Page 48 of Burning Ice
Aviel tightened the leash in his hand. Theo flinched against his chest. The puffers thickened the air until the edges of the room went soft.
Milanov circled once, cloak brushing the stone. “Welcome,” he said, mild as wine. “You killed in the wastelands. Men with no homes. Fathers. You called it a favor to the city.”
The prisoner spat. “Trash. I cleaned your gutters.”
Mirel’s fingers went cold. The words hit like a boot to the ribs. He heard winter nights and the sound of a woman crying into her coat. He saw a boy pressed to stone while the earth was still wet around a new grave.
Kylix’s palm settled at the small of his back. “Stand,” he murmured.
Mirel stood.
“Which is it going to be, Mirel?” Milanov asked. “Mercy. Or balance.”
The room went quiet. Heat walked the walls. The fire cracked once in the grate and held.
Mirel couldn’t make his throat work. He stared at the man’s hands. Thick. Scarred. He knew those hands. He had seen them lift a drunk by the hair and press his face to the pond until the bubbles stopped. He had seen them toss bread in the dirt and stamp it flat.
The prisoner grinned, yellow teeth bright in the light. “Him? That grave-rat? You want me to bow to him?”
Kylix’s hand left Mirel’s spine. The loss of heat burned. “Show him,” he said, quiet.
Mirel shook his head. “No violence.” His voice came raw. His right eye filmed blue and leaked a tear that froze before it fell.
“Violence,” Milanov repeated, amused. “Only a little. Enough to say welcome.”
Cyprian set his glass down. The ripple didn’t stop until Moargan’s fingers closed over his wrist. Helianth’s smile thinned. Zimeon watched without blinking.
Milanov did not look away from Mirel. “He killed your people,” he said. “He laughed when the children hid.” A beat. “Give them the truth back.”
The prisoner rolled his shoulders and spat again. “Do it, then. I want my freedom.”
“You hear him?” Kylix asked, voice low. “He wants a show.”
Mirel’s chest stuttered. He heard the pond. He heard Gerun’s boots on gravel and the small click that meant wait. He heard his own pulse get loud enough to shame him.
“I can’t,” he said. It came smaller than he meant.
Kylix turned his head, not taking his eyes off Mirel. “You can.”
Something in Mirel tilted. Cold rose fast. His left pupil bled pale. He looked at the man and did not see a man. He saw the empty beds. He saw a tin cup set out for a father who never came home. He saw the bread stamped flat.
“Please,” the prisoner mocked, bowing crooked. “Mercy, Imperial.”
Mirel lifted his hands.
The guards laughed. The sound cut off.
“I said balance,” Milanov murmured.
Two Luminary kicked the prisoner to his knees. Shackles clanged. His breath came sharp and mean.
Mirel stepped once. His fingers opened.
“Let’s give him a show,” the prisoner hissed, eyes bright with hate. “Come on, frostling.”
Mirel’s second eye went blue. Frost touched the pupils and held.
“Good,” Kylix said, very soft.
