Frost & Shadow

Chapter Twelve

The warmth of the bed fades beneath me, slipping away like smoke through my fingers. I blink—and suddenly, I am no longer in the safety of the soft linens. My bare feet meet ice, frozen and jagged, biting through skin I didn’t know was cold. Around me stretches a white plain, endless, hollow, and so quiet it gnaws at my ears. I draw in a breath, and it curls before my lips, crystallizing, shattering before it falls to the ground with a sharp, metallic tinkle that echoes through nothingness. My heart hammers, and my knees threaten to buckle.

Far ahead, something glints. An archway of stone—familiar, yet impossibly ancient—rises from the emptiness, scarred and cracked, faint light leaking through the fissures like veins of molten gold. I take a cautious step forward, and the ground shivers beneath me. Ice fractures into jagged shards, deep ravines yawn open, splitting the plain with a sound that makes my chest tighten, like bones snapping in slow motion.

A voice drifts through the void, not words, not language, but a weight, heavy and ancient, tugging at something buried deep inside me. My name, spoken like a summons I cannot refuse.

“Laine.”

Shadows ripple at the corners of my vision, curling and twisting. They do not swallow me; they shield me from the wind that bites at my flesh, biting at my mind. For a heartbeat, I think I see the shape of Fen’s hand in them—reaching, steadying, not holding, not controlling. A strange, impossible comfort blooms in my chest, even here in this frozen emptiness.

Then fire erupts. Gold and blinding, tearing through the cracks beneath the archway. And at the center stands a figure I cannot fully make out, tall, crowned in branches of flame, eyes molten and impossible. It lifts a hand, and the very air bends with it.

“Choice,” the voice hisses, low and scalding. “Yours.”

The archway crumbles. Shadows scatter like smoke caught in a windstorm. I fall—endlessly—into the space between worlds, stomach twisting, lungs straining, heart hammering.

I jerk awake, lungs burning, skin slick with sweat even though the room is warm. My heart refuses to calm, drumming a frantic rhythm in my ears. I lie in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself it was only a dream, only the mind playing cruel tricks after exhaustion and stress. But the echo of my name lingers in the air, and the memory of those shadows wrapping around me feels far too tangible. Far too real.

.................

Fen did not sleep. Not tonight. Not when the weight pressing against him was this sharp, this insistent.

He sat in the chair near the cold hearth, shadows curling lazily across the stone floor like smoke that moved of its own will. They responded to him without prompting, restless and watchful, whispering secrets he did not wish to acknowledge. His elbows pressed to his knees, fingers laced tight, jaw taut.

The girl—Laine. Human. Fragile. Breakable in ways he dared not contemplate for long. She was nothing like the mortals who had crossed into Ninkoral centuries ago. Their faces blurred in his memory, their eagerness to bind themselves to the pact obvious. She, though… she had stepped through the archway not out of duty, but wild, dangerous curiosity.

He should not care. That was not his task. He was to guard her, to observe, and to see if the pact would hold. Nothing more.

And yet.

The shadows whispered her name, as if they knew better than him. He closed his eyes, and the green of her eyes—wary, stubborn, alive—floated before him. Her heartbeat had brushed against the air when she arrived, instinctive and protective. And something long buried stirred.

He cursed under his breath.

Once, he had sworn never to let himself be bound. Bonds were chains, and he had seen what they did to men and to magic. He would not make that mistake.

And yet, the hours dragged on, and he found himself straining for the smallest sound: the rustle of blankets, a sharp inhale, the echo of her presence. His shadows hissed again, curling closer, carrying the faint memory of her warmth and movement.

Fen clenched his fists until his knuckles ached.

“She is nothing to me,” he muttered into the dark. But even the silence refused to agree.