Page 127 of Three Dark Kings and the Gilded Serpent

Another flood of frost blasts from Stellen’s hands, flowing across Antony’s armor, but it’s clear he’s fighting an uphill battle when Antony’s head lolls and the steam continues rising.

“P…a…ge,” Antony mumbles, somehow still conscious, his hand shaking as he draws his fist away from his chest, a piece of paper clamped between his fingertips.

I don’t know what that paper is or why it’s so important that Stellen immediately sweeps it into his pocket with a quick, “Fuck, it could have caught fire,” before another stream of frost flows from his hands.

“Downstairs,” Stellen rasps, dragging Antony across the floor to the staircase. “There’s a bathing room down there. We need to put him under the cold water and get this armor off him.”

I race ahead down the stairs, taking note of the larger space I’m entering.

Barracks sit off to the right with several rows of narrow beds and multiple shelves. On the nearest set of shelves, I recognize the satchels Nara carried on her back when I last saw her, one bag containing my Alak-Teahan coat and the other the scrolls and maps from the Frost Kingdom.

On the left is a bathing area made of polished stone, each wall fitted with multiple head-height water outlets while pumps are located at intervals around the floor.

Stellen is right behind me, but he pauses at the shelves, shoving the piece of paper into one of the satchels before hoisting Antony up again.

I hurry to the water outlet straight ahead, pumping water as fast as I can to get it started.

Stellen pulls Antony under the spray while Antony mumbles disjointedly and Stellen snaps, “Don’t you fucking die on her, Antony.”

The water sizzles across Antony’s torso, a freezing downpour that gives me hope.

Propelling myself under the heavy spray, I ignore the cold and at the same time risk burns by taking hold of Antony’s helmet, pulling it free and carefully laying his head back on the floor. While Stellen works on Antony’s chest plates, I reach for Antony’s arms, quickly unlocking the mechanisms by memory, having seen Antony remove his armor in the past.

“Like this,” I gasp in the spray before I demonstrate to Stellen, who slides free the interlocking plates from Antony’s right shoulder first.

His burns become visible, welts and peeling skin that horrify me, but the water seems to be helping.

Clamping down on my fear, I focus on removing Antony’s boots while Stellen reaches for his left breastplate.

At that, Antony lurches into a sitting position, snatching hold of Stellen’s arm with his now-ungloved fist, snarling like a cornered animal. His eyes are half-open, one eye appearing filled with blood.

“No.” He snarls.

“We’re trying to help you.” Stellen draws on his power, frost icing over Antony’s hand, forcing Antony to let go.

With another garbled curse, Antony hunches over, still in a sitting position, clutching his arm protectively over his left breastplate.

When Stellen reaches for Antony again, Antony’s fangs appear. This time, his rebuke is intelligible. “Get away.”

Frustration rises within me. “Stop that. Your armor is keeping the heat in.”

Antony’s focus swivels to me. “You, I will allow to remove my armor,” he says, continuing to hunch over his breastplate. “Not him. And not this part of my armor. I don’t care if I fucking burn.”

My frustration billows.

So, apparently does Stellen’s. He utters a “humph” before he retreats and begins pacing opposite Antony.

I’m certain Stellen must be debating using his frost to strike Antony’s armor in an effort to crack it apart. I’m not sure if he would succeed. Victor designed this armor and I’m certain he tempered the steel to resist heat and frost—which is probably why Stellen’s power wasn’t cooling Antony before.

With a mighty effort, I shove my frustration down. “Fine.”

As fast as I can, I continue to work, removing the armor from Antony’s legs, leaving alone the pants he’s wearing underneath. Then I tackle the remaining plates on his arms. Tricky when he won’t lift his right arm away from his chest.

Finally, I reach for the last plate across his back. “Lean forward so I can get this off.”

“Enough,” he says, flinching away from me and hunching more sharply in the spray.

“Antony—”