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Kell wakes up in a dying world.
He didn’t mean to. Didn’t want to. Didn’t even know what he was doing until he closed his eyes and felt his blood hum with familiar power and the world warped beneath him.
And then he awoke in a place at once foreign and familiar, a deepening sense of horror sliding like ice through his veins.
White dusts every surface imaginable. From the earth to the river to the trees — it is all coated in a layer of ice and snow. The sky hangs suspended in an eternal dusk, clouds streaked grey. Brittle flakes drift down, crumbling apart at first touch with the chipped cobbled roads or crumbling roofs.
Even the Siljt was white, frozen surface gleaming in the fading light, shadows coiling underneath the surface but not brave enough, strong enough to breach through.
Wind, sharp and terribly bitter, more so than any Kell ever knew back home, whips through the alleyway, carrying with it the scent of ash and snow and cold. He shudders, pulling his cloak tighter around his body. But the fabric was light, meant for the soft chill of fall in a London he knew instead of the perpetual winter of one he didn’t.
In the end, the coat does nothing, and he is still cold.
He had messed up.
He’d been aware of this, of course, while he was casting the spell. Had known on some level that this could only lead to bad and worse. Had seen it written across the stricken face of his brother, the shocked eyes of the queen, and the hard, angry lines of the king.
He’d known, and still he’d done it.
A laugh crawls up his throat, and he swallows it back down, throat aching with the movement. When had he last eaten? Had a sip of water?
Too long, his body reminds him, yet he has a feeling he won’t find either of those things now. Not for a while, anyway. Not in White London.
Out of habit, he reaches inside his pockets, fingers curling around a small token. Not red — if it were red he could just leave — but the faded color of dust. Of ash. Of things once alive. Personally, he preferred the weight of a lin, the way it settled easy in his palm and guided him into the city. Through the city.
Comforting, when one could be there and gone in a moment’s notice. When time ceased to be an issue, and it was merely a matter of location. Kell liked having the coin with him.
It was just his luck, then, that the one time he didn’t have it was the one time he truly, desperately needed it.
Another gust of wind barrels past, chilling his already frozen bones. It’s the kind of cold that, once it enters, never fully leaves. It remains, dug underneath your skin. Persisting in the hollow spaces where flesh meets muscle meets blood. Piercing your lungs and turning each breath into an agony of its own.
He hunches over instinctively, burying his head between his knees and wrapping his arms around his body as if that would keep the cold at bay.
For a moment, he considers using magic. Even a spark would be something better than what he felt now. But he doesn’t need to know the stories surrounding White London to know that would be a horrible idea.
Beneath the wind, beneath the cold, the air was stale. Hollow. Starved of something vital. A growing pressure forms at the base of his skull, and he can feel it.
The gnawing hunger of a world left with far too little magic for far too long.
Now it curls toward him, drawn by the lingering threads from his arrival, greedily sucking it up until Kell felt that little bit colder. That small piece emptier.
No, using magic was not an option.
But what else could he do?
There had to be something he could use. Some way to get him home, or at least off the street.
If he wasn’t picked apart by any of White London’s magic-starved inhabitants first, that is.
Charming thought.
But as he lay there, Kell was struck by the disconcerting revelation that without his magic, he had nothing. He was nothing. Being an Antari was the only thing he had going for himself; it’s what landed him in the palace, what gave a meaning and a purpose and a life. It —
He tenses. Was that…
Frowning, he strains his ears, picking apart the hushed roar of the wind to find —
The soft crunch of snow. The heavy beat of boots striking stone. The gentle swish of fabric, the edges flapping softly in the wind.
Footsteps.
And drawing nearer.
Kell bites his lip to keep from making noise, slowly inching backwards until his back is pressed against the wall. His heart hammers in his chest, straining against muscle and bone. Despite the numbness of his fingers, face, toes, sweat trickles down the nape of his neck, slips over his brow.
It is far from comfortable. The corner of a stone brick, its edges raised slightly above the road, juts into his hip, while the remains of dead vines dig into his arms and legs. His new position also leaves him more exposed to the air and unable to turn away as the footsteps sound closer, closer, closer.
