Chapter 7
Ifeel like a traitor as the carriage glides away from the castle. I should hate what this winter has done to Brunemar, what he has done. And yet, shamefully, there is a stark, aching beauty in the desolate ruins of these lands.
Outside the window stretches an endless sweep of ivory, a landscape so pale it seems to swallow the horizon. Snow falls in soft, unbroken curtains, drifting over frozen rivers and settling against towering walls of ice that shimmer and refract the most dazzling blues I have ever seen.
My father used to tell me stories of how green this land once was. Rolling meadows, sunlit glades, flowers so bright they hurt the eyes. I saw none of it myself. Before I was born, the forever winter had already claimed Brunemar.
It cost my family so much.
It cost everyone so much.
And the culprit sits in silence right across from me.
Lord Luceran Frostwyn fills his side of the carriage completely, with broad shoulders brushing the velvet walls, long legs spread so far his knee bumps mine every few minutes with the movement of the wheels.
Each accidental touch sends a small jolt through me, and he crowds me so completely I can’t help but feel it is deliberate.
His hair is sleek today, half tied back to reveal the sharp lines of his face, the rest falling in a smooth, pale curtain over his shoulders.
Sometimes when I risk glancing at him, his gaze meets mine, blue and gold. For a heartbeat, neither of us looks away.
Then he grumbles low in his throat, as if annoyed with the very idea of eye contact, and snaps his attention back to the window, staring at nothing at all.
I pretend I am not breathing too shallowly.I pretend my hands are not sweating inside my gloves.
Up front, the sprites argue in a flurry of high-pitched chirps. One tugging the reins, the other flapping its wings irritably at the falling snow. Their bickering echoes faintly into the carriage, a strange counterpoint to the heavy silence between Luceran and me.
We continue toward the mines, wheels crunching over frozen earth as the world narrows to ice, breath, and the impossible presence of the male sitting across from me. A male I fear, a male I resent, and a male I cannot seem to look away from. Outside the window, the winter deepens.
After what feels like hours rocking through sleet and silence, the carriage crests a rise. I lean forward, squinting through the icy veil that blurs the world to white.
Then I see it. The Aurevault. The greatest Elarium mines in all of Thyros.
They sprawl across the landscape like a scar, massive stone arches thrusting up from the frozen earth, each one rimed with frost and carved with Fae runes.
I cannot tell whether they are meant as a warning or a form of protection.
Beneath them yawns a black entrance, wide enough for five carriages to pass through abreast. Lanterns hang in careful rows along the outer walls, their amber light flickering across the snow and throwing long, eerie shadows into the ice.
I know as much about the Aurevault as most do.
The mine runs deep, descending into the earth in spirals and vast caverns where Luceran’s laborers dig for Elarium.
Most are criminals serving out their sentences, or unfortunate souls who, like me, have debts to pay.
But some come here with no crime to their name and no debt to settle, only the knowledge that there is nowhere else left for them to go.
Elarium is a dense, glittering mineral used in alchemy, spellwork, and the forging of magical artifacts.
Even from here, I can see faint streaks of glowing color threaded through the stone, like veins of trapped lightning.
The ground around the mine pulses with its power, a strange, low hum I can feel even through the carriage floor.
The Fae value it more than gold.
Workers move like shadows at the mine’s entrance, shapes bundled against the cold as their lanterns bob and sway. Every so often, a plume of icy mist rises from the tunnels, magic reacting to the frigid air.
But my gaze is drawn elsewhere.
Past the mine. Past the workers. To the lake.
It lies vast and silver beneath the sky, frozen so completely it resembles a mirror forged of moonlight.
The lake is the heart of Brunemar, visible from nearly everywhere in the region, a constant reminder of both beauty and dread.
Its shoreline is not far from here, close enough that I can see the long, smooth bank rising from the ice, the same bank that curves up behind Luceran’s rose garden.
Even from this distance, it steals my breath. Still. Silent. Bound in winter’s grip and steeped in rumor. The place where Luceran drowned his wife. That froze over not long after. The place whose whispers reached my balcony last night.
A shiver crawls down my arms, and it has nothing to do with the cold.
Luceran shifts opposite me, and I notice he turns his back as we pass by. He does not look at the lake. Not once. That tells me everything.
