With everything around them having been charred to nothingness, they decide to take shelter in the carriage.

Duke Wulf doesn’t bother trying to turn the heavy coach over. He opens one of his luggage chests and pulls out a sizable glass lantern. Flames flicker from his fingertip to the oddly thick candle inside.

“This will generate heat,” he tells her before handing her the lantern and pushing her into the coach.

Having a light after so long in the darkness brings her unspeakable comfort. To keep from knocking it over, she places the lantern in the corner of the floor but soon realizes heat is better dispersed from the center.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Building a canopy out of our luggage to keep the rain out,” is not the answer she’s expecting but makes sense with how bad the weather is turning.

The inside of the coach is already wet. Since she still has the duke’s cloak, it won’t make her uncomfortable, but she thinks about Duke Wulf working tirelessly to provide them with a decent shelter.

Seduction requires hard work and thoughtfulness.

The only luggage allowed inside the carriage was the one with her money in it. She opens that same chest and tries not to despair. Inside are her saintess items: a small statue of Duhella, prayer manuals, holy oils, and other such things.

There’s no one to take offense over using ceremonial tapestries as a rag, so she picks the ugliest one to dry the inside of the coach with. Once that’s done, she tries to think of something else to do.

Her eyes land on the seat cushions now on the wall. They’re practically taunting her. She tries to pry them off, but to her frustration, the cushions seem glued to the metal seats.

“Give me a knife,” she says, trying not to sound irritable.

It would have been nice if her ceremonial items included a blade of some kind. She wants to scream at how useless the things the novitiate packed for her are, but it’s her fault for being lazy and letting the girl do all the work.

“That is a ‘please.’” A medium-sized hunting knife suddenly appears inside the coach, handle first.  

She can practically feel the duke rolling his eyes. Making a face, she thanks him with the least amount of sarcasm possible. It almost physically hurts her.

The cushions come down after careful prying, but a few chunks are missing from sloppy knifework. It’s good enough. She takes one side of the coach, and Duke Wulf takes the other.

Even though he’s dripping wet, she doesn’t even think about giving the duke back his cloak. The fabric is warm against fingers so cold she can barely bend them. She blows on her hands when the ache becomes too much and stops short.

She can see her breath. When did it get so cold?

To the thoroughly soaked duke, the freezing air must be pure torture. With uncertainty, she offers, “We can share body heat?”

“Do you really want me out of my armor right now?”

The words aren’t said in a teasing way. The duke keeps a wary gaze towards the hole in the carriage, and it’s a sharp reminder that her life depends on Duke Wulf being ready to protect her at a moment’s notice.

She keeps her mouth shut.

They pass the time in silence with the only sound being the very heavy rain hitting the carriage. Eventually, the need to hear anything else gets to her.

“What’s the deal with this cloak? Why is it so dry?” she asks.

“It is enchanted with heat and wet condition.”

She knows the words, but it feels like there is something more being said. Like a tradesman using common words in a vastly different context.

“Heat and wet condition?” she repeats awkwardly.

“It’s a practical enchantment,” the duke says as if all enchantments aren’t practical. “Means it will not burn or ruin from the rain.”

She runs her fingers over the thick, slightly coarse material of the duke’s cloak. She can understand fire-resistance, but ruin is not the same as dry.

“What do you mean by ‘ruin?’” she decides to ask.

“That,” he points upwards, “is ice rain.”

“Ice rain?”

Instead of responding, the duke takes off a gauntlet. He gets up and leans out until his bare hand is sticking out from beneath the luggage canopy. After only a few seconds, he pulls his hand back.

She can’t stop her gasp.

Instead of being wet from rain or slightly red from being hit by hail, Duke Wulf’s hand is covered in frost. Nothing should be able to do that to a person.

“Magic induced rain,” the duke explains. “It’s usually meant for controlling wildfires. No one has ever managed to stop it from turning into cursed ice.”

A quick burst of flame magic, and Duke Wulf’s hand returns to normal. He puts his gauntlet back on with furrowed brows.

“Magic doesn’t play nice with the weather, so only mages of a certain caliber can use it. We are not alone here.”

She shivers at the tone and curls up, red fabric wrapping around her tighter as if it can protect her. In a hushed voice, she asks, “Demons?”

“If it is,” the duke says thoughtfully, “it should have shown itself by now. The more powerful a demon, the more arrogant and simple-minded it tends to get.” He frowns. “I suspect it is a rogue mage.”

“Rogue mage?”

“Trovia is well-known for its dislike of magic. Those who want to use it either become magicians under the crown’s control, part of the church, or they defect to the Land of Mages. The ones who defect become known as rogue mages.”

That, she thinks, explains why the king is making a duke work like a personal knight instead of a ruler of his own territory. She wonders if it bothers him even if it seems like he enjoys killing demons.

“If it is a rogue mage and not a demon,” she watches his face carefully, “then why do you look so concerned?”

“That,” the duke’s expression turns cold, “is because the Land of Mages want you dead.”