I left Ataraxia on a night with no wind.
That mattered, because wind carried sound, and sound carried attention. When the air was still, every footstep felt too loud, every breath too obvious, as if the land itself were listening. Frost steadied me anyway, not by making me fearless, but by helping my body obey what my mind already knew.
Move. Quietly. Do not look back too long. Do not hesitate.
The supply gate lay at the western edge of the clan's outer ring, a place meant for carts and animals rather than people of consequence. Its stones were worn smooth by generations of neglect, and the metal fittings had long since lost their shine. Whoever stood watch there leaned against the wall with the posture of someone guarding routine rather than possibility. His eyes moved, but without intent.
I timed my steps to his breathing, slipped through when he turned his head, and did not allow myself even the relief of a smile.
The moment the walls were behind me, Ataraxia ceased to feel like a place and became a pressure at my back.
Firelight glimmered faintly behind stone and distance, a dull glow against the western sky. Somewhere beyond those walls, training bells would ring at dawn. Elders would walk familiar paths. Children with proper blood would wake to instruction and expectation.
None of it belonged to me anymore.
The land beyond the clan's territory was colder, not in temperature alone, but in spirit. It smelled of damp earth, old leaves, and something empty that stretched far beyond sight. I walked without a road at first, following shallow depressions and natural slopes, the way animals did when they did not wish to be seen. I avoided ridgelines. I avoided clearings. I avoided anything that looked maintained.
I did not light a torch. A torch would have been an announcement.
Even without one, the stars gave enough light for someone who was paying attention.
I was paying attention.
Every few hundred steps, I stopped and listened. Not because I expected pursuit, but because fear did not need reason to be useful. Ataraxia had taught me that much. The clan might not care enough to chase me, but the world beyond its walls was not obligated to share that indifference.
Sometimes I thought I heard footsteps that matched my own.
Sometimes it was only the echo of my breathing, too loud in my ears.
I thought of my mother, and the thought struck like a bruise.
Not a fresh pain. Not the kind that made tears come. Just a dull ache that settled deep in my chest and refused to move. I pressed the seal beneath my clothes and let its cold remind me that she had left me something. Not comfort. Not reassurance.
Survival.
The seal was heavier than it should have been for its size. Smooth jade, worn by time, carved into the form of two interlocked beasts whose shapes did not match anything I knew. They curved inward toward one another, bodies forming a closed circuit around an empty center. Neither dominated. Neither yielded.
When my fingers brushed it, cold spread slowly through my palm, not biting, not numbing, but absolute, as if it did not acknowledge warmth as something worth opposing.
By the time the sky began to lighten, my legs were already trembling.
I had walked on thin food and thinner sleep for days even before leaving. My body was still that body. Eight years old. Light. Easily broken. Frost did not change those facts. Frost only delayed their consequences.
When the horizon paled, I found a shallow dip between two low ridges and crouched there, pulling my knees to my chest. Grass brushed my cheeks. The earth beneath me was damp and cold. My stomach tightened with hunger sharp enough to make my breath hitch.
I closed my eyes and guided Frost inward.
It responded the way it always did when I did not rush it. Cold settled beneath my skin, spreading from my chest to my limbs. Not freezing. Not painful. Just steady. Hunger did not vanish, but its edge dulled, as if someone had wrapped the blade instead of removing it.
My breathing slowed. My heartbeat steadied.
Endure, my mother had said.
I stayed there until the sun rose fully, then forced myself to stand. My legs protested immediately, muscles aching as if they had been wrung dry. I tested my weight carefully, adjusted my balance, then moved again.
I chose the direction east because that was where the continent's heart was said to be.
East meant roads, towns, borders, and people who did not know my name. It also meant danger that did not care whose blood ran in my veins. More importantly, it meant distance.
It meant Aegis Academy.
I had heard the name before, not because anyone had spoken it to me kindly, but because names like that traveled through servants' conversations the way smoke traveled through cracks in doors. Aegis Academy was neutral to the politics of empires. It accepted only top talents. It produced Soul Markers who could stand between nations and still be left standing.
In Ataraxia, the Phoenix bloodline was everything.
Outside Ataraxia, other truths existed. They were not closer. They were far, separated by land that did not care whether I survived crossing it.
