Soul of Ice (Chronicles of Dawn)

Chapter Five

Surina glanced down at her hands—hands that weren’t her own. These were powerful and ethereal, glimmering beneath the night sky. Everlasting seas of energy churned around her, and she could claim it all, if she wanted.

Pulsing warmth nipped at her palm, and she wanted to fight for it, to resist the yearning of those shaded calls.

A cold, vicious tendril cinched within, begging— commanding —that she take what was hers. What was theirs.

Lifting her stare, she realized then it wasn’t the night sky she beheld, but a clouded darkness so bleak, there was no end beyond. In the center of the infinite shadows stood a glowing figure. Skin and hair radiant like silvery white streaks of moonlight. His eyes were as black as the gloom that surrounded them. One hand reached out to her as he smiled.

An invitation, one she would happily answer, loosing the blade from her hand with a clattering thud.

The fiery mark called to her, but she couldn’t— wouldn't hear its screams. Earth trembled beneath her toes. She could shape and mold the world of her own desires, of her own will.

A world of their own.

Stepping towards the unearthly being before her, she could see the triumph in his eyes… until—a whisper in the winds, brilliant and mesmerizing. The song ended her steps, and for a moment, she could see clearly. A silver crescent moon dangled from his hand.

She saw the fae within the twilight stir, victory no longer promised as two feathered wings of onyx arched from behind, shrouding her. Tendrilled flame emanated from the tips of those feathers, and their tender, fervid warmth caressed her flesh. The fae with irises of night screamed for her from the gloom.

The tether to those shaded whispers snapped the moment a sharpness reached her chest, and the breath was ripped from her lungs. As the end neared, that splendid heat within fractured, followed by a cataclysmic rupture of what felt like fire and ice. Shadow and light devoured her blood—her soul. The only solace was that of another’s hold, like scorching rays of sunlight against her chilling flesh.

Arms clung to her frame as she faded, but her eyes never left the luminous male, who now closed the distance between them, his face a mask of sorrow.

No, it wasn’t sorrow. It was defeat.

◆◆◆

Waking in a dreadful panic, Surina clutched at her chest until air finally found its way in. When she’d gotten enough oxygen to her brain, and the adrenaline settled itself, a rising warmth in her palm pulled her eyes down, to the sun scar. As usual, a creeping warmth climbed its way up her arm.

Throat parched, she shoved the blankets away to head for the water pitcher near the glass doors, but the moment her feet met the cool marble, that slinking phantom slithered across her body.

She twisted at the waist, peering toward the side of the room riddled with shadow, furthest from the moonlit balcony. Scrutinizing every nook and space in her room, she found nothing out of the ordinary, which didn’t actually make her feel better.

“This isn’t funny,” she croaked, hoping the voices would reveal themselves in her mind, but nothing stirred within, only the icy slide against her flesh.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and by then, she’d had enough. Jerking her hand towards the fireplace, the enchantment flared to life with a whoosh of flame, bringing with it the assurance that no one was there, lurking.

“Gods,” Surina breathed, her chest heaving with relief. Just leave me alone , she thought to herself, wiping the grogginess from her eyes when the chill dissipated. She’d never prayed for the voices in her head to speak up before, but as painfully fast as her heart was racing right now, she welcomed any explanation for their newfound creepiness.

Maybe it was time to admit that she really was going crazy—or maybe it was the chocolate cake Leirie dropped off before bed. That would explain the dreams.

Most of Surina’s dreams consisted of her being washed in flames with the eyes of the fire dragon hovering over top, or they were of Surina within another’s body—and those could be good or bad. Tonight, it was bad. Very bad.

She needed to learn how to say no to sweets, but after leaving dinner so early, she’d been starved. Even that hadn’t been enough to hold her hunger over, but it was far too late to sneak into the kitchens.

Shoving up from the comfort of her bed, Surina crossed the room and took a quick sip of water before gathering every throw or pillow she could fit onto a larger blanket, bunching it into a makeshift bag and lugging it towards the balcony doors. She paused, noting Fynn’s cloak strewn across the armchair she used for reading. It wouldn’t hurt to add more layers, surely. With a shrug, she tossed it over her shoulder and continued through the doors.

A harsh wind carrying tiny flecks of frost cut across her cheeks, begging the question of how much longer she’d be able to sleep outdoors. Willing the air to subside, at least until she finished arranging the mound of fabrics, she stared down into the gardens every so often. Not that much could ever be seen, mostly just the tops of taller flora and marble statues.

As she spread the prince’s cloak over the top of the plush mountain she’d made on the settee, catching his deep, woodsy scent, she questioned what she would even do if that infernal creature ever returned. Would she run from the beast? Stay and face it?

Did it even matter if the beast returned or not? It might have left years ago, but its presence remained, as it always would, with the mark it left.

After counting the spaces between the stone railing for almost an hour, her vision started to blur, twisting into a haze of stars and night. Sleep dragged her back under its spell, and Surina didn’t put up much of a fight. She was so caught up in the foggy slumber, she even imagined the wind murmuring tender promises as it swept past her ears and through her hair.

◆◆◆

Loosing another arrow, Runa exhaled when it struck true a couple hundred yards or so from where she was positioned. With a deep breath in, she nocked another, sensing the glares of several Thesian soldiers from the sideline. A smile formed as her fingertips slipped from the string, and a whistle of air ended in a thud .

Bullseye.

She definitely needed the distraction, and after the humiliation of traipsing around in that sorry excuse for a gown last night, it wasn’t a painted wooden target set before her, but her father instead. His cruel, blackened eyes.

