68. Danica

Danica

68

T he quiet that stretches between Rhyland and me is more oppressive than the iron shackles clamped around Adrian's wrists—Rhyland, a fortress of seething anger, paces at the edge of our motley crew. Not a syllable has broken free from him since we stepped out of the portal I conjured—a forest smeared with our most recent conflict, the familiar site imprinted in my memory like a scar.

Adrian shuffles ahead, sporting the latest in fae fashion—shiny cuffs that don't just sparkle. They put the 'less' in 'powerless.' Ensorcelled wristwear, stripping him of his magical mojo one trudge at a time. Rhyland gets a nugget of satisfaction from that—a peace-keeping compromise on my part. Call it couple's therapy, medieval style.

As we navigate through the haze-shrouded labyrinth of theWhispering Woods, time seems to stretch and warp, leaving us unsure how long we've been wandering through this eerie, murmuring landscape. The forest seems alive with secrets, each rustling leaf and snapping twig carrying whispers of half-truths that dance just out of reach. The snow-blanketed ground soon greets our boots, each step accompanied by a satisfying crunch. The crisp, invigorating scent of fresh pine and pristine snow wafts through the air, tickling my senses with its refreshing purity.

Lucian, our charismatic shit-stirrer of pots, is having himself a grand ol' time surfing the waves of angst. As we navigate the misty enigma that is Whispering Woods, he throws me a grin that's all shark in a sea of minnows. "Surely you haven't forgotten our last little escapade in this neck of the woods, particularly the, ah, shall we say, 'gesture of brotherly love' I so graciously gifted you with."

Oh, for the love of...

"What're you yammering on about this time? Do you seriously think I've developed amnesia about what went down in this very spot? Please. If you're referring to that whole 'feeding me your blood' thing, then color me utterly unsurprised."

Lucian never backs down from a challenge; grins wider. "Oh, I don't know,Dani-girl. Do you feel anything from my token of graciousness?"

I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck in the back of my head. "Lucian, I swear to god—"

"Or maybe," he interrupts, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, "you're feeling a little... different? A little more... dare I say it...Lucian-esque?"

I shoot him a glare. "The only thing I'm feeling right now is a burning desire to punch you in the throat—"

"That's enough, Lucian," Rhyland's voice slices through my rant like a blade through silk.

I can feel my annoyance spiking—not atLucian's playful ribbing, but atRhyland's uncanny ability to butt in at the most inopportune moments. Seriously, what's his deal? Something is amiss, and I plan to find out what that is.

But my chance to interrogateLucianis ripped away as we step into a massive cave opening, its gaping maw ready to swallow us whole and plunge us into the silent depths of the earth.

"I do believe we've arrived atFrost Weaver Hallows,"Faderynannounces, his voice bouncing off the icy walls in an eerie echo.

The moment I cross the threshold into the cavern, a bone-chilling cold slams into me like a freight train, wrapping its icy fingers around my body in a vice-like grip. We've stumbled into a new world where the Frost King reigns supreme, and the chill is his faithful consort. I half-expect to see a chandelier of icicles dangling from the ceiling, like some grand ballroom for abominable snowmen. And don't even get me started on this handsy fog, with its icy caresses that seem to seep through my clothes.

Each breath I take comes out in a swirling, ghostly puff, dancing away into the frigid air before vanishing into nothingness. For all I know, we could be time travelers, suddenly transported to some ancient, frozen historical moment when the sun's warmth is nothing more than a distant, half-forgotten dream.

As we venture deeper into the icy cavern, my body seriously considers drafting a strongly worded complaint to the management about this impromptu polar expedition. But just as I'm about to start composing my scathing review, my power decides to crash the pity party and flex its independence. Suddenly, my hands burst into flames, a dazzling display of white-hot defiance dancing and flicking between my fingers.

The cozy glow of my hand-held inferno chases away the frosty bite, warming me from the inside out like the sun decided to give me a private spotlight.

Lucian's eyebrow shoots up, and he hits me with a smirk. "Well, slap my ass and call me a s'more; look who's gone and become a walking, talking flamethrower!" He quips, his voice dripping with enough sarcasm to drown a small village. "How delightfully convenient of you. Should I pack the marshmallows and graham crackers for our next little jaunt into the arctic wasteland, or will you charge me a fee for basking in your radiance? Oh, Great One? "

I roll my eyes.

He chuckles, the sound somewhere between amused and exasperated. "To think, last time we found ourselves in a similar predicament, I was rubbing two sticks together like a fucking boy scout on his first camping trip, praying to whatever sadistic deity was listening for a spark."

I meet Lucian's gaze with a grin as sharp as the icicles above. "A flamethrower? Please, I'm more of a portable sunbeam," I quip, my tone dripping with mock grandeur. "Consider the s'mores a mere taste of my boundless benevolence—a freebie from my magnanimous heart." I flutter my lashes in an exaggerated display of innocence. "And that campfire performance? Quite the showcase of your rugged determination—adorably valiant, I must say."

