7. F（ire） and Ice
F(ire) and Ice
ZORA RAVENAL, SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD
SIX YEARS AGO
Teetering at the very top of the peak, I balanced on my snowboard, the Commune far below. Northern lights glowed overhead while the Mist gathered in blue tendrils around tree trunks. The night sky reflected off the white of the Barren Mountain Range, creating the illusion of an endless cosmos.
I inhaled deeply.
The crisp air smelled like freedom.
I leaned forward, plummeting straight down the mountainside, faster than the icy wind. Weaving between fir trees, I jumped. My stomach rose, then dropped.
BAM.
Snow exploded across my goggles, momentarily blinding me.
Tiny notches covered both sides, a mark for every kill I’d made; I’d run out of space years ago.
The dire fox carcass was heavy across my shoulders.
I didn’t need to carry the carcass all the way up the mountain while lugging my snowboard, but hunting made me jittery with existential dread, and today the crushing emotions were worse than usual.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the fear in the fox’s eyes as I’d killed it.
Snowboarding helped me forget.
I ate adrenaline for dinner.
Rule of survival: Enjoy the rush.
Crouching low, thighs burning, I spread my arms wide as I flew down the mountain like a four-winged dire eagle. Squire raced above. A pack of dire wolves howled off in the distance. Hurtling off another icy ledge, I gripped the board and spun, smiling as my stomach went weightless.
Arms flapping, I pretended I was omniscient and powerful, like the old god, before he died, flying high on his wings of platinum. Squire hooted as he soared beside my face.
I stuck the landing.
Throwing myself off the last big jump, I tossed my legs overhead and flipped backward. Reaching out, I just barely grabbed the rising dire fox carcass before I slammed back down, but the added weight made me wobble.
Wham.
Clipping the edge of my board on ice, I tumbled violently, smashing through piles of snow. White everywhere. Rolling down the last bit of the mountain, I finally came to a stop.
A fox head rested on my snow-covered chest, staring up at me judgmentally as my muscles throbbed in tandem with my heartbeat. A faint silver steamed off its shimmering fur.
Old texts spoke of animals completely untouched by magic, and therefore they didn’t have the dire beast classification. I’d never met such a creature. Probably a myth.
I held the fox’s lifeless gaze and whispered an apology.
I’d be black and blue tomorrow.
A penance.
I pushed the piles of snow off my long-sleeved wool shirt. The summer solstice was approaching, and the temperatures were hovering around freezing, the warmest they’d get all year. It was practically balmy. Perfect snowboarding conditions.
Squire dropped from the sky. “Me win,” he cawed as he landed on my forehead.
“It was a tie,” I said as I sat up, and he squawked with indignation.
Unclipping the leather buckles from the special hooks Mom had sewn onto my boots, I released myself from the snowboard and shook my head, sparkles of snow drifting all around.
Centuries ago, snowboarding used to be popular in the North, but these days, not many people ventured outside the protective walls of our Commune.
I’d tried to explain to Mom the rush was worth hiking up steep terrain for hours.
It was the only time my head was clear, thoughts calm.
Sure, a hypothetical dire bear could maul you.
You could hit a tree, spin out, fall into a ravine, or break your neck landing a jump.
But that was the point—you were having fun.
Longingly I looked at the mountain as Squire flapped beside me.
Should I climb back up?
I stood, and a hunger cramp nearly sent me to my knees. There was a very real chance I’d pass out if I tried, and I had to get this dire fox home. I’ll come back another night.
The Commune was depending on me, since the greenhouse harvest wasn’t as bountiful this year. Responsibility was a constant crushing weight on my—Don’t think about it.
I readjusted my board and stalked through the forest, forcing my racing heart to slow as I sank back into my role as a hunter.
Vision sharpening, ears listening, I focused on the calm. I’d eat when the job was done. Hunting was both a strange game and a form of dissociation.
Mind over matter. Limits were meant to be tested and surpassed. The weight of duty didn’t diminish because you suffered personally. If anything, it just grew heavier. I’d learned to live with the constant pressure. Gareth had taught me how to survive.
Squire tucked his wings and rolled forward through the air, pretending to throw a flip on a snowboard.
Laughing at his antics, I chased after him.
ROAR. We both froze, turning to stare at each other as the bestial sound echoed among the swirling Mist and magic. In its wake, the quiet seemed to intensify. No woodland creature makes that noise.
