Page 5 of Burning Ice
Vandor hesitated. “Sir?—”
“Now.”
The soldiers shifted into motion, boots scraping against gravel as several fell back toward the gate. A few remained where the fog was thickest, black silhouettes half-swallowed by the dark. Their armor caught the faint light, glinting like small fires between the stones. Only Vandor stayed at Kylix’s side, silent and watchful.
They moved deeper between the stones. Fog swirled at their boots. Rats darted across gravel. A broken lantern swung from a bent pole, its cracked glass scattering the light.
A voice rose among the graves, thin as wire. “You’re not welcome here,” an old woman hissed, clutching a bundle close.
Kylix stopped. “Then you should have locked the gates.”
A few of the guards chuckled, low and uneasy. The sound died quickly when Kylix’s gaze cut toward them.
The woman flinched, eyes wide and hollow. She didn’t answer. The fog folded over her again, swallowing the sound.
Kylix brushed his fingers along a headstone. Dew slicked the surface, cold and smooth. Beneath his palm the stone trembled faintly, warning or promise, he couldn’t tell.
The graves whispered. The sound was too low to be wind. He couldn’t tell if it came from the living or from the dead.
Vandor’s hand drifted toward his weapon. “Sir, civilians.”
Shapes crouched behind markers, blankets pulled tight, eyes wide with fear and curiosity as the Luminary passed. Their breaths fogged in the dark.
“Stay back,” Vandor warned them.
Kylix’s eyes tracked a shadow moving just beyond reach. A flicker of gold between stones. Gone before he turned.
He straightened, the cold now deep enough to burn. “I don’t know what you are, thief,” he said quietly. “But something tells me you belong to me.”
Vandor’s shoulders tensed, but he said nothing.
The fog pressed close. Even the rats had gone still. Somewhere, a bell clanged once, distant and hollow, like a warning sent too late. Kylix moved forward, slow, the crunch of gravel sharp beneath his boots. Between the graves, shadows shifted. Human shapes, half-seen, scattered as he came. Their whispers broke and vanished into the mist.
“Sir,” Vandor said behind him, voice low. “We should turn back.”
Kylix didn’t answer. His gaze caught on a mark across one of the stones. It was a faint handprint, glimmering pale against the dark. Ice clung there, thin as breath, melting even as he watched.
“So here’s where you’re hiding?” He murmured to himself.
The air thickened. His Dariux flared without command. Heat burst behind his ribs, flooding outward until the veins under his skin lit faint gold. Hunger pooled through his insides, sharp and endless. The pull was no longer distance. It was presence.
“Yes. Here you are.” His mouth curved, slow and certain, a predator’s smile. He lifted a hand, signaling the guards to hold formation. “Men, let’s find our thief.”
He stepped closer, drawn to the dying frost. The ache in his chest deepened until it hurt to breathe, but the pain felt good, like proof that whatever hid here was worth the chase. He could feel it now, the echo of others around them, hidden in the dark.
He smiled into the night, voice low and satisfied. “Run while you can.”
2
Graveyard air carried the weight of stone and damp earth.
Mirel stumbled in, panting hard, sweat slicking his temples where strands of tarnished gold hair clung. Bread was still clutched in his fist, the crust crushed, his knuckles white around it. His knees shook so badly he almost went down among the tilted stones, chest heaving, ribs straining with every breath. His throat burned from the cold air he dragged too fast. His calves knotted with ache. His hands trembled.
Exhaustion dragged at him, weakness crawling through his legs. He sank lower into shadow, crouching between the stones, his chest tight around a pull that would not break. Fireworks muttered from the city, ash drifting down in gray flecks. Snatches of chant and drumbeat rode the wind, faint and far, the Aureate celebration dragging on in light and noise. Here the night was heavier, closer, full of silence.
This was home.
Broken angels, names carved deep and worn smooth, grass gone thin to dirt. He knew where the pond cut cold enough to bite his skin and the wall that bulged outward where a rope held a patchwork tarp to rock, stretched to make a slanting roof. Inside he’d laid strips of cloth over stone for a bed, ablanket folded to soften the ground. A dented tin and a shard of mirror no bigger than his palm sat at his side, poor treasures he guarded. He’d lived here long enough to know the seasons by the moss on the stones and the way the wind changed when the rain came.
