No one escorted them out of Greyline.
There were no wagons waiting, no banners, no warm send-offs. Just a road cutting through frostbitten ground and a city that didn't bother pretending it would miss them.
Smoke curled lazily from chimneys behind them, already unconcerned with who stayed or left.
Cael slung his pack over his shoulder and grinned anyway.
"So," he said, squinting toward the horizon, "how far do you think it is?"
Riven adjusted the straps on his own bag, fingers precise, movements economical. His eyes were already measuring the sky, the angle of the light, the way the frost clung thicker in the low places.
"About 7 days if I read the map right."
Cael laughed, bright and unbothered.
"That far? I'm glad I have you as my escort"
Riven didn't respond
They left at dawn.
The first day was easy enough.
The road was worn, packed hard by years of carts and boots, its ruts familiar beneath their feet. The cold bit, but it was a cold they knew—sharp, honest, the kind that woke you up before killing you.
They walked fast, shared bread torn unevenly in half and traded insults like a currency.
Cael talked about the academy like it was a battlefield. He imagined duels and grand tests, fire flaring under vaulted ceilings, instructors forced to acknowledge raw talent whether they liked it or not.
Riven listened.
Occasionally, he corrected him when he said something stupid.
Cael didn't mind. Half the time he was saying it just to see if Riven would react.
By nightfall, the road narrowed.
By the second day, it vanished.
They crossed through old farmlands swallowed by scrub and ice, fences half-buried, stones marking plots no one remembered anymore.
Beyond that lay low forest, where the trees grew too close together and the light thinned until even midday felt like evening.
Riven slowed their pace without explanation.
Cael noticed, but didn't argue.
He never did when Riven went quiet like this—when his shoulders squared and his gaze tracked shadows instead of scenery.
They heard the growl before they saw it.
Low.
Wet.
Wrong.
The creature burst from the underbrush fast and close—all muscle and frost-crusted fur, its breath steaming, eyes too bright for something that should have known fear.
It moved like hunger with legs.
Cael reacted instantly.
Fire roared to life around his fists as he charged, reckless and loud, heat flaring bright against the muted forest. He punched straight into the creature's shoulder.
Heat met cold in a violent hiss, the smell of singed fur sharp in the air. Frost covered muscle. Cold density.
The beast shrieked and slammed into him, sending both tumbling across frozen ground.
"Cael!" Riven shouted.
Riven moved differently.
He didn't rush in.
He circled, steps light, eyes locked, waiting for the moment Cael would overextend—because he always did.
When it came, Riven acted.
A sharp sigil snapped into place beneath the creature's hind legs.
The air tightened. Pulling the beast into the mud.
The ground hardened instantly, locking it mid-lunge just long enough for Cael to drive a burning fist into its skull.
The body went still.
Cael staggered back, breathing hard, steam pouring off him in thick clouds.
He grinned weakly.
"See? Easy."
Riven crouched beside him immediately, hands already checking for blood beneath scorched fabric.
"You burned half your gloves off."
Cael shrugged, trying not to sway.
"Didn't need the other half anyway."
They didn't sleep much that night.
By the fourth day, their food ran low. The kill from the night before only producing enough unspoiled meat for one person to split. Beasts in this area were more muscle than meat.
By the fifth, Cael's hands shook when he tried to summon even a spark. The fire still answered—sluggish, irritated—but it cost more than it should have.
Riven noticed.
Said nothing.
He rationed without comment, ate less himself, walked more, pack riding heavier on his shoulders.
On the sixth day, they reached a river too wide to jump and too cold to wade.
Meltwater rushed fast and loud, promising death in minutes for any dumb enough to jump in.
Cael stared at it, jaw tight.
"We could swim it."
Riven shook his head immediately.
"You idiot. You'd cramp and i'd drown trying to get you out."
They followed the river north for hours, boots slipping on wet stone, until they found a broken bridge—half-collapsed pillars jutting from the current like the ribs of something long dead.
Riven tested the footing first. Deciding it was safe enough to cross.
Cael followed without waiting.
Halfway across, the stone beneath Cael's foot cracked.
For a terrifying second, he was weightless.
Riven lunged, fingers closing around Cael's wrist just as the slab gave way.
Cael slammed into the remaining stone hard enough to knock the breath from him, the river's roar filling his ears.
They stayed like that for a long moment—Riven braced and shaking, Cael dangling, fingers burning from the grip.
"…You good?" Cael asked, voice strained but still trying to sound normal.
Riven tightened his hold.
"Climb."
Cael did.
They didn't joke much after that.
Orison came into view on the eighth day.
The academy rose from the hills like something that had been put there by greater powers—towers clean and deliberate, stone untouched by weather in a way that made Greyline feel like a bad memory someone else had lived.
Cael stopped walking.
"…That's it?" he asked softly.
Riven nodded.
"That's it."
They stood there, dirty, tired, scarred—two boys who had crossed cold roads and worse odds because there was nowhere else to go.
Cael exhaled a quiet laugh.
"Think they'll let us in?"
Riven adjusted his pack and started forward.
"They invited us remember, they better let us in."
Cael grinned and followed.
They walked toward the gates together.