In the Frigid Ruins

By Nadina Popoviciu

As the sequel to her fantasy novel A Return to the Ashes, Nadina Popoviciu's In the Frigid Ruins continues exploring the world of the Continent. After two of Lumina's best operatives disappear, and a lost Princess falls into their hands, the Phoenix relocates to deal with security threats in hopes of starting fresh from a new b

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: May 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885042406

Book preview

CITRINA

Citrina stopped in her tracks, watching a squirrel run toward the clearing where the small village of Auremont once stood before it slowed down and scurried back in the direction it came from. The air grew heavier and heavier as she approached the ruins as if some sort of mist hung in the air. From a distance, the air seemed to have a very slight, light-purple color to it.

Raising an eyebrow, the young woman’s curiosity got the better of her, and her feet carried her over the threshold. As she approached, she felt entranced, the smell of ashes filling her nostrils as she walked past the roofless ruins that she’d called home a long time ago, before the Phoenix became her new family.

She stopped in front of her old cottage; the once-white clay now had black ash running up the walls, and parts of the roof were either missing or on the ground in blackened crumbles. The wooden door was cracked open. As she pushed it, a charred skeleton that had been leaning against its side, as if just a second short of escape, fell toward her, covered in patches of burnt skin, mysteriously still dark-red after fifteen years, and burnt hair that framed a face contorted in a silent scream.

Citrina could feel bile rising up in her mouth, and she stepped back to hurl on the ground. Seeing dead bodies didn’t often disturb her. But knowing who it might be, combined with nausea from her own suspected pregnancy, brought everything out from her stomach. Even when there was nothing left, she spat on the dead grass in a futile attempt to get the nasty taste out of her mouth, with only the ashy air to replace it.

After a few heavy breaths, her ghastly fascination got the better of her as she crouched to observe the fallen corpse sprawled out before her. Even though she had not touched it, its skin peeled away to reveal scorched bone. Her morbid intrigue only intensified as the skin grew back and turned from black to red to a flushed peach color. More patches of hair appeared and turned from sinewy and singed patches to curly, dark-gold volumes. Yet just as Citrina recognized the restored face of her own mother, revealing shut eyelids over those large eyes and that open-mouthed expression of anguish, the corpse decayed once more to charred bone.

She watched with a mix of interest and horror as the body slowly cycled back and forth between those two states, her nausea overridden only by an empty stomach and the shock from what was happening. She rubbed her eyes and pinched herself. Yet her mother’s body still lay in front of her, cycling between that of a woman who appeared to be sleeping and a rotted, burnt carcass. Blinking back tears, the scout realized this was the first time in years that she had let herself think about her mother for more than a few seconds.

Citrina knelt by the corpse, a piercing pain in her chest. She remembered that moment when she had tripped running from the monster as if a six-year-old girl had any chance of escaping a creature with seven house-sized heads. She could almost feel the searing pain on her back from falling just under the heat of its flames; she remembered the screams that she let out, screams that, now that she thought about it, were echoed by her own mother not too far off. Her eyes traveled to the door. Had her mother’s last moments been spent trying to get to her? Could Citrina have saved her?

The scout lost track of time as she knelt there, unable to take her eyes off of her mother, who did not appear much older than Citrina was now. What would the woman think of her daughter? Learning and refining witchcraft through stone magic, using the power that her scars gave her. Bedding and killing men out of political convenience as a trained assassin. Betraying the wishes of her mother’s best friend, Lumina. Making and breaking vows to a nearby kingdom. Carrying the bastard of a childhood friend and hiding it from him while breaking his heart.

Citrina didn’t notice her own face was streaked with tears until she felt them drop on her hand. She dried her hand on the green, no, yellow… or black grass?

As she looked around, she noticed the grass was undergoing the same transformations as the corpse from a singed black to a dusty yellow to a vibrant green, back and forth. Glancing at the village and the bodies scattered around her, she noticed the same eerie phenomenon happening to them. Could this be magic left over as a remnant of the balaur’s destruction after all this time?

With a heavy heart, she averted her eyes from her mother’s changing body and walked around the village, finding that the houses remained in the same ruined state as hers and the carcasses of once-familiar neighbors mimicked that cycle. Citrina tried to listen for changes in her environment, but the entire place was dead silent. Her own footsteps barely made a sound on the cobblestone as if the magic around her muffled everything. She could feel the numb hammering of her heart in her ears, giving her a headache.

To her dismay, she failed to find any sort of magic that she was familiar with or even a spot where the misty air was most potent. No concentration of energy. No light source. No other living thing. The mist looked the same wherever she was in the tiny town, changing only when it began to fade in the outskirts.

