Page 28 of ColdIron
When Aelindor asked more about the metals in the mine, I told him—iron, gold, platinum, iridium, rhodium, and a newer metal called starfell. It confirmed parts of his intel on Crimson Ridge. He hadn’t gotten everything right, though. Whoever his spies were, they couldn’t get reliable information out of those tunnels. As they’d said, I was the only one who’d made it out.
“What else do you know?” That had been Aelindor’s last question before he’d left.
“Not much,” I’d answered with a low rasp, keeping my pulse steady. These supernaturals could hear the rhythm of my heartbeats. “I’m just a miner. I followed the overseers’ instructions, went where they sent me. I wasn’t a leader or anything, given my age and experience. They wanted Stormglass, so we tried to find more so we’d get fed. Which was never much.”
You lie so well, little Max.The demon chuckled.I’m proud of you. Do you know those who can work with metalsare called geomancers? Someone with your particular skill is called an alchemist.
It tried again, pushing at the edges of my mind.
It knew the secret I held could topple empires.
Over half the Stormglass transported to the White Witch’s capital was tainted with dormant Coldiron. I’d simply have to call on it, persuade it to turn and render the Stormglass useless. Then the engines powered by the tainted arcane metal would collapse. Lights would die. Batteries would drain to nothing. The infrastructure of a kingdom, crippled from the inside.
That was how I’d get my revenge for my parents’ deaths.
That was how I’d destroy the White Witch and the Pallid Court.
I tilted my head. Even here, in this interrogation room, I could hear the low hum of Coldiron, familiar, keen, chatty. They’d sensed my presence.
Like every kingdom, the Zodiac Covenant had bought tainted Stormglass from smugglers on the black market. They were using it to power their fortress. Even the limelights blasting my face were fueled by Stormglass laced with a drop of Coldiron—a tiny heartbeat of sentient metal pulsing inside the lamp housing. Waiting.
I could persuade it to silence the Stormglass. Plunge this entire room into pitch black.
Maybe it was time to derail the dragon’s operation with one command.
12
MAX
Coldiron was everywhere, and they were my friends. They answered to no one but me. Before I could stop it, a low, satisfied chuckle escaped from the back of my throat.
“You think this is funny, little warlock?” Drakken snapped, his cold eyes pinning me.
“First of all, I’m not a warlock. I don’t know any spells.” I met his gaze. “Second, I have to be honest with you—I’ve never met anyone more exhausting. And third, even if you keep me in the dungeon forever, my answers will still be the same. I’m nobody but a simple miner. And I believe, as important as you are, you have better things to do than waste your precious time on me.”
“You do have better things to do, don’t you, Drakken?” Caspian offered casually, as if trying his best not to provoke the dragon. “I certainly do. Let’s move on instead of staying stuck here.”
Drakken ignored the shifter.
“Nice try,” he sneered. “You’re not a simple miner.You’re an amazing actor. You should be proud of yourself for your outstanding performance.”
He tried to stare me down with his full alpha weight, a predator’s dominance pressing against the air itself, expecting me to buckle.
I held it.
Pulse hammering. Skin prickling. But whatever lived inside me rose to meet his challenge like a wall of black water, lending me strength I had no right to have.
Caspian’s eyebrows lifted. Drakken hid it well, but I caught the flicker. I understood hierarchy among predators. Not many could withstand his stare without crumbling.
“If you aren’t a spy,” he pressed, his voice rougher, “the witches would never have let you pass through their territory. No one has succeeded before.”
He wanted me to admit I was a witch and a spy. Roll with it, I confirmed his suspicions. Deny it, he’d take denial as proof of guilt as he’d already made up his mind to hate anyone connected to his enemy. The man saw what he wanted. His hatred was a lens that warped everything into the same shape.
“Call me a bad liar, a good actor, or an alchemist all you want.” I drew a breath. “I’m not a spy.”
“You’re no alchemist!” he barked. “It’s a reputable profession. No witchcraft in it.”
He respected alchemists then. I filed that away.
