Page 36

Chapter 33

IRIS

The magic here felt different—almost… alive .

I always felt most in tune with myself while in a forest. As though the trees could breathe life into my bones, and in turn I could sense the life that pulsed within its depths—perceive its soul.

The Tundra was no exception.

The connection felt more expansive. Heightened. I was so acutely aware of the life flowing here that I swore I felt the trees take a deep, shuddering breath.

Aspen and I traveled for half a day in utter silence before we found a small reservoir to refill our water supply and take a brief respite. I studied the pond, dipping my fingers into the cool water, marveling at how such a pool could exist in the same vicinity as a frozen lake.

“We’ll need to attempt to find food soon. Freshwater isn’t plentiful here, but if we can find a stream, it shouldn’t be too difficult to catch a few fish for lunch.” Aspen knelt beside me, splashing a handful of water over his face.

My head snapped in his direction. “A fish ?”

“Yes.”

“A fish! ”

“My hearing is intact, so the answer is still yes.”

“Take a moment, roll that thought around in your brain for a bit. Ponder on why you think I would find issue with eating a fish .”

“Because you’re determined to end my life prematurely.” Aspen shifted into a seated position. “It’s not a four-course meal, but you can’t seriously expect fine dining on this journey.”

I dipped my flask into the pond, grumbling, “Sometimes, I can’t decide which I despise more—when you act holier-than-thou and ignore the world around you, or when you open your damn mouth.”

A slow smirk spread across his face. “A mouth you seem fond of staring at.”

My mouth fell open before I had the chance to catch myself.

If I had been staring, it was because—unfortunately—Aspen Gavalon was carved from some otherworldly material. I was only appreciating spectacular craftsmanship. Like architecture.

Purely a patron of the arts.

“Why not fish?”

“The fish , for one, aren’t particularly fond of the idea.” I cleared my throat. “Animals don’t only speak to me. I can sense their fear, understand their emotions. I don’t judge others for the choice, animals consume each other all the time. I’m not naive to how nature behaves.” I stood, shaking the water from my hands. “But I don’t partake.”

“You’re able to meet your nutritional needs?”

“I’ve been doing it my entire life.”

There was no shortage of options, especially in Arcton palace’s overflowing kitchens. I’d learned hundreds of recipes and meals to crave without animal meat. My appetite had certainly never wavered.

Aspen leaned an elbow on his propped knee, that same assessing gaze driving me mad. “Foraging it is, then.”

“To be clear, I’m not trying to change your habits. It isn’t my place to govern your dietary choices. I just won’t be participating… or watching, for that matter.”

“There are plenty of other options available.” He waved a hand toward me, and a cool breeze, faintly scented with eucalyptus, drifted through my fingers, drying the last traces of water. “As long as we don’t wither away from hunger, I’ll avoid eating meat if it makes you uncomfortable.”

I glanced at my hands, trying to distract myself from the tug in my stomach at his willingness to make that change. Another gust of wind danced around my wrist.

“How does your Temperi magic work, anyway?” I diverted the subject, offering him a hand. “I was under the impression Frostmancers manipulated ice and snow, not the wind you seem so fond of.”

It was a classification of magic I didn’t possess, and Zinnia hadn’t been particularly forthcoming on how hers worked. Temperi didn’t harness raw magic like Arcanists, rather using their magic to manipulate what already existed. Elementalists were subclassed further, based on the element they were able to influence.

Aspen hesitated before taking my hand, pulling himself up. “It’s a bit more nuanced than that,” he explained, brushing his hands on his trousers. “My magic is Temperian—I can only manipulate what already exists. So yes, as an Elementalist, I can manipulate ice and snow, but often, in order to do so, I have to manipulate temperature. It’s one of the perks of ice manipulation. Fire too, if I’m not mistaken—they have a broader scope than some of the other elements.” A small flurry of swirling snowflakes appeared above his palm.

“Most Frostmancers can change temperature by chilling or freezing an object or their surroundings, similar to creating ice from water,” he continued, letting the breeze lift strands of my hair. “But some of us, with enough essence and training, can alter the temperature of anything. Chill a pocket of air, and concentrate enough, it’s yours to control. Very few possess the ability, as far as I know.”

Frozen fractals of the frost covered wind glimmered as they caught the light.

“It works similarly with fire manipulators,” he added. “They can use heat in the same way.” I’d seen Zinnia warm the atmosphere of the apothecary, even without lighting a fire.

