A Fate So Cold

Chapter I. Domenic

I

DOMENIC

SUMMER

Domenic Barrow didn’t know if he loved magic enough to die for it.

He trudged through the forest, the glow of his wand so feeble he didn’t catch the puddle ahead until his loafer sank deep into mud.

But he didn’t risk feeding the wand more magic.

Already its cheap plywood had begun to splinter, and the grit of its sawdust caked between his fingers, flaking like dead skin.

If he’d known the night would require an expedition, he would’ve packed a spare.

“Would you please just tell me where we’re going?” he asked.

“You promised to keep an open mind,” Hanna said, several paces ahead of him.

“That was before I started to wonder if by ‘intervention’ you meant dragging me out here to murder me.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

“To kidnap me, then?”

“If I’d fancied kidnapping you, you’d already be in the trunk of my car.”

Domenic huffed but didn’t dispute it. After all, nothing about his flimsy training wand resembled the one she carried.

Its pale aspen shaft curled underneath itself like an overgrown fingernail, and the dark knots in the handle looked uncannily like eyes, squinting into the golden radiance of Hanna’s enchantment.

Whereas his wand’s romantic origins began on a conveyor belt, destined only to be drained and discarded—about the furthest thing from real magic, Domenic had always felt—Hanna’s was so ancient to be called an artifact, so powerful to be called notorious, so singular that it even bore a name.

Syarthis.

Syarthis was a Living Wand, an everlasting instrument that bonded to a sole wielder until their death, then passed onto successor after successor—an honor students such as Domenic devoted their lives to attaining.

Of the 536 Living Wands in Alderland, only forty-two did not currently bear a wielder. And, so Domenic suspected, those forty-two wands were the subject of his intervention tonight.

“So,” Hanna drawled, “how’s school going?”

“Spectacular, as always.” For the fifth year running, Domenic had clinched the title of dead bottom of his class.

“Mhm. You still holding your breath for that random old magician to keel over?”

“I wouldn’t—” He cursed as he stumbled over a tree root. “I wouldn’t put it like that.”

“Well, how would you put it?”

Domenic had never been good at phrasing his thoughts into words. He settled with: “I think Octorion would suit me, is all.”

“Then kill him.” After a pause, Hanna chuckled. “Kidding. Kidding.”

Domenic wanted to believe her. And he did—he did.

But Hanna had changed in the five years since she’d bonded with Syarthis and joined the Magicians Order.

Gone was the girl who’d used a faded postcard of Gallamere as a bookmark, who’d insisted their first task upon arrival was hiking up the city’s mountainside to compare the sepia skyline to the real view.

Now Hanna didn’t stop to admire much of anything.

Redness tinged her brown eyes from nights spent poring over moldy parchment.

Her fair skin had gone ashen. Her nails were bitten to their beds, her lips perpetually scabbed, as if she chewed on them past the point of drawing blood.

Of course, wielding Syarthis would change anyone.

“So is that really your plan, to wait for him to die, then wait another year after that?” Hanna asked.

A magician could only bond with a Living Wand on the death day of its previous wielder.

So unless a student was present for that wielder’s final breath—as Hanna had been—another year needed to lapse before testing whether they were a match.

Domenic cringed as he sank into another puddle. His socks were soaked. “There are worse plans.”

“What about Ravfiri? Its vigil is on the twenty-eighth, isn’t it?”

“Ravfiri is volatile.”

“No, Ravfiri is powerful. Those words don’t mean the same thing.”

This wasn’t the first time Hanna had suggested Ravfiri to Domenic—or Pyrrinisus, or Ulthrax, or Quellbarrow. They were all incredible wands, ones many of his peers dreamed of wielding.

But Domenic wasn’t like his peers.

To the young magicians of the Order’s academy, Hanna Mayes was the prodigy and Domenic Barrow the enigma.

His sightings in class were few and far between, but what he did with his spare time, no one could say.

Many considered him lazy. Even more assumed him troubled—not that anyone blamed him for it, of course.

And though his disheveled russet hair and exceptionally freckled fair skin weren’t handsome in the conventional sense, amid a school obsessed with prestige, he had the unique allure of a bad decision—one that, if you believed the gossip, a great many had made.

Before Domenic could muster a response, the forest ended at a cement tunnel in the base of a cliffside. Ropes crisscrossed its entrance, hung with a sign that warned DANGER–KEEP OUT.

