The lake lay silent beneath the winter sun.
A sheet of frozen silver stretched from bank to bank, the surface so smooth it reflected the gray sky like glass. Snow drifted softly through the pine trees, burying the world in hush and stillness.
Then came a crack of flame—and the sound of steel slicing air.
Eirik paused on the ridge above the lake.
Someone was there.
A boy—older than him by a few years—stood barefoot on the ice, blades of flame dancing across his palms. He moved with precise, elegant steps, striking at the air with each motion, like he was fighting an enemy only he could see.
His breath curled in the cold, his body wrapped in furs and dark red cloth. A rune was etched across his belt—the crest of the Academy.
Eirik's eyes narrowed.
The Flame-Bearer
"Who are you?" he asked, stepping into view.
The other boy stopped, turning slowly. He didn't reach for a weapon. Instead, he offered a half-smile.
"I could ask you the same."
"I asked first."
The boy chuckled. "Fair enough. Name's Sigrin Hjalmrson. Son of Hjalmr the Red. You?"
"Eirik."
A pause. The wind stirred.
"Just Eirik?" Sigrin asked with a raised brow.
Eirik didn't answer.
Sigrin didn't press.
He only nodded once and sheathed his flame. "You heading toward the capital?"
"…Maybe."
"Then we're heading the same way."
Without waiting, Sigrin began walking, crunching snow beneath his boots. Eirik stood still for a moment, watching his back.
Something in the boy's relaxed gait… his calm voice… it made Eirik uneasy.
Too kind. Too casual.
He didn't trust him.
He followed anyway.
The Road to Greyreach
The journey to the next village—Greyreach—took two days.
Sigrin tried to talk.
About the Academy. About the five departments. About magic theory, noble families, old wars, and boring teachers. But Eirik didn't say a word.
Not once.
He listened. He watched.
And he kept his distance.
Sigrin didn't seem to mind. He'd laugh at his own jokes, whistle through the pines, and talk to the trees when Eirik refused to answer.
Still, Eirik studied the way he walked. How his eyes scanned the terrain. How his fingers twitched near his blade when birds flew too low. The boy had training. Experience. He wasn't weak.
And yet… he wasn't guarded.
That made him dangerous.
Or stupid.
When they arrived at Greyreach, the snow had turned to slush and the sun was low in the sky. The gates were open. Smoke rose from chimneys, and children played in the mud.
Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
Eirik's instincts—sharpened by four years in the wild—twitched.
Something was wrong.
And as they stepped into the village square, a strange silence fell over the crowd.
Children stopped laughing.
Doors closed.
Eyes turned away.
And one child—no older than five—stared at Eirik with wide, haunted eyes.
The same look he had once worn.
Fear.