Page 70 of Burning Ice
19
Heat still clung to him when he woke. The air smelled of smoke and the faint trace of Noir Bloom, the soap Kylix used. Mirel drew a sharp breath.
“Kylix?”
No answer. The room was still warm, the dark heavy with last night’s heat. For a moment he thought the bed shifted, a hand on his shoulder, but it was only the ghost of a dream. He’d been searching through frost and smoke, calling Kylix’s name, always just one breath too late.
He rolled to his side, wincing as his back stretched. The skin there still burned. Sitting up, he pressed a hand to his thigh and scrubbed his face until his breathing slowed. His body remembered Kylix’s weight, the way heat had pinned him. The dream clung to him, cold soil and silence, the graveyard where he’d once been nothing but frost and hunger. He blinked toward the curved glass, chest tightening as memory slid against what had followed.
The water pipes ticked in the walls. Dust hung in the early light. He moved through the room slow, half afraid to find it empty. Kylix’s coat was gone; the air still smelled faintly ofsmoke. The sheets kept the shape of his body, memory refusing to fade.
On the table, a faint shimmer breathed across the curved wall. Letters formed in light, thin gold lines tracing his name before fading, then returning again like breath on glass.
Report called me to the main wing. Don’t wait up. I’ll collect you after your classes. – K
The glow dimmed, leaving a trace of warmth where the words had been, as if Kylix’s presence still lingered in the air. Mirel stood by the glass a long time after reading the message. The frost marks had faded, but his name still seemed written there. He pressed his palm to the surface, half expecting the light to answer. Nothing moved. The silence of the room pressed in.
He thought of Kylix’s voice, of the rough sound when patience thinned, the way it always dropped just before a command. It left a hollow in his chest he couldn’t name.
He swung his legs over the side, steadying himself before standing. His body still ached from last night, as though Kylix’s hands had left a map beneath his skin. He moved to the washroom. The shower was quick, heat cutting through the soreness in his muscles. He flinched once, then let it rinse him clean. When he finished, he toweled dry and reached for the uniform folded on the shelf. A clean shirt, plain jacket, black trousers. He buttoned it slowly, careful with each movement, as if order could steady him.
The room still held Kylix’s heat, the ghost of a hand pressed to air. He checked the door once more, not for the lock but for habit, the way a runner tests a knee after a bad fall. On the glass, the last smear of his name faded to nothing. He touched the place anyway. The cold didn’t answer. It didn’t need to.
His multi-slate blinked.
Cyprian: Hey brother, how are you? Archer’s making tiganos again. I’ll pick you up in ten. Come join us.
He read it twice. The wordbrotherfelt strange in his mouth. In the old Helian tongue it would have beenDavon-tus.Geron had taught him that once, back when the graveyard was still home. It had meant more than family. All of that was gone now. The graves, the roof, the quiet years.
He typed back quickly.
Mirel: I’d love to.
The seat vibrated under him as the hovercar lifted. The city below ran in bands of silver and gold. Cyprian talked, hands moving, voice alive with details. Mirel listened more than he answered. He liked the sound. It filled the space that used to be silence.
The car slowed near Umbral Park, not far from the academy. Cyprian nodded toward the view beyond the pane. “Archer lives close to the academy. That’s why I stayed with him when I first came here. I don’t anymore, but it was a good beginning.”
Archer waited at the building entrance, sleeves rolled, sunlight in his hair. “Well, look who finally shows up for breakfast,” he said. “Good thing I made extra or you’d be stuck with crumbs.”
Cyprian clapped his shoulder. “Be nice.”
“I am nice. Get upstairs before Helianth eats the proofing dough.”
Mirel blinked. “Helianth’s here?”
Cyprian laughed. “The cat. Not the prince.”
They climbed the narrow stair, the scent of oil and sugar thickening as they rose. Music drifted from somewhere above, and warmth wrapped around them before they even reached the door. The space opened in gold and spice, sugar in the air, coffee brewing. The cat padded across the counter, tail flicking, gold eyes bright.
Archer moved like he measured time in grams, flour, oil, heat. The cat threaded between ankles, claiming the kitchen with small, silent decrees. Sugar kissed the pan and went amber at the edges. Cyprian talked with his hands, knocking a spoon, catching it without looking. Mirel listened and let the noise settle inside him, a sound that wasn’t survival but something gentler, like learning where to put a cup so it wouldn’t rattle.
The pan hissed when Archer dropped the dough. Sugar smoked on the edge. Light from the window caught a glass jar, turning the kitchen gold. The cat’s tail brushed Mirel’s ankle. He didn’t move, he liked the warmth of it.
Archer poured the coffee himself, steady and precise. Steam rose between them. Cyprian reached for a jar of honey and drizzled some into Mirel’s cup without asking. “He takes it sweet,” he said. The small gesture made something tighten behind Mirel’s ribs.
Archer slid a plate closer. “More?”
“Please.”
