SYBIL

  Sybil arrived late to training. Again.

  The others were already gathered in a loose circle, breath misting in the cold air. Kerik stood at the center, waiting. He didn't say anything when she slipped into place beside Avalon, but his eyes tracked her movement.

  This wasn't required training. No orders. No obligation. Just for whoever wanted to learn how to fight.

  Sybil was late because she'd been with her mother. She'd stayed to help her sit up. To clean the basin. To steady her through the coughing until it passed.

  "Sybil Fenwick. Avalon Blackthorne. Center."

  No preamble. No speech today. Just straight to sparring.

  Good, because she needed this.

  Avalon cracked his knuckles and grinned at her. "Try not to burn my face off this time."

  "No promises."

  They squared off. Kerik stepped back.

  Avalon struck first—hands slamming the ground, vines erupting from frozen earth. They shot toward her legs, needle-thin and fast.

  Sibyl sidestepped, felt one graze her calf through her dress. It stung but didn't slow her down.

  Her skin began to glow—faint golden light spreading up her arms. Heat poured off her in waves.

  The next vine that reached for her ankle withered on contact. Blackened. Crumbled.

  Avalon swore and pulled back, putting distance between them. His hand stretched toward the nearest tree. Wood peeled away, reshaping itself into a staff in his grip.

  He swung.

  Sibyl ducked under it, rolled, came up inside his guard. Her glowing fist aimed for his ribs.

  He blocked with the staff. Where her knuckles connected, the wood began to smoke.

  "You're getting predictable," Avalon said, circling her.

  "Am I?"

  She lunged again, but this time it was a feint. When he raised the staff to block, she grabbed his wrist instead.

  He screamed.

  Her palm was burning hot. The smell of scorched skin filled the air.

  "Yield," she said.

  "Never—"

  "Sybil. Enough."

  Kerik's voice cut through the haze. She blinked, realized her grip had tightened, that steam was rising from Avalon's arm. Then she let go. Avalon collapsed, clutching his wrist. Blisters were already forming. “I said control it,” Kerik said quietly, looking at her. “Not lose yourself in it." Sybil's glow faded. She felt the cold rush back in, sudden and vicious. Her legs almost gave out.

  "Sorry," she muttered.

  "Don't apologize to me. Apologize to him."

  She looked at Avalon, who was glaring at her with watery eyes. "Sorry."

  “Don’t touch me, you bastard,” he hissed when Sybil reached out instinctively to help.

  What a foul-mouthed child, she thought. The insult was meant to sting. What he said was true. A child of a whore. Someone who had never known her father. But she knew she was at fault. She’d gone too far this time.

  The other students were watching in silence.

  Kerik dismissed them with a wave. They scattered quickly, grateful to escape into the village.

  Sybil stayed.

  She always stayed.

  "You're pushing too hard," Kerik said when they were alone.

  "I'm fine."

  "You're exhausted. I can see it." He walked over, leaned on his rod.

  "When's the last time you slept?"

  "Last night."

  "How much?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Sybil—"

  "My mother was coughing. I couldn't sleep through it." Her voice came out sharper than she intended. "Someone had to sit with her."

  Kerik sighed. Ran a hand over his face. "The blood-burn technique is dangerous when you're already depleted. You know that."

  "I know."

  "Then stop using it like it's nothing."

  "What else am I supposed to do?" She turned to face him fully. "I can't fight without it. Can't survive the cold without it. So what exactly are my options here?"

  Living in this frozen world was hell for an Eirvalean like Sybil. Her body could not handle the cold. No amount of fur could keep it out. The chill went deeper than her skin. It sank into her bones and smothered her inner energy, leaving her weak.

  For an Eirvalean, this weakness was deadly. Fighting required strength and speed, but the cold stole both. A simple move felt like pushing through ice. Their only hope was the blood-burn technique, an ancient technique passed down by their ancestors.

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  It was a desperate trick. It burned their own life force to create a burst of heat and energy, just enough to fight back. It left them drained, but it was the only way to survive. Without it, they would be helpless against the cold.

  Kerik held her gaze for a long moment. Then he surprised her.

  "Come on. I'm buying you dinner."

  "I need to get home—"

  "Your siblings are fine for another hour. You need food. Now."

  She wanted to argue. But her stomach chose that moment to growl loudly enough that even Kerik heard it.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "Fine," she muttered.

  Drugen's Kitchen, the main tavern in Eirvale, was a place that brought everyone together. Whatever you were looking for companionship, comfort, answers, or trouble—you were bound to find it there sooner or later. Beside the building stood the whore house, Open Rose, the place Sybil was mostly familiar with. After enough strong drink, men drifted there in search of pleasure. It wasn't hidden from view. Men never hid their affairs here.

  But the tavern itself was new to her. Stepping inside was like walking into a forge. Fireplaces roared at each end of the hall, and a small army of lanterns waged war on every shadow. It was a defensive hoard of heat against the relentless cold, a glaring reminder of the cruelty of their world. They took their places at the back, where no one could disturb them.

  "Rye bread, potatoes, roasted meat, and some stew," Kerik said, already settling in. "Also bring spiced tea for the lady."