With a shriek from the sprites, the carriage lurches to an abrupt stop.
I jerk forward, but this time I catch myself before I can tumble into Luceran’s lap again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his arms lift instinctively, as if ready to catch me, only to drop just as quickly when he realizes I will not fall.
Heat rises to my cheeks. I offer an awkward half-smile. He pretends not to notice. Instead, he shoves open the carriage door and steps out with such force it feels as though he cannot put distance between us fast enough.
When he is gone, I release a steadying breath, tug my gloves tighter around my wrists, and pull up the hood of my cloak.
The fur lining brushes my cheeks as I brace myself and step toward the door.
The sprites are already waiting, wings buzzing as they lower the step for me. I nod my thanks and climb down.
The breath I had barely calmed deserts me at once.
I knew it was immense, but this close, the scale of the Aurevault is staggering. A monstrous complex carved into the mountainside, larger than any farm, any castle.
Scattered across the cliffs are hundreds of cabins, clustered together with roofs bowed beneath the weight of snow.
Rope bridges stretch between them, anchored hard into the rock, thin as spider silk and swaying over vast drops.
Just looking at them makes my stomach flip.
How anyone climbs those paths day after day is beyond me.
Certainly not my father. He would never have survived work like this, not in this cold, not with his health. A shiver works through me, and gratitude tightens my throat. Whatever Luceran is, whatever this bargain costs me, it saved my father’s life.
I barely register how long I have been staring until I feel it. Eyes. Hundreds of them.
The miners stand in lines before the entrance, bundled in threadbare furs much like those my father and I wore back home.
Their faces are smeared with metallic dust that glows faintly silver in the weak light.
Picks rest against their shoulders. Their expressions are curiosity, suspicion, and exhaustion all blended together.
Guilt twists in my chest. These are the people who serve Luceran with sweat and blood, the way my father would have, while I have been spared. I sleep in a warm tower instead.
I lower my gaze.
Before the weight of their stares can crush me, Luceran strides into view, and all eyes shift to him at once. His voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding.
“Where is Pax?”
The miners react instantly. Heads drop. Bodies draw inward. A ripple of unease moves through the group as they step back, some retreating so far they nearly press into the cliffside. A shuffling murmur passes through them before the crowd splits down the middle, opening a path.
A single figure strides forward.
He wears the same rough furs as the others, the same dust-streaked clothes, but everything else about him is different.
No hunched shoulders. No hollow stare. He stands tall and broad, his posture straight despite the brutal conditions.
A mane of jet-black hair falls to his shoulders, dusted with snow.
Beneath the smear of shimmering black ore on his skin, I see a strong jawline, fair skin, and hazel eyes that hold a surprising warmth.
Handsome. Unexpectedly so.
My head tilts before I can stop it.
And he is unmistakably human. No faint glow of magic beneath the surface. No pointed ears. Just… a man.
He reaches us and drops to one knee before Luceran, but not before casting me a swift, assessing glance.
“My lord,” he says, voice steady. “Welcome to the Aurevault. What brings you here today?”
“Does it matter?” Luceran replies, clipped and cold. “I visit my mines when I please.”
The man, Pax, nods and rises slowly, keeping his head bowed. Luceran exhales sharply, as if annoyed by the ceremonial politeness.
“But today,” he continues, “I am here because this human is in my service. With our next shipment being the largest of the year, I require everything documented. Weighed. Measured. Triple checked. She will do this. You will show her what she needs to see and tell her what she needs to know.”
Pax’s head lifts a fraction. I catch the flick of his eyes toward me.
“Of course, my lord.” He pauses for a beat and then says, “Does she have a name I may use? Or shall I call her ‘this human’ as well?”
A startled laugh escapes me, small and involuntary.
Luceran’s heavy boot stomps forward, silencing it at once.
He looms over Pax, his height and breadth swallowing the space between them as frost unfurls from his skin in slow, threatening waves.
“Her name,” Luceran says, voice a low vibration, “is Neve. Neve Devlin.”
He speaks it as if it costs him something.
He turns slightly, not quite looking at me, as if eye contact might be too much concession.
“And this is Pax,” he adds. “Foreman of the Aurevault.”
Luceran’s gaze locks back on the human, cold and unblinking.
“For now.”