Ice and Fire

Jealousy

I have faith in Julian. Of course I do.

The resounding crack of a reinforced skull spilling gore.

I know he is not weak.

The pitiful wheeze of a sternum collapsing from brutal force.

That despite what others say, he is worthy of this honor.

The convulsions of flesh made mindless meat by relentless fists.

Of a Scar.

The clarion snap of a neck that deprives life from limb as surely as decapitation.

And I believe that he will meet this challenge.

(Liar. He knew damn well. But I cannot hate him for it, as Mother will. Because I knew, too, didn't I? Yes. I knew.)

"Cassius."

His croon cuts through the heavy silence and the enveloping dark of the small room we share. But for our disagreeable cots, it is otherwise bare, and his call echoes, amplified by the dew–moistened stone.

Although the room is barely five paces, I can't see him. Only the space between the beds is naturally illuminated—by moonslight, filtering through the slim aperture carved vertically into the wall, far above our heads, reminiscent of monastic architecture. And the torches that once lit the castle were not reignited after their embers died this morning.

It was Vindictus that noticed first. But when he asked Fitchner about our sudden—and alarming—lack of fire, our Proctor only laughed.

"Well, I'm sure it'll be easy–peasy for a genAlt genius like you to figure out how to make some. Consider it a test."

Sevro snickered at his anxious look. But everyone started grumbling at the realization—including me, because I've never made fire from scratch myself. To brave the Cimmerian wilderness without a surplus of incendiaries is something not even Karnus and the Rath have ever been delirious enough to do.

Well... shit. A prehistoric game it is, then.

No, I can't see him. But I hear him—as surely as he hears me. Gods know I tried to be quiet. I've violently suppressed my sobs and muffled my sniffling as best I could, burying my face into the dampened mattress to the extent that I could barely breathe, that my chest aches and head throbs from the effort. But his sense of hearing is far too keen to fool.

Fitchner negotiated with Ceres for the feast Darrow and I won. Fairly apportioned, though, it only amounted to a few mouthfuls for each. Most of my classmates lingered in the hall all the same, mingling and bonding and roughhousing, long after the food was gone. But I left early, intent on another prize—one of the rooms in the higher tower, as far up as I could claim. The altitude is nothing compared to the Mons, of course, but I hate sleeping near the ground. There's something base and decidedly vulnerable about it.

And to my delight, the highest room was still free. I sat there alone for some time, polishing my pitchfork—a nasty weapon, forged of ugly iron, with terrible aerodynamics and maneuverability, but better than nothing, I suppose—and listening to the cries of nearby birds, the distant howling of the wolves, the faintest whisper of the wind. Wishing I had a window.

But then he came. And he was going to leave. I should've let him. But I couldn't.

"Stay. Be my mate."

He wasn't sure about it. "You wouldn't rather be alone?"

"Nah," I lied. "Need someone to watch my six. Besides, if you don't take the bed, someone else might—and they could run off with my pitchfork when my back is turned." I hug it possessively. "I'm ripe fond of it."