  "Is this where you eat every day?" she asked.

  "It's not like I have a family to go back to," he shrugged. "And the food's good. You'll see. The rye bread's famous."

  Kerik watched her for a moment, then started eating his own portion. They ate in silence. When she finally slowed down, he spoke. "Why don't you want to go?" The question caught her off guard. She set down her fork. "Who says I don't want to go?"

  "Sybil."

  She looked away. Stared at the fire crackling in the hearth across the room. Two weeks ago, guards from Glacial along with the King, had approached Eirvale. That's when Sibyl had seen what Glacians truly looked like. Pale, almost as white as the snow. At first she wondered if they had blood running through them. She got her answer soon enough, when violence had erupted.

  Their bodies were long, precise, and almost sculpted—they seemed like crystal statues brought to life. And the way they commanded ice, it was as if the frost listened to their voice.

  The King, taller than most of them, moved with silent authority. He rode on a massive mammoth. Snow swirled around them with each step, arcing with every motion, as if the land itself bent to his presence.

  Some villagers had charged at them, blasting fire, rocks and snowballs in the enemy's direction. The attacks didn't reach—a wall of ice rose to block them.

  There was only one guard who fell, and that was because he had stepped too close to the edge of the carriage's path. The ice under his feet cracked, slick and unstable, and he slipped before the wall of frost could reach him. The others remained unscathed, shielded by the rising barrier of ice that bent and twisted at the King's command.

  Blood spilled on the snow.

  So they bleed too.

  "We don't want to harm you," the King had said, his voice carrying across the crowd. "We're not here for a fight. We only want peace."

  He'd explained that Glacial was struggling. Their population was declining. Birthrates too low. They needed people to fill roles—hunters, guards, craftsmen, farmers. Without help, Glacial would die.

  "We've kept you at bay for centuries," the King had admitted. "That was a mistake. Our ancestors feared what they didn't understand. But we are the same people, separated by walls we built ourselves. Let us tear them down. Let us become one."

  It had sounded reasonable. Almost kind.

  Lord Inigo and the chiefs of Eirvale had accepted immediately.

  "I don't want to go."

  Kerik looked up. "Why not?"

  "Because I don't understand it." She traced her fingers around the rim of her empty cup. "Eighty years ago, they drove us out of the north. Left us to freeze and starve. And now, suddenly, they want us back?"

  "They need help. Their population is declining, and—"

  "That's not what I mean." Her voice was quiet but firm. "I don't understand how everyone just... forgives them. Like it never happened."

  Kerik leaned back, the chair creaking. "What would you have us do?"

  "I don't know. Ask questions? Demand to know why it happened? Demand—" She stopped herself.

  "Revenge?"

  Sybil looked away. That wasn't the word she'd been searching for, but it was close enough.

  "Maybe," she said quietly.

  Kerik was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "Revenge won't feed your siblings. Won't cure your mother. Won't build Eirvale into something worth living in."

  "So we just forget?"

  "No. We forgive. There's a difference."

  "I don't see one."

  "Then let me explain." Kerik leaned forward.

  "Eighty years ago, our ancestors were wronged. That's true. They suffered. They died. They built Eirvale from nothing because they had no choice." He paused. "But we are not them. We didn't live through the exile. We didn't suffer their specific pain. We inherited the consequences, yes. But not the grudge."

  "The consequences are enough."

  "Maybe. But holding onto anger about something that happened before you were born? That's not justice, Sibyl. That's just choosing to stay in pain."

  She wanted to argue. Gods, she wanted to scream at him that he was wrong, that forgiveness was weakness, that the Glacians deserved to answer for what they'd done. But the words wouldn't come.

  "You think I don't feel it?" Kerik continued.

  "The unfairness? I do. Every time I watch a child go hungry. Every time I see someone freeze because we don't have enough fuel. I feel it." He met her eyes. "But I can't let that anger rule me. Because if I do, I'll spend my whole life fighting ghosts. And I'll miss the chance to actually build something better."

  "So we just... let it go?"

  "We let go of the need for revenge. Not the memory. Not the lessons." He paused. "The King offered us a chance. We can accept it with open hands, or we can go there carrying all our bitterness and poison whatever good might come."

  "How can you forgive them?" she whispered.

  "Because I have to," Kerik said simply. "If I don't, I'll drown in hate.”

  He pushed one of his bowls toward her. "Eat. You need your strength."

  She didn't move. "What if we find out the exile wasn't what we thought? What if there's more to the story?"

  "Then we'll learn the truth. But we don't assume the worst before we even get there."

  "Everyone else seems fine with not knowing."

  "Because they've chosen peace over answers." He smiled faintly. "You can stay angry if you want, Sibyl. But anger's exhausting. And we've got a long road ahead."

  She picked up the spoon and ate in silence, the words settling into her chest like stones. Forgiveness. She didn't understand it. Didn't feel it.

  But everyone else seemed to. The elders. The parents. Even Kerik.

  They were all ready to walk into Glacial city with open hands and hopeful hearts.

  And Sybil? She was walking in with clenched fists and questions no one else seemed to care about.

  Maybe that made her wrong.

  Or maybe it made her the only one paying attention.