Not all Calaechian females were given the opportunity to train with weapons, or even hone their magic, and if it were up to Lucius, Runa never would. Thankfully, her grandfather had a soft spot for her. Lucius thought she was a waste of their king’s time, which Runa might be inclined to believe, if her father didn’t go through such lengths to rid himself of her. Like tossing her before packs of males in nothing but scraps of fabric, hoping one would be promising enough for Severn’s approval. She’d scrubbed her skin from head to toe last night, unable to erase the revolting feel of their gazes.

Thud . Another bullseye.

As punishment for failing to catch the eye of the Nightwood king, or any proper suitors for that matter, she was to befriend the Fairlight princess—who apparently had private lessons the majority of the day. So here she was, waiting for the brat to come out.

Runa was a little jealous, to be truthful, never having seen a dragon in the flesh, shifted or not. It was evident the dragon was a fantastic instructor, too, if Surina faced a fire beast and survived at just sixteen—Runa would give her credit, it was impressive.

Or lucky .

Sucking in a steady breath, her fingers screaming against the stinging bite of the drawn string, Runa almost fumbled the arrow when a strong, unwavering voice spoke from beside her.

“Are all Calaechian’s this skilled in archery?”

Dipping the tip of the arrow towards the stone platform she stood atop, Runa gradually released her taut hold of the string. Glancing up, she found a broad-shouldered, fair-haired male, clad in the usual steel and brown leathers of all Thesian soldiers under the Castmont banner. Wedged beneath his arm, though, was an intricate steel helmet with cobalt-blue plumage—the general’s helmet.

If the helmet didn’t give it away, the strawberry-blond hair and glassy blue eyes would have. He was General Castmont, and by the way he looked at Runa, she could tell he recognized her. How could he not? Apart from the eyes, Runa looked every bit like her mother—the general’s once-betrothed, though he was only a lord when her mother left him to marry Lucius.

“A compliment from the general? Surely my skills warrant no such attention,” Runa replied warmly, sliding into the version of herself she emitted when she didn’t know or trust someone—like in her grandfather’s court.

It was almost nauseating how well the facade worked, too, making others believe she was some amiable, weak thing . She despised it, but Severn insisted she play the part regardless, saying that true power is one that is neither heard nor seen. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. So, a sheep she would be.

General Castmont huffed a laugh, running a free hand along the trimmed beard of his jawline as he eyed the target. “Most of my mortal recruits can’t hit that standing a hundred yards closer, and you hit… three?”

“Four,” Runa corrected, voice flat, quickly amending her slip-up with a broad smile, one the general returned. While she remained mortal herself, she’d trained for years to be proficient with an assortment of weapons, the bow being her favorite. The same went for Fynn. Even before his transition, he was quite lethal with a blade in hand.

“Good. Modesty doesn’t belong on the battlefield.” He nodded in the direction of the target. “Show me your stance.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but it wasn’t a demand either, just curiosity.

“I’m sure there’s nothing you can learn from me, General.”

“Then show them .” He dipped his head to the side, where a dozen soldiers, mortal fae and human alike, stared in genuine confusion at the two of them.

Runa could only imagine what they thought of their general interacting with a Calaechian—a Blackwell, at that.

When she was hesitant to ready the bow, the general brought his voice down, angling closer to her ears. “Between you and me, they need all of the help they can get,” he whispered, the seriousness behind his words making it impossible to hold back a grin, and she was furious at herself for finding any ounce of joy from a Thesian.

They weren’t exactly enemies, but they weren’t allies either. The only thing their kingdoms had in common was a mutual dislike of the dragons.

Clearing her face of any residual humor, she did as he requested—only to make him leave sooner. Shoving at the skirts of her black gown—one that covered all but her hands and face, thank the goddess—Runa adjusted the spread of her feet. From there, she followed through with every step that had been drilled into her since she was five. But as she pulled the string, all Runa could hear in the back of her mind was her grandfather’s words. That she should be a sheep and botch the shot in front of the gawking soldiers.

Severn wasn’t there, though, and neither was her father. After last night, with the wandering eyes roving over every inch of her flesh put on display, their disgusting whispers as she passed by, she wanted nothing more than to be a wolf. A huntress. If only for just a moment.

“Goddess guide me,” she whispered to Ephysia, the fae Goddess of Fire, Vengeance, and Love—passion, was what she represented, because love and hate were just two sides of the same, molten coin.

The smell of smoke filled the air as her muscles ached to free the arrow, and the second a spark ignited at her fingertips, she released the tension, and it whizzed past in a flash of light. A burst of flame radiated from the impact, setting the wooden target and all her previous attempts ablaze.

Bullseye.

General Castmont nodded his endorsement as hushed words sang like a chorus around her. It was then that Runa realized she didn’t want their approval, or their awe. It did nothing to rid the shame of last night. If anything, it made it worse. Like a caged creature of fire to be applauded when it performed as desired.

“Archery was your mother’s favorite. Apart from her affinity, of course.” General Castmont’s words struck hard.

He didn’t know the first thing about her mother. Whatever female he envisioned when he thought of Prilla, that being was no more.

“I am nothing like my mother,” she snarled, the warmth beneath her palm forcing her to drop the smoldering bow.

“I hate what they did to her.” He raised his voice, as Runa had already begun to walk away, and she slowed to a halt. “Prilla… she doesn’t belong there, and neither do you. You’re just as much a Thesian as you are Calaechian.”

What they did to her ? Runa scoffed, and a cruel smile tugged at her lips as she turned to face the general one last time. “She doesn’t talk about you, General . In fact, I’d go as far as to say she doesn’t even think about you, so why don’t you save your breath and your pity? I certainly don’t need it.”

With that, Runa made her way out of the training grounds of the garrison—she was done idling around, like some lady’s maid without her lady. She wasn’t a servant to be ordered about. If Lucius wanted the Fairlight princess’s trust so badly, Fynn could get it. She doubted he’d mind all that much anyway.