoed from the doorway, low and controlled, though the wards allowed him no farther. The circle drawn into the floor around the pedestal shimmered faintly, an old boundary, one Clara herself had reinforced over years with deliberate neglect.
“This circle answers only to me,” Clara said softly. “And tonight, it must.”
Elias stopped at the edge, jaw tight. “Then at least tell me you won’t rush this.”
She looked over her shoulder, expression unreadable. “I buried this once by hesitating. I won’t make that mistake again.”
She turned back to the Nutcracker.
Midnight stirs the curse.
The words echoed unbidden as the sigil beneath her skin pulsed, steady now, no longer erratic. As if it approved.
Clara stepped into the circle.
The air changed instantly. Colder, yes, but also heavier, dense with old intent. The frost beneath her feet creaked softly, spiderweb cracks spreading outward, stopping just short of the pedestal as though restrained by memory.
She raised both hands.
“I did not come to command,” she said, voice calm, deliberate. “I came to open.”
The Nutcracker’s eyes flickered.
Just once.
Not movement. Awareness.
Elias inhaled sharply from the doorway, but Clara did not turn. She reached forward, fingers brushing the small key hanging at the Nutcracker’s side, a simple object, dull silver, unassuming. The key that had never been turned.
Her nightmares sharpened.
Snow. Boots. Marching lines vanishing into white infinity.
The Nutcracker King with his hollow chest and waiting smile.
Her hand hesitated.
That single heartbeat was enough.
The key warmed beneath her fingers, heat blooming painfully against her skin as magic surged up her arm, eager and furious and relieved. The circle flared bright as frost-light, runes awakening one by one like soldiers snapping to attention.
“Clara,” Elias warned. “Whatever you sealed inside.”
“I know,” she whispered.
And turned the key.
The sound was small.
A soft click.
It echoed anyway.
Stone groaned as ancient wards unraveled, not breaking but withdrawing, like loyal guards stepping aside at last. Cold air rushed inward, spiraling around the pedestal, lifting Clara’s hair, frosting her lashes in white.
The Nutcracker moved.
Not all at once.
First the head tilted, wooden joints grinding softly. Then the chest expanded, filled, as frost-fire poured into the hollow she had seen in her nightmares.
The cracks in its face sealed.
Paint deepened.
Color returned.
When it stepped down from the pedestal, the sound of its boots striking ice carried weight.
Memory weight.
Clara stumbled back instinctively, heart hammering, but the circle no longer restrained him. The Nutcracker, the King, she corrected herself now, straightened to his full height, taller than the figure she remembered holding so carefully years ago.
His eyes glowed pale blue.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Certain.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing with perfect precision. “At last.”
Elias drew his blade in one smooth motion. “Do not take another step.”
The Nutcracker King’s gaze flicked toward him briefly, assessing, dismissive. “You are not bound to me.”
“No,” Clara said quickly. “He isn’t.”
The King turned back to her. “You opened me.”
“I didn’t free you,” she replied, forcing steadiness into her voice. “I partially unsealed what I locked away. Enough to speak. Enough to remember.”
The King smiled, not the empty carved grin of her dreams, but something subtler. More dangerous.
“Memory is never partial,” he said. “It resumes.”
The palace trembled.
High above them, frost raced along corridors and down staircases, flowing toward the Reliquary like rivers answering gravity. Statues shuddered. Dormant magic inhaled sharply.
Elias swore under his breath. “Clara.”
“I know,” she said again, though fear now coiled hard in her gut. “I feel it too.”
Through the bond between queen and construct, something vast unfolded, not rage, not rebellion, but readiness. Signals traveling through wood and steel. Sleeping formations aligning.
The King stepped closer, slow, unhurried.
“You feared I would command without restraint,” he said. “You were right to fear it. You forged me to end a war that would not end itself.”
“I forged you to protect,” she snapped.
“Yes,” he agreed easily. “By ensuring victory.”
Her breath caught. “This war is over.”
“Conflicts change,” the King replied. “Purpose does not.”
Another tremor rippled through the palace.
Far away, boots struck stone.
Once.
Twice.
Measured.
Elias moved closer to the circle’s edge, positioning himself between Clara and the King despite knowing how futile it was. “Say the word,” he murmured. “I can still shut this room down.”
Clara shook her head slowly.
“No,” she whispered. “If I close it now, he’ll only finish opening himself another way.”
The King watched her with approval. “You learn.”
She met his gaze, refusal and resolve warring in her eyes. “I opened you because I need answers. Not an army.”
His smile sharpened.
“You will have both,” he said.
The frost-lanterns shattered.
Darkness surged, and with it, a clarity that terrified her more than fear ever had.
She understood then what she had truly done.
She had not unleashed a monster.
She had restored a general.
And somewhere deep in the palace, the first ranks of wooden soldiers took their opening breath.
Midnight passed.
The curse did not close.
It stood at attention.