More wind swirled through my hair, and I tugged at my tunic, a habitual attempt to hide my tattoo even beneath the layers. A soft laugh escaped as the breeze tickled the edge of my nose and danced over my collarbone.

“What does it feel like, then, to move the wind?”

He used it more freely than he did anything else. The one part of him that seemed utterly uninhibited. My own writhed inside me like a foreign entity, utterly beyond my control. Perhaps if I had spent more time understanding it, coexisting with it, it wouldn’t feel so intrusive now. Perhaps if it had come from a different Goddess, one not so deeply connected to those who wished me dead.

It was as if my soul and my essence were enemies—weapons drawn, locked in battle for dominance.

Aspen let the air travel over the exposed skin, a featherlight caress that had heat rising to my cheeks despite the chill. “Creating wind feels like letting a small piece of myself free.” He moved closer. The breeze curled along the column of my throat, brushing across my cheek. “Almost like another limb.”

Didn’t he feel exposed using his magic this way?

Aspen seemed... light—mischief sparkling in his eyes, white hair slightly out of place. I couldn’t help but smile as I reached up, brushing a strand that had fallen across his brow.

His gaze flickered. The light extinguished, a sunflare snuffed out, replaced with cold, unforgiving grey. He turned abruptly, grabbing his satchel. “We should leave. We’ve wasted enough time here.”

His words struck harder than I expected, reminding me that these glimpses of humanity were not an offer of friendship. He’d made that much clear.

We’ve wasted enough time.

He seemed to regard any conversation of substance now as a distraction, and I wondered what game he was playing pretending to bother at all. I sighed, slinging my bag over my shoulder and falling into step beside him. “That lasted longer than expected.”

Aspen let out a breath, shooting me a sideways glance. “Care to explain?”

“Your act of civility. I’m truly impressed with how long you kept up the charade of giving a damn. ”

Every muscle in his body went taut. “You don’t hide your judgment very well, Threader,” Aspen stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I am well aware what you think of me. It seems pointless to try and change that ideal now.”

What I thought of him ?

“At least we have that in common.”

Goddesses above, he was infuriating.

Assembling the stained-glass mosaic of Aspen Gavalon might very well be the death of me.

Or my sanity. Whichever came first.

Silence settled between us again, and I resumed cataloging the Tundra’s wildlife. My personal journal already held notations on native flora and fauna to watch for, and the margins quickly filled with messy scrawl.

Pulling out my shears, I collected a sample of a leafy plant overflowing with yellow berries. It could probably be combined with various reagents, if I was correct about which species it belonged to. The records detailing Kacidon’s plant properties were woefully outdated.

A playground of untapped potential.

An arm wrapped around my waist as I stepped back onto the path, jerking me to a stop. A polar bear stood directly ahead, eyes locked on us. Straps of leather crossed its torso.

A Keeper of the Tundra.

The wards kept animals and wandering travelers out, but the sentinel of arctic beasts guarded everything beyond.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what, exactly, they were keeping in .

“It would be wise of us to switch to the trail on our left.” Aspen tightened his grip, his low voice firm. “It’s a longer route, but it would be to everyone’s benefit if we left them alone.”

I brushed his arm from my hip and stepped forward, opening my mind. A ripple of trepidation shivered through our forming connection, but I moved slowly, hand outstretched.

I smiled softly as he began to accept my silent offer, a timid link fastening

And then—an emotion barreled down the connection, unnervingly familiar.

Cords severed, snapping in time with his growing instinct.

Fight or flee.

He bared his teeth, but I saw it in his eyes. Felt it in the weak, spindly wisps of the mental link he hadn't yet severed.

An automatic defense, tinged with uncertainty. He was trying to determine which of us was the hunter, and which was the hunted.

We aren’t here to hurt you, I whispered across the mental space. We aren’t a danger to the Tundra.

In that moment, we were more alike than either of us realized.

Hunted or hunter?

Perhaps we were both.

I’m Iris.

Another cord snapped.

Just as my hand wavered, his hackles lowered. Clarity washed between us, bonds snapping into place, and I knew he felt what I'd pushed through.

The mirror I’d shown him.

With a wave of relief, his name bounced around the edges of my psyche.

Arlo .

Aspen stayed close, not letting me move beyond arm’s reach.

