“Mari,” Kael called into the room.
Silence.
“Mari?”
He struck a flint, and the torch flared to life. Shadows surged along the walls, stretching over him.
His chest clenched as he met the empty room. Unbidden, the memories came, vivid and unrelenting, as he tugged on the pendant—dense woods, distant machines growling in the night, his sister huddled beside him, her wide eyes filled with fear.
The woman had been clear. Stay here. Do not leave. I’ll return soon. But Kael hadn’t listened. He’d left their hiding place, for water, maybe, or some more selfish desire. He couldn’t even remember now.
His sister had begged him not to go. But he had left anyway.
It had only been a minute. He’d told himself that over and over. But when he returned, the clearing was empty. Ransacked. His sister was gone.
And the trail he’d left, clumsy and careless footsteps, had been there for anyone to follow.
Now Mari was gone too.
The wind shrieked through the shattered window, snow sweeping across the floor in crystalline dunes. Kael’s breath frosted in the cold air as he scanned the wreckage.
His boots crunched over glass and ice. The desk lay overturned, Edric’s papers scattered like autumn leaves. He moved through the mess, trying to save what he could.
Then he saw it. The edge at first, a corner peeking out from beneath a frostbitten page. A photograph.
Kael crouched, sweeping the snow aside with a gloved hand. The image emerged. Sepia-toned, brittle, it was a relic of another time. But it wasn’t the age of the image that made his pulse quicken.
It was the amber-flecked eyes staring back at him. Damn. It could have been Oona.
She stood in a study or library, a slant of lamplight across her face—the same face he had seen only hours ago. But the print was old, its edges crumbling, its colors bleached by time. She hadn’t aged. Not a single day in a hundred years.
Kael stared at it for a long moment before muttering, barely more than a breath, “Who, or what, are you, Oona?”
“Kael.”
A voice rose above the murmurs.
“Kael?”
He felt a touch on his shoulder. Turning, he found Oona standing in front of the great stone hearth, clutching her medical bag.
Waves of steam rose from the wet clothes near the fire where refugees huddled, carrying the scent of smoke, sweat, and damp wool.
“In Lower Town,” she said softly. “How many?”
“Too early to say,” Kael said, searching the far end of the hall. At the castle’s great doors, where snow and ice crept through the cracks, guards had stacked crates and benches into a barricade, ready in case the monster returned.
From outside came a final, settling rumble from the mountain, the exhale of the great white beast itself. The sound filtered faintly through the stone, so distant it could have been a trick of the mind, if not for the ripple it sent through the crowd: a child’s clutch, an old man’s wince.
“Have you heard anything about the passes?”
“Buried,” Oona said. “We’re cut off until spring… if anyone lasts that long.”
Kael sighed, feeling the weight of it all. The castle had held. But the town? The town was buried. And how many more would be found beneath it?
Above them loomed the great hall’s vaulted ceiling, the timbers blackened by age and smoke, arching upward like the ribs of some ancient leviathan. Once a monument to power, the hall now seemed diminished and dwarfed by the press of humanity within its great belly.
People huddled against the walls, wrapped in blankets, their breaths misting faintly in the cold seeping up from the stones. Their faces were all marked by the same hollow shock.
He had to do something. And so he said it. Almost in spite of himself.
“Unless we can notify the Crown.”
Oona fixed him with a tense stare. “The Crown? No, Kael. There must be another way.”
She remembered Martha and the Candlemakers and the slow, deliberate extinction of their kind. But as her gaze swept over the desperate faces in the hall, she saw what the Crown could offer: food, medicine, shelter, warmth.
“Is that the only way left, Kael?”
He nodded, though certainty was leaving him. “The signal tower. Edric had some strange ideas about it.”
Oona’s brows drew together. “No. There has to be another way to get a signal out…”
Kael studied her face. “Do you know what’s there?”
Before she could answer, bells tolled. Their deep, somber tones rang out the death knell for Lord Edric, or for Threadneedle itself.
Oona’s gaze darkened. “I know that Lord Edric’s research is what got him killed. Whatever is in that tower, it’s dangerous. And now it’s buried under snow. Where it belongs.” She let him digest that, then asked, “What do you expect to find up there, Kael? A sign? A miracle?”
Kael couldn’t quite put his finger on the way she spoke. Was she hiding more than she let on? But before he could press, the commotion at the main doors drew them both back to the moment.
Three men stumbled inside, covered in snow, faces raw from the cold.
“The gates are sealed,” one of them stammered through chattering teeth.
“Lower Town’s just… buried.”
