Up front, the sprites argue in a flurry of high-pitched chirps. One tugging the reins, the other flapping its wings irritably at the falling snow. Their bickering echoes faintly into the carriage, a strange counterpoint to the heavy silence between Luceran and me.
We continue toward the mines, wheels crunching over frozen earth as the world narrows to ice, breath, and the impossible presence of the male sitting across from me. A male I fear, a male I resent, and a male I cannot seem to look away from. Outside the window, the winter deepens.
After what feels like hours rocking through sleet and silence, the carriage crests a rise. I lean forward, squinting through the icy veil that blurs the world to white.
Then I see it. The Aurevault. The greatest Elarium mines in all of Thyros.
They sprawl across the landscape like a scar, massive stone arches thrusting up from the frozen earth, each one rimed with frost and carved with Fae runes. I cannot tell whether they are meant as a warning or a form of protection. Beneath them yawns a black entrance, wide enough for five carriages to pass through abreast. Lanterns hang in careful rows along the outer walls, their amber light flickering across the snow and throwing long, eerie shadows into the ice.
I know as much about the Aurevault as most do. The mine runs deep, descending into the earth in spirals and vast caverns where Luceran’s laborers dig for Elarium. Most are criminals serving out their sentences, or unfortunate souls who, like me, have debts to pay. But some come here with no crime to their name and no debt to settle, only the knowledge that there is nowhere else left for them to go.
Elarium is a dense, glittering mineral used in alchemy, spellwork, and the forging of magical artifacts. Even from here, I can see faint streaks of glowing color threaded through the stone, like veins of trapped lightning. The ground around the mine pulses with its power, a strange, low hum I can feel even through the carriage floor.
The Fae value it more than gold.
Workers move like shadows at the mine’s entrance, shapes bundled against the cold as their lanterns bob and sway. Every so often, a plume of icy mist rises from the tunnels, magic reacting to the frigid air.
But my gaze is drawn elsewhere.
Past the mine. Past the workers. To the lake.
It lies vast and silver beneath the sky, frozen so completely it resembles a mirror forged of moonlight. The lake is the heart of Brunemar, visible from nearly everywhere in theregion, a constant reminder of both beauty and dread. Its shoreline is not far from here, close enough that I can see the long, smooth bank rising from the ice, the same bank that curves up behind Luceran’s rose garden.
Even from this distance, it steals my breath. Still. Silent. Bound in winter’s grip and steeped in rumor. The place where Luceran drowned his wife. That froze over not long after. The place whose whispers reached my balcony last night.
A shiver crawls down my arms, and it has nothing to do with the cold.
Luceran shifts opposite me, and I notice he turns his back as we pass by. He does not look at the lake. Not once. That tells me everything.
With a shriek from the sprites, the carriage lurches to an abrupt stop. I jerk forward, but this time I catch myself before I can tumble into Luceran’s lap again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his arms lift instinctively, as if ready to catch me, only to drop just as quickly when he realizes I will not fall.
Heat rises to my cheeks. I offer an awkward half-smile. He pretends not to notice. Instead, he shoves open the carriage door and steps out with such force it feels as though he cannot put distance between us fast enough.
When he is gone, I release a steadying breath, tug my gloves tighter around my wrists, and pull up the hood of my cloak. The fur lining brushes my cheeks as I brace myself and step toward the door. The sprites are already waiting, wings buzzing as they lower the step for me. I nod my thanks and climb down.
The breath I had barely calmed deserts me at once.
I knew it was immense, but this close, the scale of the Aurevault is staggering. A monstrous complex carved into the mountainside, larger than any farm, any castle.
Scattered across the cliffs are hundreds of cabins, clustered together with roofs bowed beneath the weight of snow. Rope bridges stretch between them, anchored hard into the rock, thin as spider silk and swaying over vast drops. Just looking at them makes my stomach flip. How anyone climbs those paths day after day is beyond me.
Certainly not my father. He would never have survived work like this, not in this cold, not with his health. A shiver works through me, and gratitude tightens my throat. Whatever Luceran is, whatever this bargain costs me, it saved my father’s life.
I barely register how long I have been staring until I feel it. Eyes. Hundreds of them.
The miners stand in lines before the entrance, bundled in threadbare furs much like those my father and I wore back home. Their faces are smeared with metallic dust thatglows faintly silver in the weak light. Picks rest against their shoulders. Their expressions are curiosity, suspicion, and exhaustion all blended together.
Guilt twists in my chest. These are the people who serve Luceran with sweat and blood, the way my father would have, while I have been spared. I sleep in a warm tower instead.
I lower my gaze.
Before the weight of their stares can crush me, Luceran strides into view, and all eyes shift to him at once. His voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding.
“Where is Pax?”
The miners react instantly. Heads drop. Bodies draw inward. A ripple of unease moves through the group as they step back, some retreating so far they nearly press into the cliffside. A shuffling murmur passes through them before the crowd splits down the middle, opening a path.
A single figure strides forward.