“Iris,” he said cautiously, one hand coming to rest on my shoulder. “They are trained to protect our lands. They won’t purposely hurt you, but it would be in our best interest not to provoke?—”

Friend?

I lifted my hand and slowly ran my fingers across the top of Arlo’s head, then around the side, scratching under his chin. His voice echoed in my head, thick with longing. The bear melted into my touch, nuzzling into my palm.

I glanced sideways and had to suppress a laugh at Aspen’s open-mouthed expression.

More, more, more.

I chuckled, ruffling Arlo’s fur, showing him the affection he desperately craved.

That need was achingly recognizable.

Turning toward Aspen, I inclined my head, inviting him to do the same.

His eyes flickered between the hand I still had wrapped around his wrist and my fingers brushing through the bear’s thick fur. I took his nod as permission, guiding his hand to Arlo’s neck. His fingers trembled slightly, but as they began moving, awe sketched itself across his face.

He wore it well.

I grinned, sensing the joy radiating from the beast as Aspen relaxed. That was always my favorite part. Their emotions.

Too soon, Arlo tilted his head toward me, nodding once.

“He needs to leave,” I said, reaching up to place my hand over Aspen’s.

A ghost of a smile danced on his lips as he met my gaze, holding it for several beats before letting his hand fall.

As Arlo passed, I reached up and tapped his snout. He let out a grunt of appreciation before vanishing into the trees.

“You didn’t say anything out loud.” Aspen’s face was still alight with wonder. “How did you know he wouldn’t attack you?”

“I don’t always speak aloud. If a creature is hesitant, I try more intimate forms of communication first.”

Aspen’s brows furrowed. “What do these other forms entail?”

I ducked under a low-hanging branch. “I think it works similarly to all Scriptor powers, from what Sarek has told me. I open my mind and extend an offering of communication. If they accept, we can converse freely within our minds. Sometimes it’s a spoken language similar to ours, other times we share images back and forth. If the situation is stressful or dangerous, some animals only convey their emotions. It takes more of my essence, but it’s worth it.”

We reached a ledge and peered down. Less than a few yards, I estimated.

Aspen laughed, shaking his head. “Leave it to you to befriend our fiercest warriors.” He jumped down, landing gracefully before extending a hand. “I’ve never seen a Keeper act like that before.”

“They may be trained warriors.” I took his outstretched hand and followed him down. “But they share the same needs we do. All he wanted was to be shown love.”

He pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. “You really are a constant surprise.”

I flipped my hair back over my shoulder, patting it into place.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I replied, beginning down the path again. “Particularly coming from you.”

Aspen’s voice softened. “You offer kindness freely, even to those who might not deserve it.”

“Who’s to say they don’t?”

His step faltered slightly. Then, in a quieter voice, “Iris.”

The way he said my name made me pause. I hadn’t heard it since Marikaim.

“I believe you,” he said. “I should’ve told you immediately?—”

“You don’t have to.”

His laugh was laced with relief.

“What you do for others is honorable. A goddess-damned vigilante.”

He quickened his pace until we were walking shoulder to shoulder. “You boldly allow others to see your gentleness,” he seemed to weigh the words in his mind. “Yet your vehemence could rival an avalanche. It’s refreshing.”

I tried to stifle my surprise, busying myself with smoothing a wrinkle in my sleeve. When— how —had he come to understand me so acutely?

“What’s so unheard of about that?”

“Perception is power. Many sacrifice one for the other.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, glancing up at the sky before meeting his gaze. “I will never understand why the world believes one must lose a gentle heart in order to wield a fierce soul.”

Aspen’s steps faltered again. Then, gently, he wrapped his hand around my wrist, tugging me to face him.

“For the record,” he said, “I think it’s brave to keep both.”

* * *

We traveled in comfortable silence for the rest of the day, stopping in a small clearing as the sun dipped lower in the sky. We hadn’t spoken much about the Malum since arriving, and it was nice to have a day when my eyes didn’t burn as I fell asleep from poring over books. The time outdoors was also doing wonders for easing the persistent throbbing of my Threader magic against my skin.

Aspen and I set up camp, working in surprising unison as we unpacked our bags and sorted the supplies we needed for the night.

We had agreed that creating a barrier around the camp would be the safest way to ensure we remained undisturbed while we slept. I could admit how desperately I needed the practice with the barrier magic. Casting the net wide, I weaved and braided strands between the trees. Distance kept the Threads as far from Aspen as possible, I didn’t trust the way they thrashed.