Frost dusts his lashes as the tip of a shoe appears in the mouth of the alleyway. Wind drags icy fingers down his exposed skin until his face is windbitten and raw. His breath hitches. The footsteps pause.
No no no.
Kell slams a hand over his mouth — too late, too late — in a last ditch effort to mute his breaths. He watches as the boots pivot and turn into the alleyway, their black shine at odds with the whites and greys surrounding him. They linger at the edge, eerily still, though he doesn’t dare look up and see what the stranger might be doing.
He only curls deeper into the shadows and prays to a set of nameless saints he doesn’t believe in that the darkness will cover him, or the stranger will turn away.
It’s a foolish hope, if only because Kell’s cloak happens to be a particularly bright shade of red.
As such, he’s not all that surprised when the boots stop in front of him. When one nudges his leg, as if to check he was still alive. When the stranger lowers themself on their haunches, elbows resting on their knees, hands clasped between them.
They exhale softly. Shifts their weight to the side. Resignation settles in Kell’s chest.
Finally, he forces his gaze up.
A pair of mismatched eyes — one faint green, the other shining black — peer back at him. Holland tilts his head, considering something, and heat floods Kell’s cheeks.
Of all the people to find him, he isn’t sure if he’s relieved that it’s the other Antari or mortified that Holland is seeing him like this — weak. Effectively powerless.
At that moment, the wind picks up in earnest, and suddenly whatever Holland is thinking is the last of his concerns.
Sanct, he thinks, teeth chattering. Why couldn’t he have picked the Grey London token? Why did he have to go to White, where the weather alone was brutal enough to kill anyone, magic or not.
“You’re a long way from home, kid.”
Kell doesn’t answer, merely shivers in the dark and the cold and the snow.
Holland’s eyes flick up, attention fixed on something beyond the walls and buildings rising like claws into the sky. Kell doesn’t have to turn around to know what has caught his eye — the jagged peaks of White London’s castle, their steps perpetually soaked in blood. Then he sighs, pushing off on his knee and straightening to his full height.
He made an imposing sight, Kell had to admit. With the severe cut of his face, charcoal hair swept back from his forehead, and a dusty black half-cloak resting over his shoulders, Kell might have mistaken him for a king, if he didn’t know who sat on the frozen throne. All that was missing was a crown.
Rolling his shoulders back, mouth pulled into a frown, he holds out a hand. When Kell doesn’t move, he raises a singular dark brow.
“Unless you want to freeze to death…” he trails off. Kell doesn’t waste another breath.
Holland’s grip is firm as he hauls Kell off the ground, catching him when he stumbles forward, his muscles protesting against the sudden movement. Black dots swarm his vision, and it takes every ounce of will he possesses to stay standing as the road sways beneath him.
“Easy now.” The older Antari places a hand on his shoulder, shockingly patient as he waits for Kell to catch his breath. His lips quirk upwards. “The air here’s not too friendly to foreigners.”
By air he means magic, and by foreigner he means you, and much as he would like to, Kell doesn’t have the energy to argue his point.
They make their way slowly through the city, Holland leading them through a twisted network of back alleys and side streets that seem determined to make him helplessly lost. At one point they wind up near the Siljt, though he could have sworn they were closer to The Scorched Bone.
He expects to dive back into the city, but to his surprise Holland takes them across a small bridge where a pale forest waits on the opposite side.
Here, lean white trees tower over them in place of buildings, ice sunk deep into the wood, snow dusting the branches. There are no leaves, because that would mean it was warm enough for leaves to grow, and White London hasn’t known anything but winter for centuries.
As they walk, some of his strength returns, each step coming easier, yet his magic still feels frustratingly out of reach, weak in a way he hadn’t known before. Stifled. Muted. Even though that should have been impossible.
Holland looks back at the castle only once, an unreadable emotion flickering across his face. Kell wonders if the Dane twins can see them even now. If they were watching, tracking their steps, waiting for the right time to reveal themselves.
He shudders, looks down. Much as he hated to admit it, he was entirely at Holland’s mercy right now. If the other Antari wanted to hand him over, Kell would have no means of self-defense. No way to escape.