While Hanna ducked beneath it, Domenic asked, “What is this place?”

“You’ll see.”

“But the sign … Are we gonna get in trouble for this?”

“Careful. You wouldn’t want to ruin that whole bad-boy thing you’ve got going on.”

“I’m being serious, Hanna.”

“So am I. Do you know how hard it is to keep a straight face when I hear what they say about you? The boy who always carried flowers in his pocket, now apparently arguing with his teachers? Sleeping with half his class? Your reputation suits you less than Octorion.”

Even if Domenic’s persona was exaggerated, he didn’t care.

Anything was better than the alternative.

“Whatever. First you drag me into the woods in the middle of the night. Then you won’t tell me anything.

And now we’re, what, trespassing? Well, I’m done.

I only agreed to this because I never see you anymore.

And if you were ever around, you’d know I’m fine!

I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone’s help. ”

As he spun to storm off, Hanna seized his wrist and twisted him back around to face her.

“I’m sorry I’m never home anymore,” she rasped. “But I worry about you, and—”

“I told you. I’m fine.”

“I know you better than that.”

He wrenched his hand away. “It’s late. I’m going home.”

“Wait. Please, Dom? For me?”

Domenic’s indignation withered, but it didn’t die.

He leaned against a tree, pressed his head against it until the bark bit into the vulnerable meeting point between neck and skull.

It smelled like Summer out here. Real Summer.

Like mountain moss and honeysuckle and whispered secrets that misted the humid air.

Not at all like the sweating asphalt and exhaust fumes he’d grown used to.

“The City of Magic” was Gallamere’s nickname. It didn’t live up to it.

“I swear this will all make sense if you just come with me. If you trust me.” When Domenic still didn’t respond, Hanna rummaged through her pockets until she procured a packet of bubble gum.

She slid out two foiled sticks, opening the first for herself and offering the second to him.

“Are you really gonna make me kidnap you?”

He snatched it and ripped off the wrapper. He chewed unhappily. “Fine.”

They started into the tunnel, the light from their wands shimmering off the damp floor—Syarthis’s a blazing gold, Domenic’s an artificial, almost fluorescent white.

Domenic guessed the tunnel burrowed beneath the city, deep within the mountain.

And indeed, within minutes, a passing subway rumbled overhead, like the tossing and turning of a sleeping giant.

Unable to bear the silence, he asked, “How’s Pritha?”

Hanna glowered.

“What? You mock my love life and I can’t ask about yours?”

“We’re not seeing each other anymore,” she replied curtly. Domenic was disappointed but not surprised. It wasn’t like he was the only one who rarely got to spend time with Hanna.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. She made this weird squeaky sound whenever she sneezed. I hated it.”

“When did you break up?”

“Oh, about six hours ago. It was mutual. Or, it wasn’t at the time, but I’m pissed now, so it feels mutual.”

“Hm. Are you sure this is my intervention?”

At last, the passage concluded at a metal door. With a flick of Syarthis, mechanisms churned within its lock. It creaked open, revealing a corridor of vaulted ceilings and timeworn stone. Iron sconces burned along the walls with motionless flame—enchantments.

Domenic stifled a noise of alarm as he realized their destination: the Vault, the very heart of the Magicians Order, housing all Living Wands without a wielder.

Never had Domenic known anyone to successfully breach it.

After all, it was located thirty floors beneath the Citadel, the Order’s headquarters, which itself was a fortress of towers and wrought iron and over four thousand steps.

And if physical obstacles weren’t enough, the Citadel crawled with magicians at all hours.

Magicians who carried wands that could dismantle a pistol faster than it could fire.

That could summon a lightning strike on a cloudless day, could disintegrate a person into dust.

Not that Hanna, one of the Order’s most influential members, worried about petty things like danger or laws.

I promised her, Domenic reminded himself. I promised her. I promised—

“Halt!” a voice called from ahead. “How did you get in here? This area is off-limits!”

Hanna stiffened—she clearly hadn’t expected company.

Yet as she whirled around, readying Syarthis, it was Domenic who reacted first. He grasped the steady warmth of power in his rib cage, then channeled it into one of the three classes of magic: corporeal magic.

A stunning spell blasted out of his wand in a flash of white.

The guard cried out as it struck him in the chest, and his unconscious body crumpled to the floor.