“Why aren’t you afraid?” Mirovan’s voice was a raw whisper, raspy from disuse and pain. The dark coils around Branya’s neck softened from obsidian shards to silken ropes, still lethal, but no longer actively crushing. She met his gaze, her smile unwavering, though the taste of copper bloomed on her tongue from where she’d bitten her cheek. The freezing air in the Black Tower felt thinner now, charged with his agitated power. “Because you haven’t eaten yet, Mirovan,” Branya chirped, reaching toward the clean bowl she had set on the tray. “And you must be starving. No wonder you’re so… energetic.” She lifted the bowl, her fingers brushing the warm ceramic. A faint tremor ran through his arm, the dark ribbons tightening at her throat for an instant before recoiling entirely and dissolving like smoke. He watched her, brow pulled taut. Hunger, perhaps, warring with suspicion. She dipped a finger into the gruel, then licked it, a tiny, exaggerated sound of approval. “Delicious! Just needs a pinch of salt, maybe.” She offered him the bowl. “Here. It’ll make you feel much better.” Mirovan stared at the bowl, then at her face. His hands, raw and chapped, twitched. He made no move to take it. Branya’s smile stayed fixed, patient as the winter night. “Go on. I made sure it was safe.” He snatched it, not quite rudely, but with a sharp, desperate motion. He ate, at first slowly, then with increasing speed, gulping down the bland, warm sustenance as if it were ambrosia. The gloom in the room seemed to recede further, the air growing marginally less frigid. His shoulders, previously hunched and tense, eased a fraction. While he devoured the gruel, Branya took stock of the room. It was a squalid pit. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of moonlight piercing the high, grimy glass slit. Straw on the floor, a threadbare blanket, and a cracked basin of freezing water. No personal effects, no book, no scrap of paper. A true cage. “Right,” she declared, once he’d scraped the bowl clean, depositing it carefully on the floor beside him. “Time to make this place habitable.” Mirovan flinched, pulling his knees to his chest. “Don’t touch anything.” His voice was low, laced with a warning. Branya merely beamed. “Nonsense! A little cleanliness never hurt anyone. And besides, I’m meant to be your attendant now. My job is to make sure you’re comfortable.” She retrieved a stiff-bristled broom from behind the door – one she’d brought, knowing Koldan wouldn’t provide one – and began sweeping the straw, kicking up clouds of ancient dust. Mirovan watched her, mesmerized by her relentless energy, his earlier volatility replaced by a stunned bewilderment. She scrubbed the glass until moonlight streamed in unimpeded, revealing more grime than she’d initially seen. She laundered the threadbare blanket in the cold basin, then hung it to dry, a small, sad flag of defiance. As she worked, she hummed a tuneless, cheerful melody. Mirovan stayed huddled on his straw, following her every movement with a gaze that held a peculiar mix of wariness and reluctant fascination. Branya’s true mission, however, began after the first wave of cleaning. While Mirovan dozed fitfully, exhausted by his magical backlash and the unexpected meal, she began to inspect the floorboards. Koldan’s system was predictable: if a servant disappeared, their history vanished too. But sometimes, people left traces. She ran her hands along the cold, rough wood, feeling for any give, any subtle difference in texture. Her fingers snagged on a loose board near the hearth, hidden beneath a thin layer of soot. With a soft click, it shifted. Beneath it, nestled in the cold earth, was a small, leather-bound ledger. Its cover was stiff, and a dark, faded stain marred one corner – a stain that looked suspiciously like dried blood. She tucked the ledger into her apron pocket, her pulse thumping against her ribs. She would read it later, in secret. For now, she had to maintain her facade. Days bled into a week. Branya arrived each morning with a brilliant smile, a warm meal, and a new cleaning task. She found a discarded, chipped mug and scrubbed it, leaving it by Mirovan’s straw. She brought a small, carved wooden bird she’d found in the servants’ quarters, placing it on the window ledge. Each small act was a chisel against the icy wall he’d built. Mirovan, for his part, stayed largely silent. His gaze tracked her constantly. He still flinched at sudden movements, black tendrils sometimes lashing out in reflex, but they never quite reached her. He ate everything she brought, meticulously. He never asked her to leave. One afternoon, a violent shudder wracked the tower. The air crackled with raw, uncontrolled power. Mirovan, hunched beneath the sill, let out a choked cry, his body seizing. Dark energy pulsed around him, making the sparse furnishings rattle. It was a flare, a surge of Umbral magic, more potent and painful than his previous backlash. His hands, already raw from the cold, began to bleed where the skin split, an ominous grey seeping from the cracks. He was trying to suppress it, to force it back, but it was overwhelming him. “Mirovan!” Branya rushed to him, her voice sharp with concern. He recoiled, a low growl rumbling in his chest, Umbral haze rising like protective serpents. “Stay away!” he snarled, sweat beading on his forehead, his face contorted in agony. “It’ll… it’ll hurt you!” Branya ignored him, pushing past the coiling black mist. She grabbed his arm, pulling him, with surprising strength, towards the straw. “Sit down! You’re making it worse.” He struggled, a wild animal caught, but her grip was firm. She forced him onto the straw, making him sit cross-legged, his dark magic flaring in angry bursts around him. “Stop fighting it!” she commanded, her tone firm, utterly without fear. She knelt before him, pulling out a small, stoppered pot of salve she’d procured from the infirmary, meant for frostbite and chapped skin. It was thick and smelled faintly of lavender and pine. Mirovan stared at her, utterly bewildered by her stubborn defiance. His thrashing subsided to a trembling. His eyes, swimming with pain and residual power, fixed on her. “Give me your hands,” she ordered, her voice softening, but leaving no room for argument. He hesitated, then slowly, reluctantly, extended his scarred, bleeding hands. They were cold, even through the pulsing magic. Branya took one hand, gently, carefully. Her fingers were surprisingly warm against his icy skin. She began to massage the thick, emollient salve into his cracked knuckles, his torn cuticles, the weeping wounds on his palms. Her touch was feather-light, yet firm, working the warmth into his frozen flesh. Mirovan winced once, then stilled, watching her, his breathing ragged. His violent magic, which had been thrashing like a trapped beast moments before, began to purr. It was a low, resonant thrum, a subtle vibration in the air, like a contented kitten stretched out in sunlight. It didn’t dissipate, but softened, losing its jagged edge, responding to the gentle rhythm of her hands. His eyes, no longer wild, watched her in something akin to shock. He had never been touched like this, not with such unreserved tenderness. As she worked, her gaze swept across the room, noting the subtle shift in light, the receding chill. Her eyes caught on a small, ornate piece of polished obsidion set into the top corner of the room, almost hidden in the murk where the wall met the ceiling. It was too perfectly circular, too perfectly polished to be natural. A mirrored scrying ward. She knew Koldan had eyes and ears everywhere, but to place one even here, in Mirovan's cell… He was watching them. Watching *her*. Her smile stayed bright, but an icy knot pulled taut in her stomach. She finished with Mirovan’s hands, then, still humming her tuneless song, she rose. Later that night, in the quiet solitude of her small servant’s cot, Branya unrolled the blood-stained ledger she’d found. The pages were brittle, the ink faded, but the entries were stark: names, dates, and then, always, the same chilling notation: “Transferred to the Hearth of Ozeri – Black Tower – Deceased.” A score of names, all dead. And then, a single, loose parchment fluttered from between the pages, a hastily scrawled note, Pater Koldan’s distinctive script. It read: *Mirovan. Provoke until snap. Solstice too long. Must harvest core before it fully stabilizes. Legal justification needed.*

Frostbite and Hidden Ledgers