Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

AUREN

After living in Sixth Kingdom for the past ten years, I thought I’d experienced every kind of cold there was. But when we cross into Fifth Kingdom, I realize that’s not true at all.

The cold in Sixth Kingdom is frigid wind, sharp needles of sleet, blizzards brought on by the loud wailing of a grieving gale widow, and an endless shroud of clouds.

But Fifth Kingdom is different.

We cross into its territory during midday, with the view of an arctic sea on the horizon. Chunks of ice as clear as glass drift lazily around with the tide, sea birds resting on them between their dives for fish.

Further out, cerulean blue icebergs jut from the water like frozen sentinels shielding the harbor, the floating mountains proud and tall.

We set up camp there, right on the shore. When night falls, the ground seems to glow, while the bright blue water goes black as ink, waves crashing into the shore with a ballad sung by the tide.

No, I’ve never known cold to be like this before.

This wintry land of Fifth Kingdom is nothing like Highbell. It’s not blustery or loud or punishing.

It’s still. Quiet. The glacial calm of a land at peace with the cold, rather than at war with it.

It’s not just the weather that’s different. The army is too. They’re more sedate tonight, as if crossing territories into the crisp, calm land sobered everyone’s thoughts.

After eating dinner alone in my tent, I wander outside toward the shore that’s speckled with bonfires, a mass of soldiers gathered around.

Reconsidering, I decide to turn, and instead of heading right for the crowded beach, I go toward the shadow of boulders off to the right.

Gray and pitted, the stones are gathered in a clump, like timeworn marbles left to scatter the ground on the icy beach.

I carefully make my way over the rocks in hopes of finding someplace more private, because a night like this seems to call for it.

It’s slow progress over the slippery surfaces, but I manage it by the heel of my boots and the grip of my gloves. Once I get to the top of the stone pile, I breathe in, enjoying the view for a moment before I start making my way down the other side.

I’m almost to the bottom when the toe of my shoe hits an ice patch and I slip. I go falling forward with pinwheeling arms, but before I crack my head open on the rocks, a grip catches at the back of my coat.

My body jerks to a stop, awkwardly suspended mid-fall. I look over my shoulder to find Rip, and surprise makes my eyes go as wide as saucers.

“I slipped,” I say stupidly. I’m both embarrassed that he saw me fall, and relieved that he caught me.

In the moonlight, I can see him arch a brow. “I noticed.”

He tips his head, indicating that he wants me to walk. Feeling flustered, I straighten up and face forward, regaining my footing carefully before I start to pick my way down the rocks, all too aware of his presence, of his hold.

Rip keeps a grip on my coat the whole time, until we’re back on the flat ground. As soon as my feet hit the snow, he releases me, like he couldn’t do it fast enough, like he’s bitter he had to catch me in the first place.

It shouldn’t bother me, but it does.

I turn to him. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

He nods at me, but he’s stone-faced, colder than the bobbing ice. “You should’ve brought your ribbons out immediately to break your fall. You need to work on your instincts,” he says in reprimand.

A small sigh escapes me. “So I’ve been told.”

I brush down the feathers on my coat and look around, noting the small, empty beach. It’s caught between another mound of stones about forty feet away, making this little notch feel secluded, secret. A clandestine coast along an icicle sea.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, turning to face him.

“Waiting.”

I tilt my head in curiosity. “For what?”