“The walls are holding,” another added quickly. “For now.”
Kael rotated back to Oona. “The Crown needs to know what happened here.” He spoke firmly, conviction creeping back. “If we can get a signal out, they’ll send engineers. Supplies. These people, they just might survive.”
Oona held his gaze. Then, gentler, laced with meaning:
“Or someone might make sure that signal never reaches them.”
Kael moved closer. “You’re not telling me everything. What do you know, Oona?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned, ready to go.
Kael caught her wrist, not harshly but firmly enough to stop her. She spun in place, the frayed edges of her worn cloak turning up slightly in the twirl. She didn’t hide her anger. Not well.
“I found this in Edric’s papers,” he said, pulling a photograph from his cloak. The edges were stained, curling from the frost. He held it up.
Oona’s mask barely held, a hairline crack beginning to show. Her gaze locked onto the image. Recognition flashed across her face, then a deeper feeling. Pain. And also… fear.
“You found that in his study?”
“Yes,” Kael said. “It was with his papers. It belongs to the Crown now.” He watched her carefully. “Do you recognize her, Oona?”
She pulled away, shaking her head. “You shouldn’t have that.”
“No,” Kael cut in. “What you mean is, it shouldn’t exist. Isn’t that right?”
He lifted the image, a faint tremor in his fingers. “The woman in this photo, the one who looks just like you. Standing there. One, maybe two hundred years ago.”
The silence yawned, wide as the space from star to star.
Outside, the wind pressed harder against the walls, its whisper filling the void where neither of them spoke.
Oona caught the faint glint of silver at Kael’s neck.
“Photos can be like memories,” she said. “Not what they seem on the surface.” She glanced at him, catching his gaze. “But holding onto them… that’s where the real power lies.”
Kael’s breath slowed. Holding on.
Oona almost whispered. “I wonder… if the Crown knew what was inside that locket of yours, would you still be standing here?”
Kael’s hand moved instinctively to the pendant, his fingers tracing its worn edges.
A woman who had tried to protect him. And his sister. A moment he had spent his life regretting. And now, Oona was here, the same presence. The same impossible truth. His mind rejected it outright. No human could remain unchanged for that long. But his heart refused to let go.
“It’s not possible,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Oona held his gaze, searching. Then she said, “Time isn’t always what you think.”
She arced away, as if ready to leave.
Kael’s hand tightened around the pendant, his thumb brushing its tarnished surface.
“And some people,” he murmured, watching her disappear into the crowd, “if that’s what they are… aren’t either.”
The photograph curled in his fist, the cold biting into his fingers. But Kael no longer felt it.
Get blankets.
Stay out of trouble.
The note was crumpled, scribbled in charcoal. The writing felt heavier than it should. Maybe because Martha had to add that last part. Stay out of trouble. She just had to put that in there.
Sarah tightened her grip on the paper, then shoved it into her pocket, resisting the urge to crush it further.
The storage cabinets were against the far wall, as Martha had said. Simple. Quick. Easy.
She paused near the hearth, the fire’s warmth seeping into her stiff fingers. The oversized wool coat wrapped around her smelled of damp earth and smoke. She felt small in it, like a child playing dress-up, trying on someone else’s life.
Around her, people moved like shadows, heads bowed. Soldiers drifted in and out of the hall, snow clinging to their cloaks and hair, melting into puddles that seeped across the stone floor.
And then she saw him.
A group of boys sat slouched in the corner, just beyond the reach of the fire. Jory was at the center, his back against the wall, his long legs stretched out like he had all the time in the world. He spoke in low, animated tones, moving his hands in easy gestures.
The others were listening, grinning, nodding along. One of them laughed, a reckless sound that drew a few irritated glances, but no one stopped them. No one cared.
Sarah knew his name. Everyone did.
She should keep walking. The cabinets were right there. But her feet shifted, and not toward the blankets.
Toward him.
Her heart pounded as she weaved through the crowd, drawing closer to the boys. No one stopped or even noticed her. She felt, for once, free.
She slipped behind a pillar, close enough to hear their conversation.
“You ever think about just leaving Threadneedle?” Jory was teasing, but a real feeling was buried under it. “What are they gonna do? Chase us? We could be halfway to the south before they even noticed.”
One of the boys snorted. “You always say that. But you’re still here.”
“For now.” Jory leaned back, grinning. “But you wait. I’ve got an uncle down there. No snow. Fields of—”
“Peaches?” The stoutest boy rolled his eyes. “You don’t have family.”
