Chapter 109 You're Surviving, Not Living
Bella
Mara doesn’t rush me. She walks with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly where she belongs, boots crunching softly over frost-slick stone as she leads me through one of the lower corridors. People glance up as we pass, only for a second, never long enough to be rude. Curiosity here is careful. Hope, I suspect, even more so. The corridor widens and narrows in deliberate patterns, shaped by both stone and ice. Doorways open into lived-in spaces—sleeping alcoves carved directly into the mountain, workshops lit by low, steady flames, storage rooms stacked with supplies catalogued and preserved by cold. Everything here has been designed to last. To endure.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, keeping my tone light, conversational, like the answer won’t settle heavy in my chest even though I know it will.
Mara exhales through her nose, a short sound that might almost be a laugh. “Most of my life.”
She turns a corner and gestures for me to follow, her pace unhurried.
“I was brought here when I was eight,” she continues. “Old enough to remember home. Young enough to be told I’d be safer if I didn’t.”
“That’s…” I trail off, searching for the right word. “Young.”
“My magic spiked,” she says plainly. “I panicked. Froze half a market square.” She shrugs. “No one died, but it was enough.”
I glance at her. “Enough for what?”
“Enough for the elders to decide I was dangerous.” Her mouth tightens. “Enough for my parents to agree.”
I slow a fraction. “They agreed?”
“They were ice elementals too,” she says. “But they were controlled, stable and deeply respected.” Her voice dips. “They were some of the lucky ones who weren’t cursed.”
I stop walking.
Mara takes another step before realising I’m no longer beside her. She turns, brows knitting slightly.
“Your parents weren’t cursed,” I say quietly.
She lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s kind of the point.”
“No,” I say, meeting her gaze. “They weren’t cursed because there is no curse.”
The Sanctum hums around us—voices echoing softly, the scrape of tools against ice, the distant crack of something being shaped deeper within the mountain. Mara studies my face like she’s trying to decide whether I’m naïve, cruel, or dangerously foolish.
“That’s a risky thing to say here,” she replies evenly.
“I know,” I say. “I lived in a tower because of my magic. I know what happens when people decide you’re too much.”
Something tightens behind her eyes.
“Your parents didn’t avoid a curse,” I continue gently. “They found balance.”
She scoffs. “Through what? Discipline? Years of emotional restraint? Freezing themselves down until nothing slipped?”
“Through love,” I say simply.
She laughs outright this time, sharp and disbelieving. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” I ask, unbothered. “There are families here. Couples. Children.”
“Yes,” she says cautiously.
“When those people fell in love,” I continue, “did you ever notice a change in their magic?”
Mara opens her mouth to dismiss it—and then stops.
Her gaze drifts, unfocused now, turning inward as she searches memory instead of argument. The silence stretches. I don’t interrupt it.
“…Yes,” she admits slowly. “But we always told that it was time, experience and learning control.”
“That’s what you were told,” I say.
She nods once. “That with enough years, enough restraint, we might learn to temper it. But never enough to leave.”
“Did it happen quickly?” I ask softly. “Before years passed?”
“…Sometimes.”
“Did their power get quieter?” I press. “More precise?”
Her jaw tightens. “It did.”
“That isn’t maturity,” I say. “That’s balance.”
She folds her arms, defensive but no longer dismissive. “You’re saying love fixes us.”
“I’m saying it anchors us,” I correct. “It gives the storm somewhere to settle.”
“That’s not what our queen told us.”
The words are said quietly, but they land hard.
“She always said this was mercy,” Mara continues, voice lowering. “That the world outside can’t survive us. That if we left, cities would freeze. Crops would die. Oceans would fracture.” Her fingers curl slowly at her sides. “She said keeping us here was the only way to protect everyone else.”
Cold settles heavy in my chest.
“She warned us about attachment,” Mara adds. “Said love made us reckless. That it weakened control. That relationships were what caused disasters.” Her eyes flick to mine. “But she was okay with children being born here because at least she could contain them; she could give us the mercy of being able to have children in a controlled environment. But children are just for repopulation purposes.”
“And when someone questioned that?” I ask.
Mara exhales shakily. “She reminded us of the accidents. The stories. The bodies.” Her voice roughens. “And told us she was preventing worse.”
I swallow. “She tried to kill me.”
The words drop into the space between us like ice cracking.
Mara’s breath catches. “She… what?”
“Because I didn’t fit her story,” I say quietly. “Because I found balance without her.”
Silence stretches—brittle, dangerous.
“She never told us there was another way,” Mara whispers.
I shake my head. “That's exactly why I am here.”
We resume walking. As we move deeper, I watch the people more closely now. The way a woman hums under her breath as she works, frost curling unconsciously around her wrists. A child laughs too loudly and snow bursts from his palms, swirling wildly until an older man gently steadies his hands and the storm collapses. A couple passes, shoulders brushing—and the air around them feels… calmer. Warmer, somehow.
“They’re always watching themselves,” I murmur.
Mara nods. “Every moment. Every feeling.”
I stop again, turning to face her fully.
“That’s not living,” I say gently. “That’s surviving.”
She looks down at her hands. Frost traces faint, restless patterns along her knuckles.
“And if someone never finds that balance?” she asks. “If they never fall in love?”
“Then they learn,” I say. “With help. With community. With people who don’t lock them away the moment they slip. With love and support from people who care enough to be there for them.”
Her breath shudders once.
“You’re not cursed,” I repeat. “You never were. Neither were your parents. They just had each other.”
Mara looks up at me then, like she’s seeing not just my power, but the way it sits inside me. Contained. Steady. Alive.
“You walked in here alone,” she says slowly. “No escort. No fear.”
I smile faintly. “I wasn’t alone.”
Something in her expression shifts. Not hope—not yet—but the fragile, painful beginning of it.
“…Come with me,” Mara says after a moment. “There are people who need to hear this. Quietly. Before the wrong ears do.”
I nod. That, is exactly what I was hoping for.