Page 7 of Burning Ice
Panic moved before men did. The air tightened. Heat threaded the lanes without torchlight. Oil and leather breathed where moss should’ve been. Whispers passed through the tents. A child began to cry and was quickly hushed, the scavengers stirring as if they too had caught the signal.
Mirel pressed his shoulders to the wall, rope creaking against the tarp. His heart kicked once, then harder. Dread replaced panic, thick and cold. They’d come back. Not for bread. For him. Recognition had burned the moment he was seen. They’d seen him. They wouldn’t stop.
He could still feel the weight of their eyes from the arena, how the crowd had looked at prey and called it sport. Now the same hunger breathed through the dark. Every shadow in Helion carried a watcher.
Mirel pulled tighter into the corner, knees tucked, forehead pressed to bone-white stone. Breath burned in his throat, loud to his own ears, and still he tried to choke it down. The noises stretched long around him. Boots that might not have been there. Cloth rasping stone. A cough cut short. He kept lowering his head so his breath wouldn’t show. If they lifted the tarptonight, he wouldn’t scream, but every part of him already trembled with the waiting.
The graveyard held its breath. Somewhere metal scraped stone. From where he’d gone to ground, Geron’s voice carried low across the stones. “Quiet now.” A warning whispered from the dark. “They’re closer.”
Mirel swallowed hard. The bread crust dug into his palm, damp with sweat. He wanted to ask who’d come, but his throat wouldn’t risk the sound. If they caught him, he knew what waited. Chains, a cell, maybe worse. No one walked back from being taken. And worse than chains was the fate every citizen feared most, to be thrown into the Aureate, fed as prey for spectacle. To end up as food while the crowd roared.
The scavengers knew too. Tarps stiffened, shadows curled back. A child whimpered, hushed with a hand. Someone whispered, “They’re here,” barely louder than breath. Dogs barked once, then nothing. The graveyard spoke in silence, and silence meant danger.
The air shifted. Wind cut colder through the stones, and beneath it came a flicker of heat that didn’t belong, a breath of heat sliding against his lungs. Mirel froze, the bread crust still in his hand. For a moment he held it halfway to his mouth, then slowly tucked it back into the tin with the crackers, movements careful, deliberate, as though the air itself watched. His pulse hammered so hard it drowned the whispers, a pounding that felt loud enough to betray him. He pressed himself tighter into shadow, every muscle listening, trembling.
Boots pressed against gravel, measured and patient. The air burned hotter with each step, resin, smoke, pressed leather.
Then, a guard’s, too loud. “Clear the tarps.”
Another, eager. “Check the gaps.”
Mirel pressed his forehead harder into the stone and prayed the headstones would stay standing between him and the firehe felt coming. A hush of ice crept along his fingers without his bidding, thin frost spidering over stone, trembling with his breath. He curled his hands into fists, hiding the pale gleam against his palms. Too tired, too hungry, too worn down to stop it, and yet too afraid to let it show. The frost was his pulse now, the only thing left that still obeyed him.
The air smelled of iron, dogs whined low, and dread thickened, heavy as frost.
Then a voice cut the silence, velvet and cruel. “Come out, little thief. Come out and play.”
The sound froze him. It wasn’t just command, it was beauty sharpened to threat. It was the voice that visited him during lonely nights.
But dreams weren’t always meant to be reality. Not in this case.
Terror rose first, cold and clean, but beneath it something darker pulled into the same fascination that had made him watch from shadows, too hungry for the sight he feared.
He pressed his forehead to the stone. His heart kicked hard, not only with fear but with recognition.
The boots came closer, striking gravel slow and sure, unhurried, deliberate, as if the whole graveyard belonged to him. Mirel’s chest locked, his breath ragged, the sound pressed deeper than his heartbeat. Closer. Always closer.
A low hum followed, dark with satisfaction. “I hear you. So this is where you’re hiding.”
Shadows tightened, scavengers holding their breath. Gasps broke the stillness when they heard the threat, fear thickening in the dark. Mirel trembled, every nerve lit with terror.
“I’ll catch you slow. I’ll drag you from the stones, put you on your knees, make you beg before the crowd.”
Soldiers stalked between tarps, one boot kicking a pot aside, another hand yanking canvas loose so cold air rushed in. A loafrolled into mud and was stamped flat under a heel. Laughter cracked sharp, cruel, as they dragged shadows longer with their lamps.
Mirel pressed flatter between two leaning headstones, knees tucked, shoulders scraping stone. His mind spiraled, stomach hollowing.
This was the man he watched from shadows, the face every story named, and he promised to kill him. He saw himself dragged into the arena, the roar of strangers above, his body offered as food for their spectacle. His pulse thrashed so loud it filled the dark. Terror locked his throat as the boots drew closer, each step closing around him, breath he couldn’t escape.
“You know what they do to prey in the Aureate. That’s what waits if you make me come find you.”
Mirel pressed flat, trembling, but the thought cut sharper than fear. If he stayed hidden, they’d tear through the graveyard until someone else paid the price, the scavengers, the children, Geron’s people. They’d suffer for him. And they’d find him anyway. The weight of it clenched inside his chest, anger sparking through the dread. His pulse surged hot, and frost licked sudden and sharp along his palm, a hush of ice that answered terror with defiance.
“And when I do, you’ll thank me for choosing you first.” The words rolled slow, obscene, breath against skin.
Mirel’s breath came ragged, his mind screaming to stay small, but another voice inside him whispered louder.Better me than them.He forced the thought into shape, bracing himself, knowing there was no hiding forever. If he stayed, others would bleed for him. If he rose, at least the choice was his.
The night closed in around the graves, the boots drawing nearer, laughter still echoing. Mirel straightened inch by inch, thin and shaking, his fists curled to hide the frost. Every musclewanted to collapse, yet his mind fixed on one truth. He’d face his tormentor, not cower from him. He drew a breath, lips parting?—
