“The rule stands.” I don’t need to name it. “That’s how we survive this.”
“Close enough to reach.”
Whatever we’re becoming, there’s no going back now.
The terrain has shifted completely—frozenearth giving way beneath our feet, ice sheets cracking and groaning as they melt. The remnants of old enforcement breaking down, the world slowly remembering how to be alive.
I select a defensible position for the night—rocky overhang, clear sight lines, cliff face at our backs. The routine is automatic now: she takes the sheltered wall, I take the entrance.
“You should rest.”
Her voice carries through the gathering darkness. Quiet. Concerned in ways she probably wouldn’t admit.
“I will.”
I don’t deny it.
“Tonight is different.”
“How?”
“Tonight I know what we’re facing.” I keep my attention on the darkening landscape, cataloging shadows, tracking movement. “The targeting. The strategy. The gods’ priorities.”
“And that changes whether you sleep?”
“It changes everything.”
The quiet settles between us. Comfortable. Familiar, in ways that should concern me.
“Rest.” She shifts deeper against the stone. “I’ll be here when you wake. Within reach.”
The words should be a simple confirmation of our established protocols.
They feel like a promise instead.
I don’t examine that feeling. Don’t let it grow beyond the moment.
I turn my attention back to the darkness and resume my watch.
But her words echo in my head throughout the night.
Within reach.
I’ll be here when you wake.
SEVENTEEN
SOREIA
The ice-scarred plains stretch before us.
I’ve heard stories about this place—the Glacial Flight’s frozen enforcement, the Arbiter’s domain before her death shattered it. Knowledge passed through border-witch networks in pieces: fragments from other Anchors who had mapped the freeze’s edge, warnings traded for shelter, the kind of information you collect when official records have stopped coming. The ice was supposed to be eternal. Unbreakable. Divine will made manifest in crystalline permanence.
Now it’s dying.
Massive sheets crack and groan beneath our feet, splitting apart in jagged lines that reveal gray earth beneath. Ground that hasn’t seen sunlight in years. Dead soil struggling to remember what growth means.
The sound is constant. A low, grinding symphony of fracture and collapse. Ice calving from larger formations. Meltwater rushing through channels that didn’t exist an hour ago. The world breaking apart piece by piece.