Sarah reeled. She hadn’t expected that. It was the way Jory went quiet, and the subtle shift in his expression. She felt it.
She didn’t have any family either.
“You gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna say something?”
His voice sounded louder than it was. The tall, lanky boy had spotted her.
Sarah stiffened.
“Hey, I know you,” another said, frowning. “You’re one of the Candlemakers.”
The accusation hit like ice water.
“No, I’m not.” The denial came too fast, too shaky.
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Sure, you’re not.”
“I’m not.” Her fingers clenched around the note in her pocket, crumpling the edges.
The stout boy smirked. “Whatever you say.”
He moved closer. Poked her.
Sarah stumbled back, her heel sliding on wet stone. She caught herself before she hit the ground, but the noise made heads turn. A few villagers glanced over. A Crown’s guard perked up.
Jory moved before she could react.
“Leave her alone,” he said, shoving the stout boy back. His voice was easy, lazy even, but his fists were up.
The boy eyed Jory, then Sarah, then the crowd beginning to notice. “Ah, whatever.” He backed off.
Jory turned to Sarah, offering a hand. She considered it, but not for long, before taking it. His grip was warm and steady. She didn’t let go right away and neither did he.
For a moment, the noise of the hall faded, the firelight dancing between them. Sarah felt herself drawn in, closer… closer.
Their lips almost…
A hand clamped down on her shoulder.
“Sarah,” came Martha’s voice, knife-sharp.
Sarah flinched, her stomach dropping. She cast a look to see Martha’s face, tight with quiet fury.
“What are you doing?” Martha’s grip on her arm tightened. “I told you to stay out of trouble.”
Sarah opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Martha changed her focus to the boys, to Jory. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. His smirk widened a little, like he was daring her to say something to him. She didn’t.
Instead, she pulled Sarah away. “Come on. We don’t have time for this.”
Sarah just barely resisted, but Martha didn’t let go. And as she was dragged through the crowd, she looked back one last time.
Jory was watching her. But the smirk was gone and in its place was an expression Sarah couldn’t quite name.
“Sarah,” Martha shouted, now nearing the hearth. “That’s the last you’ll leave my side.”
The older woman was dragging her across the hall. Kael recognized the girl from the tavern. A group of boys were gathered across the hall, gawking at the scene. And one of them—the tallest, with dark curls and an edgy grin, also from the tavern—tracked Sarah like prey.
Kael focused on Sarah. A quality about her stood out. Maybe it was the way she set herself apart from the villagers in a spirited way, almost Oona-like, sharing the same amber eyes.
Kael stood near one of the hearths, its heat barely reaching him. As he focused on Sarah and Martha, a shiver tugged at the edge of his vision. A shadow at the edge of the fire.
“Crownsman.”
Kael turned.
Riven, the Peddler, stood just beyond the fire’s warmth, his furs damp and clinging, his face more cratered than before, but his eyes—those glittering, sharp pieces of glass—were too aware.
Kael couldn’t hide his disdain. “What do you want?”
“Want? Ah, nothing.” Riven’s grin was skeletal. “But I have an inkling of what you might be after.”
Kael didn’t move, but his fingers grazed against his coat pocket and the brittle photograph inside.
Riven sidled closer, candlelight exaggerating the hollows of his cheekbones. “Patterns, Crownsman. You look for them too, don’t you?”
His brows drew together, lips pressing into a line. “Speak plainly.”
With slow, deliberate movements, Riven reached into his coat and set an object on the edge of the fire pit: an old, corroded neural interface, similar enough to the silicon sticking out of the frozen pocket on the stake that Kael took a second glance.
“He made purchases from me, you know,” Riven murmured.
“Edric. What did he want with these?”
Riven’s grin widened. “Same as you, perhaps. Searching for meaning. Searching for voices where there shouldn’t be any.” He held up the tangle of frayed wires and quantum chips. “Thoughts like seeds, growing, or glowing, in the dark.”
Kael’s heart ticked faster. “And who did he think he heard?”
“Ah, my lord. Lordly Darron, is it? Meister Kael, indeed.” Riven spoke in low tones. “Not who. What. Indubitably, my lord, what.”
A beat of silence. The fire crackled between them.
“The old machines, Crownsman. That’s what.” Riven leaned in. “You’ve seen the signal tower. Have you heard it hum? Did you ever wonder if something listens back?”
Kael’s stomach knotted, but he kept his expression neutral. “And who was listening?”
Riven grinned, all teeth. “Ah, now that’s the right question.” He tapped a grimy finger against his temple. “Who was listening? Who still is?”