Adrian's voice cuts through the frigid air, "As much as I hate to interrupt this delightful little exchange, we need to move on before we all turn into human popsicles."

"Agreed," Faderyn chimes in, his teeth chattering as he wraps his arms tightly around his torso. "Time is of the essence, and I, for one, would prefer not to become a permanent fixture in this frozen hellscape."

Erik is the picture of fortitude, the very image of stoic strength, but even he can't deny the creeping bite of the cold—his silver eyes betray a glimmer of discomfort. Rhyland is no stranger to the frost either. His brawny arms fold over his chest in an attempt to shield against the relentless chill. Even a Viking vampire can't scoff at the cold's insistent embrace.

Recognizing the pressing urgency mingled with our frostbitten plight. I affirmatively toss my head nonchalantly: "Let's move."

Axilya huddles into herself, punctuating her statement with a shiver, "I was n-not c-counting on it being so... so absolutely f-frigid ."

An unspoken rule in adventuring is always to respect a place named after something cold. Forst Weaver Hallows—honestly, it sounds like a delightful spot for penguins, yet here we are, dressed for a fall festival rather than a foray into Frostbite Central. Note to self: pack a coat next time we hit a place with 'frost' or 'weaver' or 'hollows' in the name. Or six.

With resolve, I march on, my internal compass fixated on the stone's silent beckoning through the cavern's twists and turns.

As we venture deeper into the heart of the cavern, the walls, clad in their icy finery, come alive with an ethereal dance of light courtesy of the fiery glow emanating from my hands. The azure luminescence bathes the frosty interior in an otherworldly hue, transforming it into a gallery of natural art, each frozen formation a testament to the raw beauty and power of the elements. The scene is breathtaking in its stark elegance, a symphony of ice and shadow that steals the air from our lungs—as if the cold hadn't already done a thorough job.

Stalactites hang from the ceiling like icicle chandeliers, poised to plummet at any moment, while stalagmites jut up from the ground like the jagged fangs of a slumbering behemoth, forever frozen in a moment of primal ferocity. It's a landscape of danger and grandeur, a realm where the line between awe and terror is as thin as the ice beneath our feet.

As we make our way across the treacherous, ice-glazed floor, our breath escapes in ephemeral puffs of mist, tiny clouds that dissipate almost as quickly as they form. The sharp, sudden crack of fracturing ice echoes through the cavern like a gunshot, a chilling reminder of the precarious nature of our footing.

Panic prickles at the base of my neck asRhyland's sharp command slices through the howling wind, "Stop!" His voice carries the weight of impending doom.

I don't need to be told twice—his deep, authoritative rumble never signals anything less than critical. A peek down confirms our predicament; the ice below is a fractured canvas of imminent betrayal.

"Fantastic," I mutter, the sharp edge of my sass barely masking my alarm. "Let's backtrack with all the grace of Bambi on ice, shall we?"

The others heed my words, cautiously backtracking with the precision of a bomb disposal unit, except me. I'm the statue in this perverse game of red light, green light, staring down the beast beneath me.

Rhyland's grip on my hand is the only anchor in a sea of shifting ice. "I've got you," he vows.

Our joined hands are the only warm thing in this icy hellscape as we tip-toe across the treacherous crust. I shoot him a sidelong glance, raising a brow, and say, "Next date, let's do something less life-threatening. Dancing, maybe?" Attempting humor feels like clutching at straws as another crack reverberates underfoot, sending my stomach into a nosedive.

The piercing sound of the fracturing ice is a chorus of warnings. "Careful yet quick—like pulling off a band-aid," he reminds me, the strain evident beneath his composed exterior.

Rhylandnods once, decisively. "I'm gonna blur us across," he states, poised to propel us across with vampiric speed.

But in a heart-stopping moment, the ice splinters, swallowing his footing, and gravity lurches forward to claim him. His descent stops abruptly—a precarious pause on a ledge of ice, the dark below beckoning—a silent scream of the void.

Air billows up from the abyss, a frigid exhalation that bites at any exposed skin. Fractures race across the ice beneath me, encroaching threats that bloom with alarming speed.

Rhyland's urgent order booms, "Go! Now!"

His concern is for me, even as he dangles between existences. Chivalry might be heartwarming, but right now, it just feels ice-fucking-cold.

Defiance ignites within me, shutting down the obedient part of my brain. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly an obedient damsel," I snap back, clamping onto his jacket with a death grip. "And you're not getting out of this date that easy!"

His fingers claw back, struggling for a hold on the slick surface. Our joint struggle against the ice is a battle of wills against nature's indifferent might.

The groan that erupts from deep within the ice is the stuff of nightmares—the sigh of a giant seated at the offering of souls. And then, we're falling, the world blurring in a dizzying, terrifying drop into the unknown.