Page 47 of Burning Ice
Milanov looked at Mirel, voice low. "You will learn this, frostling. To rule is to cage what wants to consume. The people will love you as much as they will fear you. You were born to rule."
Kylix felt Mirel tremble again. His heartbeat quickened, heavy and deliberate, each pulse thudding against his ribs. Heat climbed under his skin, the scent of fear sharp and electric in the air. The Dariux in him stirred, responding to that fear like it was a language only they shared.
"Do your incisors itch when you see violence? Giving you that strange sensation that you enjoy it?"
Mirel frowned in disgust. His right eye turned glassy. He squeezed them both, preventing the ice from pouring out. "No."
The others chuckled around him. Kylix’s hand on his thigh squeezed tighter, making his chest flutter and his arousal increase. Mirel licked his teeth. His temperature dropped.
No.
"Cruelty, pretty frostling. Aviel, light the fire."
Mirel shook his head, looked away. His stomach had swooped at the word.
"Certainly." The man, who had curls as black as the night and eyes molten with fire, stirred up the fire with both gift and poke. Next to him stood the prisoner whose life Cyprian had saved during his Aureate. He recognized the blond curls and large blue eyes. He was chained to the wall. Wasn’t his name Theo? Their eyes met for the faintest second. Mirel couldn’t help but feel pity.
The scent of opium thickened. The puffers released more vapor until the edges of the room blurred. The air pressed soft against his face, sweet with wine and smoke. Mirel’s focus wavered. He caught Helianth’s laugh, Moargan’s low reply, the scrape of Milanov’s ring against glass. The sounds stacked like notes without melody. Kylix’s hand stayed at his back, steady and hot, reminding him he wasn’t free. When Milanov stood, the movement broke the haze. Every voice stopped.
"Violence."
"N-no."
Zimeon cocked his head. "No what, Mirel?"
"No violence." His eye had frosted entirely, leaking tears that froze halfway.
Milanov smiled. His eyes flared. "My winter boy. You are magnificent. Even in your silence. Now, no more questions. Kylix, is Mirel the one you wish to claim?"
Next to him, he felt Kylix tense. "He is, uncle."
Milanov nodded. "Then it shall be done. Mirel Fandi. Son of Ludo Fandi. Killer of Ludo Fandi. You have been claimed by my nephew, Kylix Zephyranth."
Mirel’s ears rang. Fear climbed his spine like ice he fought to hold back. Cold and merciless. A claiming. What did that mean?
"N-no pain," he managed.
"No pain, Mirel," Zimeon confirmed. "But we owe you an apology. Before I begin, tell us, where were you all this time? Where did you grow up?"
"Varethis." Mirel looked down at his palm. Remnants of blood and ice carved his skin where he’d dug his nails into flesh. "Graveyard."
"The graveyard?" Aviel wanted to know. "In Varethis, or here?"
"I—" No other words came out.
"Here," Kylix finished for him.
Milanov got out of his chair. "Very well. I’ll hold a press conference, confirming the event. Then we’ll hold the ceremony here and throw a party afterwards. How does that sound?"
"Great, Uncle." Kylix’s hand dragged up to the inside of Mirel’s thigh.
Mirel’s breath caught. His heart hammered in his chest. His skin felt sensitive. His throat locked.
"Then let’s give us a show, Mirel. A symbolic welcome to your roots." Milanov raised a hand. "Bring in the prisoner."
The far doors opened with a hiss. Chains scraped marble. Iron scented the air.
A single prisoner stumbled in. Purple prison cloth torn. Face split and swelling. His breathing was ragged, a hard rattle that didn’t stop. Two guards jerked him forward and fixed his shackles to the floor rings.