What would Rhy say if never returned? Maxime? Emira?
He shakes his head. Tries to push them from his mind. They could not help him, and while he was here he could not help them.
After what feels like entirely too long, Holland brings them to a final stop, releasing Kell’s arm and allowing him to collapse on the ground. Holland then does a brief sweep of the area, both physically and with magic, Kell’s skin prickling as it washes over him.
“Why are you helping me?”
Holland doesn’t spare him a glance, continuing his circuit around the small clearing. The seconds seem to stretch into infinity until at last he sighs, turning to face Kell, who finds himself shrinking back in the man’s shadow.
“Why am I helping you?” Holland repeats. He sounds vaguely amused by the question. “What does it matter?”
Kell blinks. “To me?” He points to himself, not entirely sure where this was going.
“Yes, to you.”
“Uh — ” Quite frankly, he thought this was a ridiculous question; why wouldn’t it matter to him? “So I know you’re not trying to sell me out?”
“There is a squadron of soldiers under the command of Athos Dane heading towards us as we speak.”
What —
“They will be here in — ” Holland tips his head to the side in mock contemplation. “Ten minutes, let’s say.”
Kell finally finds his voice. “You — what?”
“Ten minutes — ” Holland reaches into his pocket and flicks a small round object at Kell, who lurches forward to catch it. Its surface is cool and smooth — metal, shaded a soft red. A lin. Holland spins on his heels, his half cloak flaring around him. “I suggest you be gone by then.”
“Wait, hang on — ” Kell scrambles to his feet, regrets it as the world tilts violently to the side, going down hard on one knee. “Wait,” he pleads, and, to his surprise once again, Holland does.
He takes a breath. Wills his vision to settle before asking, “How am I supposed to leave? How am I — I mean, I can barely feel any of my magic right now, much less do a spell — ”
“Are you an Antari or not?”
His mouth snaps shut. Opens. Closes again. His cheeks flush red. “Pardon?”
“Are you an Antari or not?” When Kell doesn’t respond, Holland folds his arms across his chest. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question. Answer me, are you an Antari or not?”
Kell stumbles over his answer.
“I — yes, but — ”
“Then you are perfectly capable of figuring it out.” The on your own goes unsaid, but Kell hears it all the same.
He swallows past the lump in his throat and ducks head, not trusting himself to say anything more. Fear pounds through his veins, heart racing anew. When he flexes his fingers, a trickle of magic slides through them.
There is a squadron of soldiers under the command of Athos Dane.
They will be here in ten minutes.
Ten minutes.
Ten minutes.
Ten minutes.
Not nearly enough time, not even close.
When he looks up again, Holland is gone. Through some combination of skill, magic, and wind, his footprints have already disappeared, smoothed under a sheet of white snow. Kell never heard him leave.
—
He doesn’t give himself time to consider his actions. Ten minutes runs through his mind in a loop, drowning out any other thought.
Frantically scouring the area, he finds a suitably sharp piece of ice, its edges crusted over with frozen dirt. He wipes it off on his cape, then brings it to his hand and draws it down. It’s not a smooth cut, not like his knife would have done, but it does the trick.
Bracing himself against yet another icy gust of wind, he places his hand against the nearest tree, tries to picture where he might be in Red London, and blows out a breath, air misting in front of him.
The flow of blood is already slowing as he draws a set of lines into the bark. Once he’s done, he gives himself a second to gather his magic, to breathe. He could still feel it slipping away from him, sucked into the empty air.
Here goes nothing.
He opens his mouth, and he says the words, and as the world bends around him he hears a shout. Spots a flash of steel from behind a copse of trees. One of the soldiers lunges forward as if to pull Kell out from the spell.
But it’s too late. The forest fades away, white dissolving into vibrant red, and Kell is gone, the familiar thrum of Red London greeting him with open arms.
Behind him, beyond the void between worlds and a veil of white snow, Astrid Dane walks up to the tree and brings a single pale finger to the blood drying in the wood. Her nail cracks the bark, chips breaking off to fall into her waiting palm.
She closes her hand into a fist. Straightens. Turns.
“Now,” she says, lips curling into a vicious smile, “we can begin.”