She noticed that even the stones she kept in her pocket to draw power from seemed to shimmer a little more than usual as she brought out an amethyst shard. Flashes of visions and screams, more vivid than her previous memories and dreams, started to fill in her vision. The scene in front of her constantly shifted in splits of a second between the burning of the village and the ruins before her. Squeezing the amethyst more, those visions lasted maybe two seconds at a time until she came face to face with the vision of the balaur. Those glowing eyes stared right into hers, and some sort of hissing, almost sounding as if it were trying to speak some archaic language, echoed in her head. She screamed, but no sound came out; she could only hear the balaur’s voice growing louder in her head.

Dropping the amethyst, she suddenly found herself back in front of her old childhood home. Blinking incredulously, it took her a moment to realize that it was just a vision of a memory that she had tried to forget for a decade and a half. After picking up the amethyst and placing it back into her pocket, Citrina gingerly stepped past her mother on the doorstep to find the room in shambles as expected.

It didn’t differ from any other house in the area. The rug and floor had large black spots of ashes wherever they weren’t covered by fallen straw, and the walls were the same both outside and in. Using her imagination to the best of her ability, she tried to remember bits and pieces of her childhood from before the disaster: running around and playing in the main room with Jasper and the other kids, her father swinging the front door to greet and hug her after coming home from trading, the warm smell of homemade bread that her mother would make in the evenings.

As she walked into her old room, her breath caught as she found a young girl no more than six years old staring dreamily out the window. She must have sensed Citrina walking into the room because she immediately turned her head and beamed with those pearly teeth that all children have, running to throw her hands around the scout and burying her head affectionately against Citrina’s lower abdomen. Hesitantly, she hugged the child back. There was a strange familiarity, something she almost recognized in those delicate yet only half-graceful mannerisms, but she couldn’t identify the girl. The child was far too young to have experienced the balaur’s devastation, and she couldn’t have been kindred to her or a neighbor. She couldn’t have casually found her way here either; they were in the depths of the forested mountains between Padaure and Inecor, a long way from any other living village. So how did this girl get here and why?

Citrina found herself placing a comforting hand on the small child’s back and running the other one through those dark-brown locks that were almost as curly as her own, a small feeling of warmth flickering inside her. The girl pulled back slightly and held her hand in those tiny fingers. As the child looked up at her, the scout’s breath caught in her mouth upon seeing adoring eyes: dark gray with flecks of white and hazel, just like her and her mother’s.

Mama, where’s Tata? the girl asked, tilting her head curiously. Citrina’s throat closed up as she squeezed the girl’s hand, her heart pounding and her eyes blinking excessively.

Between those blinks, the girl vanished, and Citrina was alone again in a house that had only gotten darker. Looking back down, she rubbed the spot where the little girl had leaned her head, which had grown just slightly, and felt a bit of tenderness.

Citrina rushed out of the house, running out of the misty village and back into the woods. She wasn’t sure what was happening at Auremont nor what would come next, but she had to go back to the Padaurean Capital. She had to find her way back to Jasper.

two

CARNELO

Navigating through the small dirt roads lit only by scattered lanterns as the sky turned from dark blue to black, Carnelo pulled the cart to a stop outside of an inn in the small town of Tilmice, in the middle of the Padaurean countryside. After hopping off to untie both his horses, he glanced back at the cart, noticing that his friend, Atora, was awake now, looking to be in a bit of a daze from the past few hours.

Where are we? she asked, rubbing her eyes with a small yawn that reminded him of a kitten. He couldn’t help but smile a little.

A few miles out from the Capital, he told her, gripping both reins in one hand. He sensed her hesitation as she awoke, and he diminished her wariness while finding and amplifying any feeling of amity she had toward him. He couldn’t afford to have her distrust him.

Walking closer, he lowered his voice as he offered his free hand for her to take. Should lay low a little bit, at least until the unrest dies down. You can’t rely on any of those people. They couldn’t even protect their own Prince.

She nodded, gently taking his hand and gracefully stepping out of his cart before giving him a hug. Thank you, Zbura. His heart fluttered at that special nickname, as it always did. Her tiny frame felt fragile in his arms as he towered over her by more than a head. I must ask, where did you get the resources for this?

Pulling back, he shifted his arm so she would hold onto it, escorting her through the darkness as he led both her and the horses behind him toward the stables. Been lookin’ for a fresh start for a while now. Saved up coins over the years, so I can find a town around to start fresh. Maybe in Monvest.

Monvest? Atora asked. In the slivers of moonlight on her porcelain face and dark hair, he could just barely make out her raised eyebrows. Are you sure that is a real place to live? I have heard it is only forest.

