Ice and Fire

Merit

The Romanesque gates of the Institute loom before me. The walls of Valles Marineris rise above and beyond the reach of even my perfect vision like tidal waves of vegetation, cradling the school as lovingly as they do Agea, the city we have left far behind. The city where I am safe, where I am loved and cherished and downright adored.

Somewhere past those lofty spires, glittering with activity and reflected moonlight, my family is eating dinner. Ariadne and her friends are gossiping about Marcus au Saud, the Joy Knight. He is indeed as frivolous as his title implies, Scar notwithstanding, although far too wiry for my tastes. Valerius is testing the table's knowledge of obscure classical nicknames, a game Cornelius often wins. But everyone still snickers at Killian's winning jab at Caesar, some years later—The Queen of Bithynia.

They are having chateaubriand tonight, lathered in crapaudine, complemented by Duchess potatoes and a bouquetière roasted in Hollandaise. Isolde never eats her vegetables. She'll pass them furtively to Tristan, who loyally devours whatever she slips over before anyone notices. Cornelia will complain that the maître d'hôtel butter contains too much pepper or too little parsley or... something, when it is clearly superb, because she's incapable of enjoying a damn thing. Felix will be even quieter than usual, due to his insistence on all but charring his meats.

Your jaw must surely ache, cousin, Ariadne will fret. That tenderloin is not meant for human consumption.

But he'll only smile. And keep chewing and chewing and chewing.

I wish I was there, with them, and not only because I'm famished. I would even settle for Selwyn, who's doubtless ensconced in his room, staunch vegetarian that he is. Yet another curious consequence of his time at the Institute.

But I have yet to earn the privilege. As of right now, I have neither family nor name nor Color. I am one of a thousand and three hundred golden heads, prattling as aimlessly as they mull about the gleaming alabaster square.

Six hundred and fifty of them will never see sunlight again.

The thought chills me even more than the frigid air. Klicks away from the frenetic energy and shielding architecture of Agea, we are completely exposed to the elements in this unvarnished corner of the Valles. We were barred from wearing anything beyond our silken highCollars and gloves. Many shiver for want of fleeces and furs, but I'd be lying if Apollonia's pathetic excuse for seasons didn't make me laugh a little. I imagine these thinskinned fools would think an Olympian winter akin to the fucking Ice itself.

I fight the urge to search the crowd for familiar faces. I would find dozens, I know. How many of my lifelong acquaintances will be beaten to death like animals tonight? Friends I can neither help nor warn. All around me, they giggle and gaggle like geese, puffing their chests with pride over the invitations they merited, simmering with excitement for all that awaits them.

It is death. And how many of them are prepared for that fate? Have even considered the possibility this might be their last night? Have utterly wasted their sixteen or seventeen years of gilded life?

But there are three faces I am compelled to seek. I have no luck with the first two. Julian is here, somewhere in the mass of spritely Golds arriving from the Cimmerian shuttles. Antonia is here, too, wherever the students from the Thermic cities are gathered. They should be easy to spot. Especially Julian. He is ridiculously tall. But I cannot find them.

I find him, though. So easily, he may as well have been illuminated by a spotlight. Here he is! The star of our show! He certainly shines as brilliantly as one. But I wonder, will he fizzle, as those Violet sensations do? Burn bright and die fast, like a firecracker?