Daggers of Ice

Chapter 23

1008.

The Eighth Year of the Golden Age.

Arianna.

The air smelled of pine and cold metal – the way it always did in the north before snowfall. Myria's laughter cut through it, bright and clear, echoing across the training yard.

"Try again!" the dryad called, her amber-gold eyes alight with mischief. The arrow she'd just loosed still quivered in the heart of the distant target, buried clean to the fletching.

Arianna crossed her arms, watching from the edge of the clearing. "You've made your point."

"You mean my arrow made it," Myria countered, a grin flashing across her face. Her russet curls were pinned back loosely, stray strands catching the sunlight. The golden pigment on her cheeks shimmered faintly when she smiled – a habit of her kind, emotion bleeding into colour. "Come, Queen of Ice. Give it a draw."

Arianna arched a brow. "I would rather not embarrass myself attempting to pull back a dryad's bow."

Myria gasped dramatically, clutching at her chest as if struck. "You wound me! What's the point of being a queen if you can't humble yourself before your Captain of Archers?"

"You're not my Captain," Arianna said evenly, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

"Not yet," Myria quipped, tossing her braid over her shoulder. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she slung the bow across her back and skipped – actually skipped – to fall into step beside Arianna as they made their way back toward the looming silhouette of the Black Keep.

Arianna's cloak caught the wind, its fur-lined edge brushing the dryad's arm. The Keep's black towers rose ahead of them, sharp against the pale sky – a fortress born of frost and volcanic stone.

Myria's cheer dimmed only slightly as she glanced toward the horizon. "Any progress?" she asked softly.

Arianna's stride slowed. "On what?"

"You know what," Myria said. "The famine."

The word hung heavy between them.

Arianna's gaze flicked to the north – where the snowfields met the edge of the world. "The crops are failing faster than the thaw can come," she said finally. "The soil is sick. The pestilence has spread through three villages already. They no longer dig graves – only pyres."

Myria nodded grimly. She knew it too well; she had helped build those pyres. "You've found something though, haven't you?"

Arianna hesitated. "Perhaps. There was mention of an ancient magic in the witch's books. A spell meant to preserve the land through famine – to make the cold itself give life instead of taking it."

Myria's brow furrowed. "That sounds like–"

"I know what it sounds like," Arianna interrupted, sharper than intended. "And I do not know if I have the strength to wield it."

Of course you do not.

The whisper slid through her mind like silk over a blade – smooth, cold, unmistakable.

Arianna stiffened.

Myria, oblivious, reached out to squeeze her arm. "You've never lacked strength, Ari. Not once."

Arianna looked at her – at the warmth in those amber eyes, at the soft defiance of her smile – and almost smiled back.

Almost.

"I'll need more than strength," she murmured. "It belongs to the Deep Magic. The kind that takes as much as it gives."

Myria shrugged, walking backward, her grin returning. "Then we'll just have to make sure it gives more than it takes."