ice princess

prologue

The first time Ayami Raine realises something is wrong, she's standing in the middle of the Olympic arena.

Eighteen years old. Last to skate. Medal favourite. The Ice Princess.

Cameras flash from every direction. Coaches hover nearby. Somewhere across the rink, Elena Kuznetsova is crying into her coach's shoulder after the performance of her life.

And Julia Duvall is crying too.

That catches Aya's attention more than Elena.

Not because Julia had won. Because she hadn't. She was one of the medal favourites, and right now, it's not looking like she'll make it. Not if Aya skates well, which, bar some kind of natural disaster, she will.

Julia has her face buried in her hands by the boards, shoulders shaking as her coach wraps an arm around her. One minute later she's laughing through tears at something another skater says to her. Then she's crying again.

Aya watches, faintly bewildered.

How can someone feel that much about a skating competition?

How can someone cry over it like it's the end of the world?

The thought follows her onto the ice.

Smoothing down her periwinkle dress, her hand to her necklace, she gazes out at the empty white space opening up in front of her, and the marks carved into the surface by skates that came before.

Everything is dull inside her, in some far-away pit she can't reach. The anticipation, fear, excitement... it all feels like nothing. The arena holds its breath as the music begins, its delicate violin threading through the stands. By now, Aya barely hears it.

She delivers the program exactly like she'd trained it, every jump and spin placed with machine-like precision. No space for hesitation, no break in the sequence, in every choreographed expression on her face and accent on beat with the music. It's convincing, as always. Everything is there.

The audience erupts when it ends, applause crashing toward her, filling the air and approaching from every direction in waves that don't quite reach her. The announcer's voice stretches thin overhead, words dissolving into the cool air. She stands at the centre of the rink, bowing graciously four times, once to each corner of the arena. She watches the gifts raining down from the stands, and the sweeper kids rushing to collect them. The cameras find her immediately as the noise continues, swelling, insistent. They follow her off the ice.

Aya waits, for anything. Something.

There's always something. Relief. Satisfaction. Anxiety, even—just something to mark the end of it, to tell her it mattered in the way everyone says it does—she knew that, somewhere. The way Sergei tells her all the way to the kiss-and-cry.

"You did it. Breathe, it's done." He would repeat.

No matter how much she breathes, Aya feels nothing at all. She wonders if she might have to start hyperventilating—and she would, if she wasn't surrounded by people.

So, she sits there, the sounds breaking over her, the lights bright against her eyes, the cameras clicking and flashing. But she just stays still, waiting for her score, waiting for it to be over. It's not like she hates it.

But is this how you're supposed to feel on the most important day of your life?

Her results change nothing. She watches them come up on the scoreboard. 156.79—second in the free skate. Her total score of 239.82 puts her in second place, a healthy four-point margin behind the young Russian, Elena, who she could see embracing her coaches.