That’s part of the adventure. He grinned as they walked into the stables, tying his horses to the nearby bars and leaving a coin on the small platform around one of them. Some of the other commoners say there are other villages. Others, like you, say it’s only forest. I’ll find out for myself.

So you are looking to leave Padaure? she pressed on, and he could sense a hint of disappointment in her voice.

Carnelo shrugged. What does it offer me?

The Duke’s daughter went silent. What would she say? She always—at least up until the death of her betrothed—planned to marry a Prince and end up in the Capital. Carnelo, meanwhile, was an orphan taken in by nice farmers in her father’s part of the kingdom, but he was always an outsider from a foreign, burnt-down village. The scars on his neck and chest constantly set him apart. Up until the other night, he thought himself to be the only survivor until he had spotted his long-lost brother practicing on the castle grounds. How strange that Jasper of all people was arranged to be Atora’s new betrothed.

It wouldn’t be right. He was lucky that she had yet to meet Jasper. If Carnelo had waited longer, would he have had to kill his own brother too? At the very least, it would have been a very awkward conversation. Of the two, Carnelo had known Atora for most of her life, knew her smile and what made her laugh and cry. Wouldn’t fate have been kinder to place her with him then, rather than his brother?

Perhaps it was. Slaying Prince Anghel had left Atora in his hands. He had a unique opportunity. Before, he was hopeless. His longtime friend was just about to marry the Prince of her dreams before he suffered an unfortunate—though painless—end.

Maybe, after escaping the mess and spending more time together, she would realize how dangerous the Capital was. That the life of a Princess didn’t hold the glory she expected. Maybe she might consider that she would be protected with him around. She might even start to love him as more than a friend! Maybe he could make a name for himself in Monvest, now that he was old enough to have a better idea of what life outside of Padaure might mean, with her at his side! If he could somehow get her to reciprocate those feelings, maybe they could even start—

He couldn’t get ahead of himself. It was getting late, and he needed sleep before he could even think of such a thing. Looking over at her, he could sense only a bit of weariness now, but no fear. He felt her hands around his upper arm that was still bent to escort her and smiled again, wider, as they walked toward the inn.

The inn was small and quaint, fitting in with the atmosphere of the rest of the town. An old innkeeper stood at the bar, his wrinkled hands wiping a rag over the counter as a couple of men in their thirties sat at the bar sharing laughs over drinks.

Atora nodded to him, clutching the bag of belongings she’d grabbed from the cart as she went over to sit at a table by the window, looking out to observe the small town as Carnelo walked up to the old man.

How much for a bed? the young man asked, reaching into his pocket for his coin bag.

Half a silver, the innkeeper replied, not looking up from scrubbing.

I’ll take one, then.

The old man looked up from wiping the counter, a bit startled upon seeing the scars crawling up Carnelo’s upper chest and neck. Everyone had that reaction with their first glance of him; the darkened skin and white lacerations were an unusual sight for even himself, but he had quickly learned that it wasn’t worth the bother to explain them.

As people usually did, the older man pretended he hadn’t noticed the scars, nodding and taking the coins placed on the counter. Fer you an’ th’ lady?

Carnelo nodded.

Wife? The innkeeper turned around toward the small series of nails in the wall that held keys.

No, sir, just a friend, Carnelo responded.

The innkeeper gave a hollow laugh upon grabbing one pair of keys and placing them in the younger man’s hand. Better watch ou’ fer yer lil’ friend. No rings on a sweet lil’ tart’ll surely be trouble. He motioned toward Atora.

Carnelo followed his eyes to find the two men from the bar standing over her at the table. She was smiling and from her expression alone, one could be forgiven for thinking that she was having a lovely conversation with them. But as his glance shifted over, he could see that eager glint in their eyes, the sort that men often got when they had a naïve girl like her in their clutches. It didn’t help that Carnelo could sense the lust and darkness in their hearts, and he felt himself grow angry.

As he walked over, he listened in on the words they were saying.

Go’ a nice bed fer ye, free o’ charge, the slightly shorter of the two said with a smile that revealed yellowed teeth.

That would be absolutely lovely, she replied, beaming. How kind of you to offer!

No need, Carnelo butt in with a serious tone. She already has a room paid for.

The men turned around, flinching a bit at him when noticing that scar and the fact that he stood a couple of inches taller than them, before looking down at his hand and hers. A ring’s absence seemed to bolster their confidence; their chests puffed up a bit and they stood up straight.

Now, man, let th’ lady stay where she please, the other man, dark-haired with small strands of silver, told him, holding his hands up.