I followed signs of people rather than maps. Flattened grass. Broken branches. Cart ruts pressed into soft earth. The first proper trade path I found was little more than packed dirt lined with scrub and weathered stone markers. Some still bore faded imperial sigils. Others had been worn smooth by centuries of passing feet.
I did not step onto it immediately.
Roads gathered people, and people gathered danger.
I followed it at a distance at first, keeping to the brush, learning its rhythm. Only when the sun climbed high and my legs threatened to give out did I step onto the packed earth and let myself become part of the path.
A man passed me pushing a cart of firewood. He glanced at me once, then looked away.
A woman carrying a basket of vegetables did the same.
It was strange how invisibility could be so reliable when you were poor enough.
The first settlement I reached could barely be called a town. A loose cluster of buildings around a single well, their fences leaning, roofs sagging. Smoke rose from a few chimneys. A dog barked when I passed too close, then lost interest.
My stomach twisted at the smell of cooked food.
I kept to the edges of the street, watching where scraps fell. A child dropped part of a bun and cried when his mother snapped at him. The bun landed in dust and was abandoned. I waited until their backs were turned, then picked it up and brushed it clean with my sleeve.
It tasted like flour, salt, and relief.
I ate slowly, the way my mother had trained me to, not because I wanted to savor it, but because eating too quickly made hunger worse.
When night came, I slept behind a storage shed where the wall blocked the wind. Frost circulated gently, smoothing the worst of my aches but doing nothing for the hollowness in my stomach. Somewhere nearby, a shout rang out, followed by the crack of wood against wood. Someone being punished. The sound carried farther than it should have.
Ataraxia again, I thought, and the thought soured.
I woke before dawn with my body stiff and my mouth dry.
That was only the first day.
The second day began with the taste of yesterday's dust still in my mouth.
I drank from the well at the edge of the settlement while no one was looking, cupping water in my hands because I had nothing else. It was cold enough to sting my teeth. When I straightened, my stomach tightened again, reminding me that a stolen bun was not a meal, only a pause.
I left before the town truly awakens.
The road waited, pale under early light, packed earth scarred by cart wheels and the feet of those who traveled because they had to. I followed it east, but not in the middle, not where footsteps layered thick and predictable. I walked along the edge where grass began, where my tracks were harder to see and easier to erase.
As the sun rose, the land changed in ways only someone watching carefully would notice.
The soil grew darker, less rich. The brush thinned. In places, blackened stones lay half buried, as if something hot had once passed through and left its mark behind. I found the first sign of Ataraxia's reach before noon.
It was a ruined shrine.
Not large, not grand, the kind of thing a traveler would pass without thinking twice. A low platform of stone, a bowl for offerings, a weathered carving of a phoenix whose wings had been chipped away by time or by intention. Ash still clung in the cracks, though no fire burned there now. The air around it held a faint warmth that did not match the season.
A border marker, I realized.
Not a line on a map, but a statement.
Ataraxia was here. Ataraxia claimed even this forgotten stretch of road.
I did not step onto the platform. I did not touch the carving. I moved past with my head down, as if the shrine were nothing more than another stone.
But my fingers drifted unconsciously toward the jade seal beneath my clothes. Its cold steadied me, not with comfort, but with reminder.
I am leaving.
And leaving meant crossing places where the clan's influence still lingered, even if the clan itself did not care to notice me.
By afternoon, I saw the first patrol.
They were not close, but they did not need to be. Four riders on dark mounts, moving at a steady pace along a ridge that paralleled the road. Their cloaks were the deep crimson of Ataraxia's outer guard, faded by sun and dust. They spoke to each other casually, as if this sweep were routine, as if nothing unexpected ever happened in these lands.
I dropped into the ditch beside the road and pressed myself against the damp earth.
Frost flowed inward, tightening around my core, not flaring outward, not doing anything dramatic, only making me still. My breathing became shallow. My heartbeat slowed.
The riders passed without turning their heads.
They were not looking for me. They were looking for threats to the clan's trade routes. A child alone was not a threat. That thought should have been reassuring, but it tasted bitter instead. It meant I was safe because I was beneath notice.
When the sound of hooves faded completely, I crawled out and continued walking.
I did not stop that night in a town.
