Page 116 of Burning Ice
Attica wouldn’t get away again. Not with the boy. Not with anything.
He took another drag and let his gaze fall back to where Mirel slept, swathed in firelight, cheek pressed to the pillow like a prince carved from frost.
That was his.
And no one would take it from him.
30
Morning light glowed faintly against the Waltr’s glass walls. Frost webbed the inner surface in thin veins and circles, a lattice of memory drawn in pale blue.
Mirel woke first, his head resting against Kylix’s shoulder, the warmth of him steady and quiet beneath the sheet. Their clothes lay scattered across the floor, proof of the night’s heat and the slow collapse into one another. The air still smelled of red-cinder smoke, sweat, and sleep.
He shifted carefully, trying not to wake him, the sheet whispering against his skin. The frost had not melted overnight. It clung to the curve of the Waltr and whispered in the dawn. Lines moved and re-formed, almost breathing, until faint human outlines surfaced. For a heartbeat a face emerged, young, bruised, eyes half-open with pain.
Mirel froze, pulse hammering. The frost didn’t just show faces, it remembered them. The glass trembled faintly under his palm as if it wanted him to reach through.
The air shifted, light refracting along the frost until it seemed to breathe. For a second, it felt like the whole Waltr was watching him back. He could taste the cold on his teeth, the strange sweetness of it, the way memory always did when it triedto survive. Every line in the frost seemed to hum with a voice he almost knew, something pleading to be remembered. The pressure in his chest rose, familiar now, the pull between fire and freeze, vision and warning.
He pulled back, but the memory clung, imprinting behind his lids like a burn.
His breath steadied. “He’s still alive,” he whispered. “The same Dariux prisoner from before.”
Kylix stirred. His arm tightened around Mirel’s waist. “What is it?”
“Look.” Mirel sat up. The frost shifted, the image dissolving to circles and veins and geometric lines. “I saw him again. It’s like he’s showing us something.”
Kylix rose, already alert despite the hour. “Do you think it’s Norma? Do you think she’s helping us see clearly?”
“I don’t know.” Mirel nodded. “What if you touched it?”
“Would that help?”
Mirel didn’t answer. Kylix lifted his hand. Heat bloomed in his palm. He pressed it to the glass. The surface shuddered as heat met frost. Light bled outward, a pulse that set the cold in motion. Steam rose where their breaths met the chill. Metal and ozone filled the air.
“Look at the ice,” Mirel whispered. “It’s changing.”
The patterns reacted. Shapes within shapes fused and refined. The man’s face stretched and warped into something vast. Lines merged into the outline of a rundown structure from the forgotten districts of Zephyr. Walls leaned inward, cracked, skeletal. Frost fringed the edges and dripped like broken glass.
Mirel’s throat tightened. “I know this place,” he breathed. “Geron used to talk about it. Of where they bought memory erasers, silence vials. I think this is where he’s taken the prisoners.”
Kylix’s jaw flexed as he traced the glowing lines. He stared, disbelief pulling against wonder while frost and fire settled into their final pattern. The building shimmered before him, raw and alive. He drew a slow breath, realization dawning in his eyes.
Next to him, Mirel chuckled, full of quiet wonder. “We just did that, amano. Together.”
Kylix’s mouth curved, dangerous. “And they let us,” he said, voice low and edged with hunger. “They won’t make that mistake again.”
It dimmed, returning to a faint shimmer as their breaths steadied. The silence between them felt full and charged. Mirel could still feel the echo of fire against his frost, warmth seeping through their bond until it hummed with warning and devotion.
“It feels like we’ve already seen the end,” Mirel murmured.
“Then we’ll make sure it ends our way,” Kylix said, quiet and absolute. He kissed him, slow and fierce, a promise made between storms. “Come on,” he murmured, “let’s get ready.”
They moved quickly, purpose guiding every motion. The frost-building was gone, but the heat it left behind followed like an invisible command. They dressed in silence, trading faint glances that said more than words. On the way out, Kylix grabbed two thermal cups and handed one to Mirel. The coffee was strong and bitter. It pulled them back to motion and duty.
When the lift doors opened, Helianth was already there, strapping on his gear. Daven trailed behind him, eyes bright, posture tense with excitement.
“He wouldn’t stay behind,” Helianth said dryly, catching Kylix’s look. “Said he’d rather face hell than the reports.”
