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She let it go. The fire snapped between them, and the conversation died. Outside, the darkness offered nothing but a vast, empty silence.

By the fifth day, the path carved itself along the cliffside, the fjord spread wide below them as the wind howled up from the chasm. The horse stumbled once on the ice-slick stones, and Lysander’s arm shot forward, steadying Idonea without thought.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“I’m cold,” she replied.

He adjusted his cloak, then shifted forward so his chest shielded her back. She stiffened at first, then said nothing. The warmth helped.

That night, the stars returned. They camped beneath an open sky. Lysander sat with his back to a rock, his sword resting across his knees.

Idonea watched the stars a long while before speaking. “Do you believe in fate?”

He looked over. “I believe a man can decide what he does.”

“Even bad ones?”

“Especially bad ones.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s convenient.”

“For you?”

“For both of us.”

They came down off the ridge in the last of the light on the sixth day, and Krylovan rose out of the valley below them. Snow had been falling constantly, fine as dust on the saddle, building soft white shelves along the gelding's mane. For a moment she wanted to turn back.

She had expected something larger. The village was a knot of low stone buildings, each one's chimney pouring smoke in a slow steady column into the pale sky. A waist-high stone fence ran around the whole settlement, half-eaten by moss; a fence that had stopped being a boundary a long time ago and was now just a shape the land remembered.

A Templar stood guard as they neared the stone stables, which sat at the front of the town. He wore a fur cloak that reached his ankles, his gloved hands rested easily near his mace. Lance took to the skies.

“Brother,” Lysander said. “Will you let Exemplar Alcaeus know of our arrival?”

“Of course,” the Templar said, his gaze remaining on Idonea as he said it.

Idonea’s nose would freeze soon if she didn’t get out of this cold.

Lysander held out his arm and each of them gripped the other’s elbow. “My thanks.”

With a nod from each other, Lysander gestured for her to follow. She rubbed her arms up and down to keep them warm. No one was on the lane. The gas lamps were lit but lit for no one. The village held the same heavy presence as an occupied crypt. Quiet, but not empty. The cobbles were buried under enough snow that the gelding's hooves made no sound. A stone fountain sat dry in the centre of the square. Around it, terraces of two-storey narrow brick loomed. North of the fountain stood a larger house and beside it, smaller, a cottage. To the right of the square, a hall and a chapel sat with their backs to each other, as if pretending the other one wasn't there.

She looked at it all and her chest got cold.

Two girls in heavy field-coats crossed the square ahead of them, carrying a wooden case between them. The case was the size of a small chest, banded in copper. Both of them carried the copper-banded case with rigid care. Like something inside might wake if jostled. Both pairs of hands were stained dark to the wrist.

Lysander didn't comment. Idonea didn't ask.

He led Idonea into the one-storey house next to the two-storey. A hearth burned at the end of the front room, with a round table positioned nearby. It served a dual purpose of kitchen and dining. Only two doors led off the first room. One into the bathroom, and the other the bedroom. Thick embroidered tapestries hung on the walls, trapping in the heat.

“Am I to stay here alone?” Idonea asked.

“This was mine,” Lysander said. “Now, I’ll lodge with your father. The plan was to always give you a private space.”

“Not afraid of what I’ll do?”

“No.” He pointed at the front door, which was the same blue-black metal as the cuffs, Lodamante. The chill permeating her body must’ve overridden the sensation of losing access to the Current.

She swallowed hard. “Are all houses like that?”