Wynter swore beneath his breath. Valik was right. The storm outside was deadly. It had to be stopped. He laid a hand on his wife’s burning forehead. Khamsin’s fever was driving her delirium, and her delirium was driving the storm. If he could bring down her fever, the storm should calm. Since none of the surgeon’s remedies had worked, there was only one other way Wyn knew to lower Khamsin’s temperature.

He closed his eyes and drew on the coldness within him, summoning the power of the Ice Heart. Not much. He wanted to cool her fever, not freeze her to death. Even so, just that tiny summoning ate away at the small reserve of warmth inside him.

That was the insidious price of the Ice Heart. Each use of its power, no matter how minute, robbed him of some irretrievable portion of his humanity. After three years of war and death, so little of his former self remained, he felt even the tiniest additional loss like a hammer to the heart. He could literally feel himself growing more distant, more unfeeling, more like the dread, soulless monster of legend.

When the backs of his eyes began to burn, he opened them and stared down at Khamsin, releasing the cold in a long, sweeping Gaze that traveled up and down the length of her body. The temperature around them dropped, becoming brisk. Her breath puffed out in small clouds of steam. His did not. What lived inside him was so much colder than even the frozen wastelands of the north that each exhaled breath grew warmer rather than colder when it hit the air.

He smoothed his hands across her flesh, rubbing the skin so his Gaze chilled but did not freeze and bending close to breathe cool air upon her in its wake. The burning heat in her skin began to cool. Her thrashing stilled.

Outside, lightning still crashed and boomed as strong as ever.

“Well, that didn’t work,” Valik shouted over the din.

Wynter swore under his breath. “The storm has already gathered enough energy to sustain itself.” It was a fearsome storm, far, far worse than the little thundershower she’d summoned last week in Vera Sola. “I’ll need to bleed some of it off before things will settle down.” Wyn cast a glance back at his friend, and his eyes widened. Valik’s hair had begun to lift in a pale halo around his face. The air around him had begun to glow an eerie shade of violet. “Valik!” he cried, “Move!”

Only swift reflexes honed by years of battle saved him. Valik leapt a scant instant before lightning struck the spot he’d been standing. The tent flashed with blinding light, and thunder cracked with earsplitting fury. The canvas caught fire, but pelting rain extinguished it almost as soon as the first flame flickered. Electricity jumped and sparked along the metal binding of the tent pole, then leapt in frenetic arcs towards Khamsin’s body.

Her eyes flew open, shifting silver, glowing as the wild energy surged through her. Her back arched; her hands splayed out, fingertips sparking with flashes of light. The curling, white-streaked strands in her midnight hair began to move, rising as Valik’s had done on invisible bands of energy while a violet glow surrounded her. She wasn’t controlling or feeding the storm any longer, but she was still a lodestone for its energy.

Wynter lunged towards her, but the lightning reached her first. The explosion of it flung him backward with such force that it drove the breath from his lungs. He lay on the tent floor, stunned and gasping as the lightning speared her, filling her slight body with shining light. Another bolt struck, its white-hot charge seeking her out with unerring accuracy.

He lurched to his feet and stumbled out of the tent, summoning his power as he went. He could not control lightning or storms, but by the Frozen Gates of Hel, he could certainly summon enough cold, dry winter to rob this tempest of its fuel. He reached deep into the bottomless well of power that was the Ice Heart, shouting with a mix of pain and defiance as the devastating fury of it ripped through him. His head flung back, his eyes flew open. Power erupted in a shining column, shooting high into the atmosphere. Rain froze and shattered. Water vapor flash-froze to tiny flakes of snow and ice.

He dug deeper into the icy depths of his power, plunging into the abyss, gathering the bitter cold and driving it into the sky like a sword thrust to the storm’s heart. Magic and nature exploded in a collision of power. But a storm—even a great storm—could not sustain itself when robbed of its warmth and moisture. The clouds shrank, bleeding their strength out in showers of brittle snowflakes.

Wynter held the Ice Heart’s dread power with unflinching determination, until the wild, roiling storm transformed to clear, cloudless sky, filled with stars so bright they dazzled the eye and a cold so bitter it sent every man and beast in the encampment running for shelter and the warmth of campfires and huddled bodies. Only then did he release his hold on the magic.

His body felt stiff and hollow. As if there were a terrible, empty void within. Some elusive memory niggled at his mind, some faint alarm whose meaning he could not remember. He turned and stepped back into his tent.

Valik had beat out what flames the rain had not extinguished. Now, shivering violently, he was crouched over Khamsin’s still form. His hands were shaking with cold as he dragged furs and blankets over her to protect her from the dangerous drop in temperature.

“Does she live?” Wynter asked in a voice bereft of emotion. Some part of his brain remembered that Valik was his beloved friend and that the woman lying on the heap of furs was his wife, whom he was pledged to protect. But the memory felt coldly detached, as if the concept of emotion was little more than alien words on a page. He felt . . . dead inside . . . frozen.