A warning horn bellowed from the Commune walls—three times. In slow motion, I looked up. Squire landed on my shoulder. Beyond the dark green treetops, fire flared in the sky as a beast breathed flames. Screams were carried on the frigid wind.
The Commune is under attack.
Mom and Aurora.
I dropped my board in the snow. I’d come back for it later. The dire fox carcass joined it, and I sprinted through the trees with everything I had. Squire jostled on my shoulder, forgetting he could fly.
ROAR. Another ghastly sound reverberated, this one more high-pitched, as a second beast sprayed ice from its mouth.
Unlike the fictional monsters in fairy tales, these were flying in the night—and very real. They must have made the treacherous journey from Azote across the unpassable Moor Ocean.
Dragons.
One silver-scaled and ice-breathing, the other golden-scaled and fire-breathing. Battle saddles were strapped across their mammoth backs, a figure riding astride each one—Royal Mages from the Draconis Empire.
Heart in my throat, I pumped my legs faster, leaping over icy rocks.
Spindly lower branches slapped across my face, and I batted them aside.
High above, the silver-scaled dragon swooped down, a cloud of ice covering the city in blizzard conditions.
Tarantula rode astride his infamous silver dragon: Pestilence.
The gray brick Commune walls neared as I ran past the single rose blooming lonely in the forest.
ROAR.
Golden scales flashed as the second dragon swooped low: Plague. Her stomach turned coal red as she opened her jaw and bright red fire exploded with impossible heat. She was one of the deadliest monsters in Antichthon.
A tall, lean figure rode astride her, wearing a golden Royal Mage mask that covered his entire face. A heavy white fur cloak fluttered in the air behind his crowned head.
It was him, again.
The High Prince was now the freshly crowned Emperor of the Draconis Empire. He rode beside Tarantula on the backs of their royal dragons. The new Emperor had already earned a name for himself, and people whispered it with fear.
Aleksander the Sadistic.
His bite mark marred my throat.
Heat exploded above my head. I dropped face down onto the snow, screaming into it. Trees were on fire above. I crawled through the ice toward the wall, hair sizzling around my face as the ground vibrated with dragon roars.
This can’t be happening.
I stood up in horror, slamming my foot down onto the latch and stumbling through the Commune’s gate.
Waist-high snow covered the city, which was constructed with six main streets radiating outward from the central square like spokes on a wheel; five concentric rings of roads spread out from the middle, connecting it all.
Magic-laced snow glittered along the tree-lined streets. The bottoms of the pines were buried in ice, but the tops burned with dragon fire, and flaming pine needles fell like rain over empty roads. The warning horn had done its job.
I fought my way forward desperately, losing energy with each impossible step as I made my way through the magical blizzard. The Empire had no reason to target the barren North.
The moon glowed eerily in the smoky haze, reflecting off the few tiled roofs that weren’t buried in snow.
They’ve come back for you. It’s because of what happened two years ago. The Emperor was drawing battle lines with magical dragons’ breath.
BOOM.
BOOM.
Two fighter jets from the south flew overhead, engines roaring as they broke the sound barrier. Modern relics in a medieval world.
The Mist chased after the jets in blue streaks, approaching the machinery that was famous for reaching speeds of up to four thousand miles per hour.
The mayor must have used the broadband radio to notify the Marshal that we were under attack. The Scorpion Hole was strategically located halfway between the Northern Commune and the Southern Communes, just close enough that jets could respond before they were overtaken by the Mist.
Parachutes deployed as four figures ejected from the planes directly above the Commune, floating through the air. Two of them wore stiff black uniforms and directed their chutes outside the city walls, away from the conflict. The pilots.
The other two headed toward the center of the city, their famous silver armor shining as they descended.
Knight Mages.
They were the only two people in the past century to survive the deadly Iron Ritual—the twins, Ella and Axel.
The Storm Wars had arrived in the North.
Luminous blue tendrils of the Mist rose up from the ground. A high-pitched sound echoed as the Mist shut down the first plane. It turned into a nosedive, arcing just past the Commune walls.
Kaboom.
The ground shook as it exploded on impact. A mushroom cloud of blue-and-white lightning ballooned high into the air as it reacted with the Mist, and then a red fireball snuffed out the electric show.
The second jet fell in an arc, heading toward Pestilence with impossible speed.