Chapter 25 · The Black Ice Speaks

"Don't touch it."

Virrak's hand clamped down on my wrist before my fingers brushed the black ice shard. The thing sat in my palm like a frozen coal, cold enough to burn.

"Let go," I said.

"Not until you tell me what that is."

I twisted free. The shard pulsed once, a slow red glow from deep inside, and the numbers floating over Virrak's head flickered. His loyalty score dropped three points.

"It's mine," I said. "That's all you need to know."

"That's a Korde mark." His voice went flat. "The old kind. The kind that died with your grandfather."

I closed my fist around the shard. The cold bit through my glove, sharp and clean. Around us, the camp was waking up. Soldiers dragged supply crates through the snow. Someone was shouting about firewood. Normal morning sounds. Except Virrak was staring at me like I'd just pulled a knife.

"You want to have this conversation here?" I asked.

He looked past me, toward the command tent, then back. "No."

"Good. Then move."

I walked. He followed.