My eyes widen, a silent gasp catching in my throat. I stare straight ahead at Luceran’s back, waiting for him to whirl around and freeze us both for daring to speak. But he does not. He continues forward, his perfectly straight white hair spilling over the collar of his fur coat like a waterfall of snow.
I force myself to look ahead as well. “Be quiet,” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth.
“We’re not allowed to speak?” Pax asks, amused.
“No,” I hiss.
“Well, that’s unfortunate. I’m an excellent conversationalist. Not that I get to practice much with this lot.”
“Why are you still talking?” I snap.
“Why are you still answering?” he counters easily.
Luceran halts abruptly and looks back over his shoulder.
A muscle jumps in my jaw.
But he says nothing. Simply turns and continues toward the mine.
“See?” Pax whispers. “Nothing to worry about.”
My teeth clench. “Can you shut up? My fate already hangs by a thread. I don’t need some idiot foreman making it worse.”
“Idiot?” he echoes with a gasp.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “An idiot with an utterly ridiculous name. What kind of name is Pax?”
He straightens indignantly. “It’s actually a nickname. My real name is Pattenwald, but only my father ever called me that.”
I blink. “That’s even worse.”
Without waiting for his reaction, I lengthen my stride, putting space between us. I have no intention of inviting Luceran’s wrath. Not today, not ever.
Pax’s muffled laugh follows me, but I don’t look back.
We reach the entrance of the mines, where a towering wall of hooks stretches across the stone. Coats, helmets, picks, and boots hang in neat rows. As each miner passes, they strip their gear from a hook, and the pulley system above creaks to life, lowering a fresh set into place for the next worker, and the next after that. Efficient. Endless.
Luceran comes to a stop and tips his head toward the gear, barely a gesture, but more than enough. He expects me to suit up.
I pull down one of the heavy coats. It reeks of dust, earth, and the sweat of countless bodies who have worn it before. The thought of smearing that filth over my lovely new cloak makes me wince, and I silently chide myself. Look how spoiled I have become already.
I shove my arms through the sleeves anyway, just to prove a point, the weight dragging at my shoulders. Then I reach for a helmet, a dented, bowl-shaped thing that looks as though it has survived a hundred cave-ins. That should be a reassurance.
I lower my hood and try to shove the helmet on. It does not budge. I try again, jamming it down with both hands. Still nothing. Surely my head is not larger than every miner’s in this place. Right?
After an awkward struggle that only seems to make the helmet mock me further, Pax steps closer, his hands lifting toward its rim. “Let me help.”
Before he can touch me, Luceran’s hand shoots out. He grips Pax’s wrist, hard.
It is the first time I have seen Pax flinch. He recoils the moment Luceran releases him, rubbing his wrist with his gaze lowered. Silence stretches.
Then Luceran steps toward me.
My breath catches.
His hands, large and smooth, alabaster skin etched with runes, rise to the edges of the helmet. His thumbs brush lightly along my jaw as he adjusts the angle, then he slides it into place with effortless ease. As if it had only ever been difficult for me. As if it had resisted solely to amuse him.
When he finishes, he withdraws slowly.