Kael let his thoughts breathe, ruminating on the Peddler’s riddles. Did Edric believe someone was speaking through the tower? Was he chasing shadows, or pulling at a real thread? Is this what the Crown feared, or wanted? And who would be listening…
“Oona?” He spoke quietly, more to himself.
For the first time, Riven wavered, his grin faltering. “Oona. Yes. You know her? It seems you do.” Now softer. “I would be careful of her.” He examined Kael’s response, pausing at the final sentence, to see if it had hit its mark.
“She knows things,” Riven continued in a whisper. “May have done things. With the machines. And a blade…”
“A blade?”
Riven swayed, his movements jagged again. He reached for the neural interface, tucking it back into his coat. “Ask Oona about the tower. About the signals it’s sending.”
The hum of voices in the great hall pressed in, weighing down the air.
Then—a crash, and a chair overturned.
Kael wheeled toward the sounds. Marcus.
The young man stood near the hearth, his face stark with exhaustion and grief. His tone was raw and brittle. And he was swinging a bottle. The sweet smell of liquor clung to him. One wrong breath and Marcus might ignite.
“She’s guilty,” he slurred, catching himself on the table.
The judgement landed like hot iron in the hushed space.
Kael moved toward him, slowly. “And who exactly are we condemning?”
Marcus’s empty eyes reflected the firelight. “The healer.”
The crowd rustled, but Kael kept his calm. “You saw something?”
Marcus exhaled quickly, trying to keep himself together. “My sister,” he said. “Elena said she left the room just when he was killed.”
A murmur rippled through the villagers. Kael noted the shift in the air. The fear was changing, growing sharper.
Marcus bore down on him. “She was there, Kael. At my father’s chambers.”
His heart pounded in his ears. “And that’s enough for you? A rumor, an absence?”
Marcus held his breath, then continued. “It’s not only that. It’s everything. The way she speaks, the way she knows things. She was close to my father, closer than anyone. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
A voice came from behind. It was the Peddler.
“Strange, indeed. Patterns, Marcus. Patterns.”
Kael studied Marcus, trying to ignore Riven. He looked older than before. The weight of grief had pressed years into his face, almost overnight. But, wielded in the wrong hands, grief could be a weapon as much as a wound.
“And if you’re wrong?” Kael said.
Marcus didn’t blink. “I’m not.”
The doors at the far end of the hall swung open. The guards arrived first, cutting through the crowd like the bow of a ship. Garrick, solid as a stone wall, walked at the front. Beside him, Ward.
Between them, they brought Oona.
Despite the dim lighting, her white healer’s coat was striking, her dark hair neatly pinned, and aside from the blood on her sleeve, she appeared put-together amidst the unfolding scene. Her hands were bound loosely in front of her, the rope an insult more than a restraint. The guards, having already made up their minds, positioned themselves on either side of her.
Kael walked toward them, closing the space. “What’s this?”
Garrick gave a tilt of his head that might have passed for respect. “The healer’s been named.”
Ward sidled up. “The chambermaid saw her. Mari.”
Kael scanned the gathered faces. Somewhere, he caught sight of Mari. Her posture folded in, pale and quiet, attention buried in the floor.
“And Lady Elena,” Ward added, “confirms the healer was missing. Unaccounted for.”
Kael shifted his sight to Oona. Her amber eyes were steady, as if unbothered by the swirling accusations.
“You can’t believe this,” she said plainly, stating and not pleading her case.
Kael took it pretty hard, harder than he thought he should.
He looked at her as the crowd must have: the woman with blood on her coat, bound but unbowed. Riven’s voice echoed in him, “Knows things, she does. About the old machines. About patterns. About…”
“I see,” he said at last. He didn’t move to stop them.
Garrick gestured toward Ward. “Take her to the dungeons.”
Oona didn’t resist. But as she passed Kael, she glanced at him, silent. Searching. For a moment, he almost… but then he looked away.
The whispers trailed behind her like smoke. Murderer. Witch. Monster.
Kael watched her disappear into the corridor’s darkness. The calm she carried struck him like an accusation. He glanced at Marcus, still holding the bottle loosely at his side. The fire burned lower. The coals sent shadows quivering across the stones.
Kael reached for the poker, shifting a log. The embers flared, then faded.
“You don’t believe me,” Marcus said quietly. Kael’s fingers jammed the poker into the fire. Sparks spat out.
“Certainty,” he said low, “is a dangerous thing.”
Suddenly, the pendant on his chest burned like a hot coal, searing the words into him. Did you do the right thing, Kael? Will you?