It was happening now—the change of the guards.
Flóki reached into his pocket, then chucked a circular object into the courtyard. It arced across the room. I only counted two heartbeats, but it felt like a lifetime had passed by the time it reached the incoming soldier. It landed with a hard bounce, rolling to a stop at their feet.
They stooped to examine it, jumping back a second too late as the object exploded in a burst of powdery white.
“Snow bomb,” Flóki whispered. “More annoying than anything. Popular prank with the youth. It’ll keep him busy for a second, but most importantly, it’s our cover.”
Following his lead, I dashed across the open space, the guard cursing and angrily waving off the flurry, and we crept through the castle. We were at the ice dungeon’s stairs before I could comprehend it, as silently and smoothly as if we were nothing but a swift-moving draft.
Ice coated the steep slabs of stone, and the temperature dropped with each step.
The gaping arch of a doorway was covered in shadows so thick, the moon couldn’t even penetrate the darkness.
Our shoulders grazed when we reached the landing, and we stared into the abysmal black.
Words framed the entrance, etched into the pumiced stone: Hér býr hið illa. Gefðu gaum að sál þinni.
“What does it mean?” I asked, barely daring to whisper.
I felt him turn to me, that preternaturally blue gaze heating my cheeks. “Here lies evil. Heed your soul.”
“How welcoming,” I whispered sarcastically.
“Here.” He shrugged off his black bomber jacket, placing it around my shoulders. “Take my jacket. It’s cold in there.”
I slid my arms into the silk-lined sleeves. Rolling the cuffs five or so times so the fabric didn’t devour my wrists, I drew a deep breath and tried something earnest: “Appreciate it.”
“The Coffin Seeker is in the basement.” My nerves twitched at the way his name rolled off Flóki’s tongue, as if he weren’t a devil but something to be revered. “Seven floors down. Access to his oubliette is through a hole in the ground.”
“Got it.” I fought to keep my voice steady.
“Take this.” Grabbing a torch out of its bracket, he handed it to me.
“Thanks.”
“Think of it like a practice run for Jarðarbæli. Take your time. I’ll be here when you’re done.”
“Yeah, it’s not like I’m in a rush to get out or anything,” I tossed over my shoulder before crossing the threshold.
Immediately, the sphere of black swallowed me whole. It was like disappearing behind a veil; in a step or two, Flóki was nothing but the murky outline of a person—noise, details, scents, air were all muffled by the abyss.
I breathed in must and something… rancid. The smell turned my stomach.
The path sloped down, veering to the left and getting darker, colder—if that was even possible. I faltered down the slick staircase, fighting to keep my footsteps quiet, my breathing silent. The torch barely burned back the darkness, and I had to guess at where the next stair would take me.
After nearly half a minute, I stumbled when the pattern broke. I had reached a landing, a break in the stairs. I had made it down one level.
Six more to go. That’s all there was. I could do that.
Eyes stinging from the frigid cold, I held up the burning wood, the flames dancing off the ice-bound cells. Wet cobblestone made for a slippery walk, the tips of my shoes already soaking.
Thick frozen walls separated the prisoners, the floor padded in snow that helped throw the light.
Most remained silent, but I knew I was no longer alone by the itching feeling of eyes on me. Some crowded towards the torch’s flame, shedding tears, prayers, vows. Some had written final messages with their nails, old blood streaking the walls.
Nothing in here resembled elf or human. They were only the shells of their former selves—and broken ones, at that. A low moan erupted from one of the lumps shivering on a bed of hay. I kept my eyes forward, my footsteps light. Nothing good would come from poking around.
Another sigh, and the shake of metal. My traitorous eyes drifted to one of the cells.
