Lucius didn't remember falling asleep.
One moment, he was standing watch in the tower, staring into the endless snow. The next, he was lying against the cold metal floor, a dull ache pulsing at the base of his skull.
There were voices outside. Shouts. Boots stomping. The whirring hum of engines.
He stood quickly and peered through the frost-caked window.
Something moved at the edge of the storm. A silhouette—tall, cloaked in layers of bone-white fur, its limbs unnaturally long beneath the wind's shroud.
A Herald.
It walked alone across the plain, its breath a trail of shimmering frost, its presence warping the air around it. Light bent strangely near its skin, as though the world itself refused to touch it.
And then—without warning—it stopped.
Its masked head turned toward Nova.
No—toward him.
Lucius's breath caught in his throat.
Even from this distance, he felt the weight of that gaze. Cold, ancient, and… familiar. The same feeling from months ago, when he had watched one of them destroy a patrol without a word. That time, the Herald had spared him.
Was it the same one?
His fingers tightened around the edge of the window.
Below, Nova's north gate groaned open.
A column of soldiers emerged, armored in heavy white-and-black exosuits designed for survival in sub-zero combat zones. At their center rode a figure Lucius knew by name, if not by character.
Cliff Veylan, Nova's Head Warden. A Pathbearer of significant power, rarely seen outside the upper citadel.
He was broad-shouldered and carried himself like a blade—sharp, balanced, without hesitation. A massive war hammer rested on his back, etched with silver runes that shimmered faintly even in the stormlight. Around him, frost melted before it could settle.
They approached the Herald without fear.
Lucius watched, heart pounding.
The Herald raised its staff—a long, obsidian shard of ice carved with foreign markings. The winds howled louder. A pulse of cold spread outward in every direction.
Three soldiers dropped instantly, entombed in ice mid-stride.
The rest moved in a practiced formation, surrounding the creature, their boots punching through the ice as they repositioned.
And then—Cliff moved.
He didn't charge. He didn't shout. He simply vanished.
One blink, and he was standing in front of the Herald, hammer in hand, striking down in a motion too fast to follow.
The storm broke with a sound like glass shattering.
The Herald staggered, a crack running through its mask. A strange, almost human sound escaped its throat—a sound not of pain, but surprise.
The second blow shattered it entirely.
The mask split. The staff dropped. The light faded from its eyes.
The Herald fell backward into the snow, and the ice around it hissed as though something inside was evaporating into the air.
Just like that… it was over.
Lucius gripped the window's edge tighter, his knuckles white.
The cold didn't fade. If anything, it pressed in closer.
He didn't understand it. That Herald had looked right at him. As if it knew something. As if it recognized something in him.
"Lucius!"
A harsh voice pulled him from his thoughts.
Two guards stood at the tower door, both in Nova colors.
"You weren't authorized to be out here," one of them snapped. "Orders from the council. You're to be returned to the orphanage. Now."
Lucius hesitated.
He looked once more at the distant snow where the Herald had fallen. Cliff and his men were already hauling the body away in chains of frost-bound steel.
The storm hadn't stopped.
But something inside it had changed.
"Let's go," the second guard growled.
Lucius said nothing.
He followed them down the tower steps, boots clanging against metal, mind burning with questions he couldn't voice.
Later – Nova Orphanage, Lower Ward
The orphanage hadn't changed.
Same flickering lights. Same peeling paint. Same stale smell of recycled air and too many bodies packed into too little space. The children were huddled beneath thermal blankets, watched over by tired caretakers who pretended not to notice Lucius being escorted back in handcuffs.
"You're always where you don't belong," grumbled Sister Arla, her eyes narrowing as the guards handed him over.
Lucius shrugged as they unlocked his cuffs.
"I don't belong here either."
"Then find somewhere you do."
He was shown back to his cot—thin, hard, and tucked against the far corner of the bunk hall. He sat down slowly, the cot groaning under his weight. The other kids watched him for a few seconds, then returned to their games, their whispers, their slow dance with hunger and boredom.
Lucius leaned back, staring at the frost gathering on the inside of the glass window beside his bed.
In the reflection, his breath rose in steady curls.
Too steady. Too controlled.
Too cold.
He raised a hand and placed it near the frost.
It didn't melt.