Luceran stands there. His open shirt reveals runes that have dimmed in the dull sunlight yet still pulse faintly across his chest. His eyes, winter blue and molten gold, fix on me.
I open my mouth to speak, to apologise, to explain, I do not even know what for, but my voice fails me. I sway forward instead.
Luceran’s hand shoots out and catches me again, and this time he does not let go. His gaze drags over me, my tangled red hair, my frost-blanched face, the ridiculous mound of coats and gowns hanging off me.
He exhales softly, the sound measured and faintly judging.
“You look absurd,” he says.
Heat prickles beneath my skin, not warmth but embarrassment.
“I was cold,” I say. My teeth chatter through the words. “You locked me in a room where every surface is frozen solid. What did you expect me to do?”
My chest shudders, each breath sharper than the last. I am tired of that smug frown. Who cares if I can barely stand. I would rather hit the floor than stay another moment in his forsaken arms. But when I try to straighten, my feet are numb. More than numb. I cannot feel them at all.
“I...” I manage.
He grumbles, as if my freezing to death is an inconvenience he predicted. Stupid, weak human.
“I do not feel right.”
A groan rumbles in his chest. “You probably have hypothermia. I thought you would have lasted a little longer.”
Somehow, even on the brink of collapse, I manage a scoff. “Well, I am sorry to fucking disappoint you.”
His eyes widen at the curse, as if my language offends him more than the fact that I am dying on his castle floor. I half expect him to drop me, let me fade here and be swept out onto the snow. Instead he slides his hands down my body and scoops me up under my knees, drawing me close against his chest.
I am too cold to respond, too cold to gasp or question what he thinks he is doing. He carries me from the room, down the dim, narrow corridor.
My head lolls with each steady step. My vision blurs as I drift between waking and sleep, the cold pulling me under until it feels like something I finally understand. Perhaps even welcome. I notice empty patches on the walls, discoloured squares of stone where paintings once hung. I wonder what they were.
“Where are you taking me?” I breathe. My eyelids flutter. “Please do not throw me out. I can work. I promise. Please leave my father be.”
I manage to force my eyes open one last time, long enough to see him glance down at me, and whether I am awake or dreaming, he is as beautiful as ever. Then my eyes slide shut, and the cold overwhelms me.
4
Iam dreaming. I know I am dreaming, yet the cold feels real enough to bite.
I stand on the frozen lake, the surface stretched wide beneath a sky the colour of bruised light. The ice gleams in thin, fragile sheets that splinter beneath each hesitant step. A long shadow glides beneath the surface, a dark shape that circles me like a predator biding its time.
I follow it toward the center of the lake. My breath ghosts over the air in thin ribbons. The ice hums beneath my feet, trembling with each shift of weight. I take another step, then another. The shadow drifts closer.
Something collides with me.
I gasp and look up, slipping on the glassy surface. Luceran stands there. His hair glitters with frost. His eyes catch the dim light. He does not reach for me. He does not speak.
The lake groans.
A thin crack darts outward from my heel like a streak of lightning. Another splits from the toe of my boot. The ice shudders beneath me. My heart climbs into my throat.
“Luceran,” I whisper.
He watches.
The ice gives way.
I plunge into blackness. The water is so cold it steals every thought from my mind. My lungs seize. My limbs go rigid. I sink, drifting down into the dark while shards of broken ice spin above me. Through the wavering surface I see him. Tall. Unmoving. Watching me disappear.
