Page 53 of Burning Ice
"Good."
They reached the doors. Light from the hall bled around the frame. Mirel’s knees wanted to fold. Kylix steadied him, a hand at his spine, heat holding him upright.
"Easy," Kylix said. "Almost done."
Mirel nodded once. The air smelled of smoke and frost and the faint, red taste of cinders.
They stepped into the hall.
Mirel let himself be led. The marble underfoot was damp and slick, the air sweet, the light too gold. As they moved, conversation tried to pretend it had never stopped. Someone laughed too brightly. Someone sighed like a song.
At the threshold, he glanced back once. The floor shone where the ice had run, and for a heartbeat he saw himself in that wet reflection, small, pale, two different eyes. Then the reflection broke under someone’s step, and he was only a boy again, shaking in a palace where trees were planted for children and graves had no names.
Kylix squeezed his hand, hard enough to anchor. "Easy," he said, but he sounded elated, unhinged, drunk on the heat of what had happened.
Mirel’s chest rose and fell. The ache answered, slow. He wished it would fade. He wished it wouldn’t.
As the doors opened and the sweeter corridor air met them, warmth bled in from the hall lamps, less perfume, more light, the world trying to pretend it was ordinary again. Kylix’s stride loosened, elation vibrating under his skin, while Mirel walked beside him in silence, caught between exhaustion and something hungrier. The music behind them dimmed to a murmur.
A Luminary guard hurried after them, whispering something that made Kylix pause. From the doorway, Milanov’s voice carried, calm and precise. "Kylix. Tomorrow I'll hold my press conference. It will mark your official claim."
Kylix half turned, firelight playing over his grin. "Thank you, Uncle."
Mirel swayed as they crossed the threshold. Each step was a tremor of exhaustion. The world seemed to tilt, only Kylix’s arm around his waist kept him upright. Behind them, the hum of voices swelled and faded. The scent of smoke and frost followed them into the corridor, thinning into nothing as they disappeared down the long hall.
15
“Tired.” Mirel clung to Kylix as he half-carried him out of the hover car and inside the estate. Doors hissed shut behind them. Guards stepped aside without questions, boots echoing faintly against the marble.
“I know, little ghost.” Kylix watched him. Mirel’s hands wouldn’t go still, the tremor running like a current beneath the pale skin. Two temperatures argued inside him. Kylix saw Mirel glance at his reflection on the floor, steadying himself before taking another breath.
“You’re still cold,” Kylix murmured, steadying him. “Come. I’ll fix it.”
He guided Mirel through a side arch, his hand firm at the small of his back. The air thickened with light as they entered. The chamber curved like a tear, its walls threaded with faint amber veins. Copper ran inlaid along the floor in a narrow loop. When Kylix pressed his palm to a copper plate, the metal warmed first, then the air, a clean rise in temperature that answered his heat signature.
“W-what is that?” Mirel asked.
“Thermal resonance. The house corrects imbalance. It listens to pulse and intent.”
A vibration rolled beneath their feet, alive and soft. The light found Mirel, rippling over his sleeves, seeping through the fabric until the frost evaporated in silver threads.
“It knows what we are,” Kylix said. “It can taste what we’ve done.” He watched as the light traced the curve of Mirel’s throat and the trembling in his hands. The sight caught him off guard, fascination cutting through the discipline he carried like armor. He could see how precise the frost had been, how deliberate. The memory of it lingered. The way Mirel had stood still under the eyes of Milanov, the calm of a predator made into grace. The act had not been chaos but creation, every motion quiet and exact. Kylix felt the echo of it under his own skin, a rare tremor of awe. It was beautiful. Cruel, yes, but clean. A kill shaped like devotion.
Kylix’s coat came off in silence. Cuffs undone. Sleeves rolled. Every movement controlled, measured. Predatory ease dressed as calm.
“You were magnificent today.” Kylix took their coats and led Mirel to the kitchen. “The precision. The way power took shape in your hands. Do you know how rare that is? To make death look deliberate? It’s the kind of grace that stirs every Dariux instinct I have.”
The scent of warm bread and fruit filled the kitchen air. “You’ll eat, then rest.”
The vents carried steady warmth. A kettle clicked off. Kylix slid bread to him and set fruit within reach, then a lighter beside the two glasses. He watched Mirel’s hands stop shaking one bite at a time.
Whatever defiance Mirel had vanished as soon as he saw the food. He stared at it with flared nostrils, clearly starved.
“Sit.”
Mirel didn’t sit.
Kylix caught his wrist, thumb circling the scar where the multi-slate once lived. He’d need to get his chosen one anotheras soon as possible. His other hand stayed at Mirel’s throat a moment longer, feeling the rise of every swallow. Measuring. Marking. The tremor changed shape beneath his touch. Mirel gasped as he trapped his lower lip with his teeth. Kylix savored the moment.
