Page 43 of Burning Ice
Outside their hover car, Cyprian and Moargan were already waiting. Cyprian smiled the moment he saw him and pulled Mirel into a quick hug. “I’m so happy you’re here,” he said, warmth breaking through his usual composure. When he turned, his gaze brushed the direction of the graveyard in the distance, and he shuddered. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”
Kylix glanced at them, his voice cool again. “We should go in.”
The courtyard air hit cooler than expected. Sunlight fractured on the metal of the hover car, scattering faint reflections across Kylix’s jacket. Vandor’s men moved in quiet precision, boots clipping the stone. For a second, Mirel almost turned, almost ran, just to feel space again, but then Kylix’s shadow crossed him. His hand brushed the small of Mirel’s back, a fleeting touch that steadied and warned in the same breath.
“Inside,” he said.
The door opened with a hydraulic sigh. The scent of metal and smoke followed them in. Heat pooled between them as the doors sealed, the hum of engines blending with Mirel’s pulse.
The ride was silent. Frost gathered on the hover car’s windows, melting in streaks as they crossed the morning district. The city moved around them, vendors setting up, guards changing shift, lights still burning from the night before. Mirel watched it all, the rhythm of lives that had gone on without him.
Kylix sat beside him, still as flame behind glass. Smoke curled from the cigarette between his fingers, scenting the air with spice and ash. Their arms brushed once when the car turned. The contact sent a flicker of heat through Mirel that he couldn’t hide. Moargan’s voice drifted from the front, calm and amused, Cyprian answering with a quiet laugh, but the space beside him stayed heavy. Mirel could feel Kylix’s gaze even when it wasn’t on him, like warmth waiting to burn.
The Hospital of the Living Dead was white. The floors, the walls, the uniforms. The air smelled bleached and old. Machinery hummed through the hall, steady and cold. The air felt too clean, too still, and he shivered despite the warmth outside.
Mirel had watched this place for years from the other side of the gate, his chest twisting each time, half with dread, half with hope that someday he might walk through it. Many times, he had imagined what it would look like from the inside. Never like this.
The marble reflected them as they walked. Mirel caught his reflection beside Kylix’s, his pale face next to the Imperial Prince’s darker one, and wondered if this was what belonging looked like. Four silhouettes moving as one. Outside, the courtyard was rimmed with frost though the morning was warm. Engines hummed low. Guards waited at attention.
Moargan flicked a cigarette away before they entered. “You still owe me that drink.”
“Later,” Kylix said.
Cyprian hooked his arm through Mirel’s. “Come on, brother, let’s go and meet our mother. I remember how nervous I was the first time I came here. The guards wouldn’t let me in. I got arrested.”
Mirel glanced at him, forcing the words out. “How did you get in then?”
Cyprian laughed, a blush rising as he nodded toward Moargan. “Because of him. My bonded.”
Moargan grinned. “All the things you wouldn’t be able to do without me.”
Cyprian rolled his eyes, but his smile was filled with affection.
Mirel met Kylix’s gaze for a breath, something fierce and unspoken flaring in his chest before he looked away.
They stopped at the very end of the corridor.
The corridor narrowed there, ceiling lower, light harsher. A nurse passed them without lifting her gaze, shoes whispering over marble. Mirel’s pulse quickened. Each step sounded louder than the last, as if the hospital itself was listening. Frost whispered over the glass panels and melted as he breathed.
He caught his reflection again beside Kylix’s. The contrast was sharp, dark heat beside pale frost, two halves of something neither could name. The thought unsettled him. For the first time since his capture, he wondered what the others saw when they looked at them together. Protector and prisoner? Or something far less simple.
“You’re not alone. She’ll know you.” Cyprian’s hand reached, steady. Mirel let their fingers touch.
They went in.
The room opened wide and white, the light falling thin through small windows that looked out onto the graveyard. Mirel froze at the sight. He realized he had lived all this time just beneath her window. If he tried hard enough, he could almost picture his few belongings scattered between the stones. His tarp roof, the ribbon he’d used to tie it down. A tremor passed through him as he imagined it from her view, his small, hidden life beneath her silence.
The other Wastelanders came to mind. Their faces. Their laughter over scraps of firelight. Would they notice he was gone?Would they miss him? The thought pressed at him, fragile and strange, like remembering another version of himself he had already begun to lose. His gaze drifted to the bed in the corner, stark and white against the wall, the sheets pulled tight. For a long breath he simply stared, the sight pulling at something deep and uncertain inside him.
Celia Fandi slept beneath that window. Black hair spread on the pillow. Breath thin. The room smelled of antiseptic and a faint soap
he could not name. Mirel hesitated at the threshold, his chest tightening at how small she looked beneath the sheets. She seemed fragile enough to vanish if he breathed too loud, and the thought made his throat ache.
Mirel stood and watched. Years of fear and want climbed his throat. He tried to breathe, but the sound felt too loud for the room. His chest hurt from holding it in. Every dream he’d ever had of her seemed to press behind his ribs at once, fighting for air.
They stepped closer together.
Celia’s lashes fluttered. Her eyes opened. Blue, wet.
