Frostblood

I curtsied low. “I will do my best to die slowly to please Your Majesty.”

“Not a sound, child,” she whispered.

I needed no reminder. The crowded catacombs were so silent that any noise seemed like an explosion of sound. Not that the crowd minded. They were all dead.

“You can go now,” he said coolly.

“Oh, can I? Why, thank you, my lord,” I said sarcastically. “And for the record, I already know how you feel about fire, so you don’t have to be mad that I’ve witnessed one of your weaknesses. We all have them, you know.”

He turned to look at me, his face completely expressionless. I tensed, waiting for a scathing response, but he mumbled something and looked away.

I left the smithy and headed toward the kitchen to help Brother Peele with dinner preparations, still puzzling over his parting remark. I must have misheard him. It almost sounded like he’d said, I fear you are becoming one of mine.

I turned away before he could see the flush that crept up my neck. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Just don’t wear your cloak in the forge,” he called after me. “With all the stray sparks, you’re liable to catch fire.”

But it wasn’t the forge’s effect on me that was worrisome.

A sort of truce formed between Arcus and me.

“But the world has grown weary of stories now,” she said, slowing her voice to signal the end of the story. “And only children listen.”

Memory shuddered through me. My grandmother had always ended her origin story with the same phrase.

My eyes were closing, my head lolling onto the pillow. “But Arcus the Angry has decreed I’m to be cleaned up. Do you not fear his wrath?”

He smiled, his hand on the door. “There are things I fear much more.”

Not that the crowd minded. They were all dead.