Chapter 13 #2
The word sat heavy in his chest, pulsing once, twice, like something alive that had waited years to be spoken.
Zimeon kept talking, about success rates and outcomes, but Mirel listened to his own heartbeat. It sounded wrong. Too strong, too deliberate, like it didn’t belong to him. His fingertips ached, stings blooming where blood met cold. The ice wanted out. It always did when he was afraid.
Heat brushed his back. It was Kylix’s hand, steadying. It should have calmed him. It didn’t. It only reminded him how different they were. Fire born perfect. Frost made in a lab.
Memory cut clean. The house he’d grown up in, too clean for laughter.
The foster mother who left food outside his door and never stayed.
The small bedroom that locked from the outside.
The way people’s breath changed when they realized he never got sick, never shivered, never fit.
He had been the boy they kept for the subsidy, not the son they wanted.
He saw the morning they sent him away, how the air froze around the car and cracked the glass. They called him dangerous, temperature wrong, and drove until there were no more houses. After that came the graveyard, the tarps, the silence that finally accepted him.
“So we were made,” he said. The words came raw, a voice unused. “Not born.”
Milanov smiled, pleased. “You were refined.”
Refined. The word turned his stomach. It made what they’d done sound elegant, almost merciful, when it had cost him every human thing.
Across the room, Cyprian’s glass trembled. The sound was small but sharp enough to cut the quiet. Moargan caught his wrist, but Cyprian didn’t look down. His gaze stayed on Mirel.
“No,” Mirel whispered, though he wasn’t sure which part he denied. The word, the fate, the map under his skin. “Does it ever stop?”
Zimeon tilted his head. “The calling? No. The body remembers where it was made.”
The answer sank deep. The Dariux wasn’t a serum. It was memory written into flesh, a map pointing home no matter how far one ran.
Frost cracked faintly at his knuckles. He started to wipe it away, but Kylix caught his hand and held it still. Heat folded over the cold. For a breath they balanced, trembling but unbroken.
“That,” Milanov said softly, watching their hands, “is what the Dariux intended. Fire and frost, opposites made to complete the same equation.”
Mirel couldn’t tell if it was praise or prophecy. The warmth began to hurt. He didn’t know if he wanted to pull away or lean closer.
He looked at his hands. Touched his face. He’d always known he was different. A monster. He had abilities he shouldn’t have. Because he’d been injected with them. It was a lot. "More Dariux have ice?"
Milanov shook his head. "So far, you are the only one. But we have found that all Dariux have certain gifts in common. Can you see in the dark, Mirel?"
Mirel shook his head, then hesitated. He’d always been the one guiding the other Wastelanders back to the graveyard after the sun had set.
Milanov looked amused. "Over the past centuries, the Imperial family has become the perfect type of predator to keep the balance between right and wrong, artificially insinuated.
We have become the heroes our people need.
And although they have been kept in the dark as to how we have obtained those skills, they love them.
Love us. Because they need to be kept in line. "
"Are there m-more babies?" Mirel managed.
Zimeon shook his head. "We had to stop after one group of babies all died after having been injected. The drop went wrong. Cyprian was part of that group, but he miraculously survived."
Mirel’s lips parted in shock. The horror of the truth only trickled slowly to his awareness, but every drop felt like poison. He turned to Cyprian. Words didn’t come.
Milanov looked at Mirel, voice low. "You will learn this, frostling. To rule is to cage what wants to consume. The people will love you as much as they will fear you. You were born to rule."
Kylix felt Mirel tremble again. His heartbeat quickened, heavy and deliberate, each pulse thudding against his ribs. Heat climbed under his skin, the scent of fear sharp and electric in the air. The Dariux in him stirred, responding to that fear like it was a language only they shared.
"Do your incisors itch when you see violence? Giving you that strange sensation that you enjoy it?"
Mirel frowned in disgust. His right eye turned glassy. He squeezed them both, preventing the ice from pouring out. "No."
The others chuckled around him. Kylix’s hand on his thigh squeezed tighter, making his chest flutter and his arousal increase. Mirel licked his teeth. His temperature dropped.
No.
"Cruelty, pretty frostling. Aviel, light the fire."
Mirel shook his head, looked away. His stomach had swooped at the word.
"Certainly." The man, who had curls as black as the night and eyes molten with fire, stirred up the fire with both gift and poke. Next to him stood the prisoner whose life Cyprian had saved during his Aureate. He recognized the blond curls and large blue eyes. He was chained to the wall. Wasn’t his name Theo? Their eyes met for the faintest second. Mirel couldn’t help but feel pity.
The scent of opium thickened. The puffers released more vapor until the edges of the room blurred.
The air pressed soft against his face, sweet with wine and smoke.
Mirel’s focus wavered. He caught Helianth’s laugh, Moargan’s low reply, the scrape of Milanov’s ring against glass.
The sounds stacked like notes without melody.
Kylix’s hand stayed at his back, steady and hot, reminding him he wasn’t free.
