La Era De Hielo Novels & Stories

The air that came up through the ceiling was not hot like the air from the vents. It was cold. It felt like the air one breathes when they are high up on a mountain. The fingers that were holding Elara's wrist were made of porcelain. They were very strong. They were also very shiny and white like they had been polished a lot. As Elara was pulled out of the part of the mountain, she could hear the sound of the fifth tier collapsing into the oil lake. The sound was getting fainter and fainter like the sound of a stove cooling down in an empty house.

The North Sea was a churning graveyard of grey slate and white foam. Here, five hundred miles from the nearest coastline, stood the Ice Fortress—a repurposed deep-sea drilling platform that had been transformed into a marvel of black glass and titanium. It was a ghost in the water, invisible to Sterling Northwood’s satellites, powered by the very geothermal vents it sat upon. Elena stood on the observation deck, watching the sleet lash against the reinforced windows. She was dressed in a sleek, high-collared military tunic of charcoal wool, the Everett crest pinned to her throat in cold platinum.