Elsa stood on the balcony of the newly crowned Queen of Arendelle, her elegant blue gown shimmering under the northern lights. The coronation had been a triumph, but the power she had unleashed during the party still hummed dangerously beneath her skin. She had tried to flee, but Anna had brought her back, and now the kingdom expected her to rule. What they didn’t know was how fragile that rule truly was. The Duke of Weselton, that weaselly little man with his sharp eyes and greedy smile, had seen her powers up close. And he had not forgotten.

That very night, after the last guests had retired, the Duke cornered her in the throne room. The massive chamber was dimly lit by candles, shadows dancing across the icy sculptures she had absentmindedly created earlier. Two of his burly bodyguards flanked him, and three Arendelle palace guards—men she had trusted—stood watch at the doors, their eyes averted but their loyalty already bought.