Towns meant eyes, and eyes meant questions, and questions meant someone noticing my clothes, my thinness, the way I avoided standing under light. I slept instead beneath a stand of trees where the ground rose slightly and drained well. Leaves hid me from anyone glancing casually into the dark. The wind was weak, but it found its way through branches and into my clothes anyway.
I pulled my knees to my chest, pressed the seal against my skin, and let Frost circulate just enough to keep my fingers from going numb.
It was not warmth.
It was endurance.
On the third day, hunger became constant.
Not a sudden pang, not an occasional reminder. A steady hollow ache that sat beneath every thought. When I walked, my legs felt lighter than they should have, as if my body had begun eating itself to keep moving. When I paused, dizziness came quickly, sharp enough to make me steady myself against trees.
Frost helped, but it did not cheat reality.
It dulled the sharpest edges. It slowed the shaking. It kept my mind from slipping into panic.
It did not put food in my stomach.
I tried to trade first.
A farmer passed with a bundle of root vegetables. I walked beside him for a time, keeping my distance respectful, matching his pace. When I spoke, my voice came out quieter than I intended.
"Sir," I said. "Do you need help carrying that?"
He glanced at me, eyes narrowing slightly. Not cruel, just wary.
"You got coin?" he asked.
I shook my head.
He snorted softly and turned his gaze forward. "Then don't bother me."
I fell back and watched his shoulders as he walked away. I did not hate him for it. Hunger made people practical. The world did not run on pity.
Later, I tried to work.
A merchant had stopped his cart to tighten a strap, his hands moving slowly with frustration. I approached and offered help. He looked at me longer than the farmer had. His gaze flicked over my clothes, my bare hands, my thin wrists.
"Where's your family?" he asked.
I kept my face blank. "Dead."
It was easier than explaining.
His mouth tightened. "Go away," he said, not unkindly, but firmly. "If you get hurt, someone will say it was my fault."
I stepped back and moved on.
By late afternoon, I found a shallow stream and drank until my stomach cramped. Water filled space, but it did not silence hunger. It only made it heavier.
That night, cold rain came.
It began softly, almost polite, then strengthened into a steady curtain. I tried to shelter beneath branches, but the water found its way through. It soaked my clothes, chilled my skin, and turned the ground to mud. When I moved, my feet slipped. When I stopped, shivering began.
I found a fallen tree and crawled beneath it, hugging the muddy earth like an animal.
Frost circulated, but it could not dry my clothes. It could not stop rain from turning night into something miserable and endless.
My teeth clacked until my jaw ached.
At some point, I slept in fragments, waking each time a heavier drop hit my face, each time the wind shifted, each time my body jerked itself awake because it feared that stopping meant death.
When dawn came, it was gray and thin. Rain still fell, lighter now, but the damage was done. My clothes clung to my skin. My feet were numb. My fingers shook.
I stood anyway.
I took one step, then another.
Then my foot slid on wet ground and my ankle twisted sharply.
Pain flared bright and immediate, so sharp it made my vision white for a heartbeat. I bit down on a sound and dropped to one knee, hands pressed into mud.
For a moment, anger rose hot enough to make me want to scream. Not at the rain, not at the road, but at the simple fact that the world seemed determined to prove how easily it could break me.
Frost responded before I could think.
Cold surged inward, tightening around the injured joint, not healing it, not making it vanish, only numbing the worst of the pain and stabilizing the muscles so the ankle did not buckle completely.
I tested weight carefully. It hurt. I adjusted my steps, favoring the other leg.
I walked anyway.
By afternoon, fever threatened.
Not a dramatic sickness, not the kind that knocked me unconscious. The kind that crept in quietly through wet clothes and exhaustion, making my head feel heavy and my thoughts slow. I caught myself staring at the same stretch of road without moving, as if my mind had forgotten what it was doing.
I pressed the jade seal against my chest and focused on its cold.
The twin beasts on the seal felt like they were watching me, not with eyes, but with presence. Their shapes were closed, circular, refusing to open, refusing to yield. I did not understand them.
But I understood refusal.
I circulated Frost deeper, more carefully, drawing it through my chest and down my spine, letting it settle into my limbs. The shivering eased. The fever's edge dulled.
Not cured.
Contained.
That night, I did not make it to any settlement.