Aspen had nearly finished constructing the tent when a rustling sound made us both pause. My head snapped to the right as a small figure burst through the bushes, leaping onto my lap.

The arctic fox from my first day here jumped at my face, a delighted laugh escaping as I leaned down to nuzzle its nose.

Aspen made his way over, shaking his head. “I thought I told you to stay home, Mochi.”

I glanced up in surprise, running my hands through the fox’s thick fur.

“Mochi?”

“Yes, Mochi,” he sighed, crouching beside us. “His name is from a children’s novel—one about the mortals.”

“You’re very well versed in the mortal novels,” I mused, scratching beneath the fox’s chin. “Does Altaerra know about your propensity for them?

“Why would they?”

“It’s your most endearing trait.”

“And?”

“Goddess forbid you seem approachable.”

“Yes, because then people would approach.”

“What horror.”

Mochi’s ears twitched, tail flicking, as he reached into my mind.

Scratches, again.

Tilting a frost-tipped ear toward me with wide eyes, he all but demanded I comply.

I raised a brow.

Please .

Laughing, and ignoring Aspen’s growing irritation at being left out, I obliged.

“It’s a sweet,” Aspen added. “If the mortal stories really are from the other worlds of the Celestos, Mochi is a sweet.”

“How did he get in here?” I asked after a moment, lifting Mochi into my arms. “I thought the Tundra’s barriers allowed no exceptions, even for animals.”

“They don’t,” Aspen said gruffly, scratching behind Mochi’s other ear, “Mochi is a member of the royal family. He can travel as he pleases.”

I studied the fox more closely. “Who does he belong to?”

A shadow flitted across Aspen’s face—so brief I almost questioned whether I’d imagined it.

“Technically, he’s mine.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You failed to mention that when we met.”

A quiet laugh rumbled from his chest. “I wasn’t sure you’d stay if I had.”

I shot him a questioning look.

He hesitated before elaborating. “You seemed so... distrusting. I thought you’d see it as some kind of lure. Or trap.”

I considered that for a moment. “I might have.”

He rose to his feet, brushing off his hands. “Then I’m glad I didn’t say anything. If it meant you stayed.”

We finished setting up camp and ate a dinner of bread and cheese before laying out two bedrolls—one on either end of the tent. Noticeably as far apart as possible.

“The tent will be warm,” Aspen said, eying how many layers I’d changed into. “I’m not that sadistic.”

“I get cold when I sleep,” I lied.

As we settled in for the night, I stared at the tent’s roof. My thoughts were too restless to allow sleep. Not even Mochi’s steady breathing, warm and soft where he curled at my side, quieted the feeling tugging at my chest.

Something about this journey felt pivotal , as if it pulled at the unseen tides of fate. My thoughts circled, attempting to untangle my unease, but exhaustion finally won, sweeping me into a peaceful oblivion.

* * *

A silent pull stirred me from sleep. Reorienting to the dark, eyes bleary, my arm reached for Mochi, but the space he’d nestled into was empty. I pulled the blankets higher, tucking them underneath my chest and rolling to my side—when I finally found him.

Both of them.

Aspen sat at the tent’s entrance, Mochi stretched across his ankle, deeply focused on something propped on his knee.

Moving as quietly as I could, I shifted for a better view.

His chin lifted to the clearing before returning to his hands. A piece of charcoal hovered between his fingers before he brought it to...

A sketchpad.

The gentle rasp of charcoal against paper filled the tent, rhythmic in the silence.

I lay there for what felt like hours, transfixed by the steady, methodical motion of his hand, wondering what he was drawing.

But more than that, I found myself studying him . He seemed… at ease.

I wondered if this was the first time I was actually seeing him.

Not the guarded man, always braced against something unseen. Not the prince who could shift in an instant—body tensing, expression hardening, eyes dulling to something distant and unreadable.

Just Aspen.

Here, in this moment, simply existing .

Guilt crept into my chest. Had I been too harsh? Judging him based on childhood rumors and the choices of a family he had no hand in shaping?

Probably still being too harsh .

The weight of the Malum. This mission. The urgency pressing down on us. It wasn’t only my burden to bear. It affected him, too—perhaps even more so. His people. His future kingdom.

Lying there in the darkness, my eyelids growing heavier, I admitted to myself that I wanted to see him like this.

Not tense. Not wary. Just this .

And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying thought of all.