Page 22 of Burning Ice
Mirel stopped. Turned his head toward the doorway. He had seen the elegant washroom before, its mirror walls, the white sink, but the tub had never been used.
“What…?” The word scraped out, rough from disuse.
“You need a wash, little ghost. We’re going out later.”
Out.
The word struck cold. The hair at the back of his neck lifted.
So this was it. The moment Kylix was done with him. He would be dragged into the arena, set loose for sport, his death another spectacle.
Wrong.
Always wrong.
A mistake that made frost instead of words.
“I—”
Kylix raised a hand. “Enough. We don’t have all night.”
Mirel turned toward the bathroom. The chain weighed heavy on his wrists. He reached for the tap, fingers stiff, and watched the steam rise as water began to fill the tub.
“Starlit resin or noir bloom?”
The voice came from behind him again. When he looked back, Kylix stood in the doorway, a bar of each soap in his hands, patient, waiting.
“Uhm.” Both bars looked strange. Each scent would be stranger. Dark soap, shot with gold.
“Sweet, or sweeter?” Kylix’s smile sharpened.
“S-sweet,” Mirel stammered.
“Excellent. Starlit resin it is.” He dropped the bar into the water. He unlatched the floor chain and fixed it to the ring beside the tub. Short range only. “Get undressed. I’ll look away.”
Mirel watched the soap dissolve, gold flecks swirling in slow circles. Bubbles rose, pale and sweet. They would hide him well enough.
He unbuttoned the jumpsuit, folded it once, and stepped into the heat.
Good Light.
The water closed around him, rich and soft. It seeped into bone, into breath. He inhaled the scent and felt tears burn at the edge of his eyes.
It had been years since he’d bathed like this. Back at his foster home there had been a single shower for eight. Quick, cold, shared.
Once, he must have been six or seven, his mother had taken him to a public pool. The water had been warm. He remembered floating, weightless.
This felt the same. A pool of light and quiet.
When he opened his eyes, Kylix was sitting beside the tub, watching.
“I still wonder why you’re so quiet,” Kylix said. “If it’s stubbornness, or fear. Or something else.”
He dipped the cloth, wrung it once, and pressed it to Mirel’s throat.
Goosebumps rose, even in the heat. Mirel swallowed. Kylix traced the motion with the damp cloth, slow, deliberate.
“I still don’t know who you are,” Kylix said. “I know what you are. Do you?”