I found a shallow cave half hidden by brush and crawled inside. The ground was uneven stone. The air smelled of damp and old animal. Somewhere deeper, something scratched softly, then went still.
I did not sleep easily.
My ankle throbbed with each heartbeat. Hunger was a constant pressure. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ataraxia's walls again, not as a place I wanted to return to, but as a place I wanted to burn down in my mind.
My mother's face came, too.
Her warmth.
The way she had said my name.
The way her hand had rested on my shoulder as if she could shield me from the world by touch alone.
I felt something tighten in my throat. My eyes stung.
I did not cry loudly. Loudness was waste.
But a few tears came anyway, sliding down my cheeks and into the dirt.
I wiped them away with the back of my hand and stared into the darkness until my breathing steadied again.
On the fifth day, the land began to show the true edge of Ataraxia's influence.
The ruined shrines stopped appearing.
Patrol signs faded.
The stone markers along the road changed, their old phoenix carvings replaced by neutral symbols or nothing at all. The air felt different, not warmer or colder, but less controlled. Less watched.
That should have been relief.
Instead, it felt like stepping out of a guarded courtyard into wilderness.
Ataraxia's indifference was cruel, but its territory had order. Beyond it, order belonged to whoever could take it.
I saw evidence of that before noon.
A wagon lay broken off the side of the road, its wheel snapped, goods scattered and trampled. Dried blood stained the dirt near the axle. Birds picked at something in the grass.
I did not go closer.
The scene did not need explanation.
I walked faster, ankle complaining, hunger hollowing, Frost circulating like a thin thread holding me upright.
And in the late afternoon, I heard laughter again.
Not far behind this time.
Closer. Careless. Sharp.
Bandits.
I did not look back.
I stepped off the road into brush, moving on instinct. Frost tightened inward, making my presence thin. My breathing slowed. My movements became smaller, controlled, each step chosen to avoid snapping branches.
The laughter drew nearer, then passed.
Voices complained about poor luck, about the road being empty, about having to travel farther east where the real prey was.
They passed without seeing me.
I remained crouched in the brush long after their footsteps faded, my muscles trembling from holding still, my ankle burning, my stomach twisting.
When I finally moved again, I did not return to the road immediately. I traveled parallel to it through uneven ground, trading speed for safety.
The sun set and rose again.
Days blurred.
I began to measure time not by bells or meals, but by how long Frost could hold my body together before I had to stop and breathe, before my legs threatened to collapse, before my mind began to drift into fog.
By the seventh day, I was no longer thinking of Aegis as a destination.
I was thinking of the next hour.
The next step.
The next mouthful of anything.
I reached another settlement near dusk, larger than the first, with real walls and a gate that looked as if it had seen repair recently. People moved with more caution here. Guards stood straighter. Merchants clustered closer to the entrance.
It was not safety.
It was fear organized into routine.
I slipped inside with a group of farmers, head lowered, posture small. No one stopped me. No one wanted the trouble of dealing with a starving child.
Inside, the market smelled of oil, sweat, and meat, and the smell nearly made my knees buckle. I swallowed hard, forced myself to keep walking, forced myself to use my eyes instead of my mouth.
Scraps.
Discarded fruit.
A vendor throwing away wilted greens.
I waited, then moved quickly, grabbing a handful of bruised vegetables the moment they hit the refuse pile. I ate behind a barrel, chewing slowly, ignoring the bitterness, ignoring the dirt.
Food filled space.
For a moment, the world stopped narrowing.
That was when I heard it.
A commotion near the center of the market. A circle forming. Voices rising.
A man being pushed.
The world turning its head toward cruelty as if cruelty were entertainment.
I did not go closer. I did not need to. I had already learned what crowds did. I had watched Ataraxia do the same thing with silence instead of noise.
I stayed in shadow, eating slowly, and I promised myself again that one day I would not have to look away.
When night came, I left the settlement before the gates fully closed.
I could not afford to be trapped inside walls I did not understand.
Outside, the road stretched on, pale under moonlight.
The continent was wide.
Ataraxia was behind me, but the East was still far. There were still borders to cross, still lands where my name would mean nothing and my weakness would mean everything.
I pressed the jade seal against my chest and let Frost circulate in a slow, stubborn loop.
The beasts carved into the seal faced inward, refusing to open.
I did the same.