When Milanov stood, the movement broke the haze. Every voice stopped.
"Violence."
"N-no."
Zimeon cocked his head. "No what, Mirel?"
"No violence." His eye had frosted entirely, leaking tears that froze halfway.
Milanov smiled. His eyes flared. "My winter boy. You are magnificent. Even in your silence. Now, no more questions. Kylix, is Mirel the one you wish to claim?"
Next to him, he felt Kylix tense. "He is, uncle."
Milanov nodded. "Then it shall be done. Mirel Fandi. Son of Ludo Fandi. Killer of Ludo Fandi. You have been claimed by my nephew, Kylix Zephyranth."
Mirel’s ears rang. Fear climbed his spine like ice he fought to hold back. Cold and merciless. A claiming. What did that mean?
"N-no pain," he managed.
"No pain, Mirel," Zimeon confirmed. "But we owe you an apology. Before I begin, tell us, where were you all this time? Where did you grow up?"
"Varethis." Mirel looked down at his palm. Remnants of blood and ice carved his skin where he’d dug his nails into flesh. "Graveyard."
"The graveyard?" Aviel wanted to know. "In Varethis, or here?"
"I—" No other words came out.
"Here," Kylix finished for him.
Milanov got out of his chair. "Very well. I’ll hold a press conference, confirming the event. Then we’ll hold the ceremony here and throw a party afterwards. How does that sound?"
"Great, Uncle." Kylix’s hand dragged up to the inside of Mirel’s thigh.
Mirel’s breath caught. His heart hammered in his chest. His skin felt sensitive. His throat locked.
"Then let’s give us a show, Mirel. A symbolic welcome to your roots." Milanov raised a hand. "Bring in the prisoner."
The far doors opened with a hiss. Chains scraped marble. Iron scented the air.
A single prisoner stumbled in. Purple prison cloth torn. Face split and swelling. His breathing was ragged, a hard rattle that didn’t stop. Two guards jerked him forward and fixed his shackles to the floor rings.
Aviel tightened the leash in his hand. Theo flinched against his chest. The puffers thickened the air until the edges of the room went soft.
Milanov circled once, cloak brushing the stone. “Welcome,” he said, mild as wine. “You killed in the wastelands. Men with no homes. Fathers. You called it a favor to the city.”
The prisoner spat. “Trash. I cleaned your gutters.”
Mirel’s fingers went cold. The words hit like a boot to the ribs. He heard winter nights and the sound of a woman crying into her coat. He saw a boy pressed to stone while the earth was still wet around a new grave.
Kylix’s palm settled at the small of his back. “Stand,” he murmured.
Mirel stood.
“Which is it going to be, Mirel?” Milanov asked. “Mercy. Or balance.”
The room went quiet. Heat walked the walls. The fire cracked once in the grate and held.
Mirel couldn’t make his throat work. He stared at the man’s hands. Thick. Scarred. He knew those hands. He had seen them lift a drunk by the hair and press his face to the pond until the bubbles stopped. He had seen them toss bread in the dirt and stamp it flat.
The prisoner grinned, yellow teeth bright in the light. “Him? That grave-rat? You want me to bow to him?”
Kylix’s hand left Mirel’s spine. The loss of heat burned. “Show him,” he said, quiet.
Mirel shook his head. “No violence.” His voice came raw. His right eye filmed blue and leaked a tear that froze before it fell.
“Violence,” Milanov repeated, amused. “Only a little. Enough to say welcome.”
Cyprian set his glass down. The ripple didn’t stop until Moargan’s fingers closed over his wrist. Helianth’s smile thinned. Zimeon watched without blinking.
Milanov did not look away from Mirel. “He killed your people,” he said. “He laughed when the children hid.” A beat. “Give them the truth back.”
The prisoner rolled his shoulders and spat again. “Do it, then. I want my freedom.”
“You hear him?” Kylix asked, voice low. “He wants a show.”
Mirel’s chest stuttered. He heard the pond. He heard Gerun’s boots on gravel and the small click that meant wait. He heard his own pulse get loud enough to shame him.
“I can’t,” he said. It came smaller than he meant.
Kylix turned his head, not taking his eyes off Mirel. “You can.”
Something in Mirel tilted. Cold rose fast. His left pupil bled pale. He looked at the man and did not see a man. He saw the empty beds. He saw a tin cup set out for a father who never came home. He saw the bread stamped flat.
“Please,” the prisoner mocked, bowing crooked. “Mercy, Imperial.”
Mirel lifted his hands.
The guards laughed. The sound cut off.
“I said balance,” Milanov murmured.
Two Luminary kicked the prisoner to his knees. Shackles clanged. His breath came sharp and mean.
Mirel stepped once. His fingers opened.
“Let’s give him a show,” the prisoner hissed, eyes bright with hate. “Come on, frostling.”
Mirel’s second eye went blue. Frost touched the pupils and held.
“Good,” Kylix said, very soft.
Frost erupted, sudden and absolute, swallowing sound and breath alike. And then, everything shattered.