The cold didn't wait for permission.
It came down the mountain like a fist, slapping wind into every crack and fold of cloth. Elira had never known this kind of cold. It didn't just nip at her fingers—it bit, like it wanted to chew her apart and keep her bones as souvenirs.
Kesh swore under his breath. "This place hates people."
"It hates warmth," Myn said, her voice muffled by her scarf. "Nothing here has a heart left."
The Ice March was not a place meant for walking. Snow covered the ground in patches like broken teeth. The sky was low and gray, pressing down on them. Trees stood frozen mid-sway, as if they'd tried to run and never made it.
They needed the fourth flame.
The one who fought.
According to Niro, he was a boy born in the blizzard, raised by wolves made of frost. His name had once been carved in the mouth of a glacier and swallowed whole.
His name was Varn.
"Don't expect him to smile," Niro had said. "Don't even expect him to speak."
"Then how do we get him to come with us?" Elira had asked.
"You don't," Niro answered. "You have to survive long enough for him to care."
Now, as they trudged through knee-deep snow, Elira saw something ahead.
A ruin.
It looked like a castle, but made of bones. Pale towers. Windows like cracked teeth. Flags hung in strips, stiff from frost. No sound. No welcome.
Just the wind.
Solin hummed low behind them, trying to keep the cold from crawling into their minds. Even her song was slow, as if the chill was tugging at her music.
They reached the gate.
It opened on its own.
Inside was worse.
The walls bled frost. Statues stood, frozen mid-battle. People? Monsters? No one could tell.
At the center of the ruin, a boy stood.
Barefoot.
Sword drawn.
Eyes white as snow.
He didn't move when they approached.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Varn.
Kesh opened his mouth to speak, but Niro shook his head. "Let Elira."
She stepped forward, her boots crunching on ice. "We're not enemies," she said.
No answer.
"I'm trying to bring the flames back together. I think you're one of them."
Still nothing.
Then the ice cracked.
A howl echoed from the ruined towers. Wolves.
Big ones.
Not made of flesh, but frost. Their eyes burned blue. Their teeth dripped icicles.
Varn moved.
Fast.
His sword sang through the air like glass screaming.
One wolf fell. Then another.
But more came.
Dozens.
Elira grabbed a fallen pole and swung. "Help him!"
Kesh rushed in, laughing as always when danger came. "I love this guy already!"
Myn muttered spells, fire flashing from her fingertips like angry birds.
Solin sang—a soft, strong note that pushed the wolves back.
And Varn fought.
Like a storm.
Every movement was sharp. Cold. Beautiful.
But he was still alone.
Until Elira stood beside him.
"You don't have to fight by yourself," she said, swinging her pole at a wolf.
He didn't look at her.
But he didn't push her away either.
Together, they carved a circle in the snow. Wolves circled, snarling, cracking, melting where Solin's song touched them.
At last, the last one fell.
Silence.
Elira's breath puffed clouds. Her hands shook.
She turned to Varn.
"Come with us," she said. "Please."
Finally, he spoke.
His voice was cold smoke.
"Why?"
"Because there's a war coming. And I think I'm meant to stop it. But I can't do it alone."
He looked at her.
Long.
Then nodded once.
Not a yes.
Not a promise.
But enough.
He walked past them, toward the broken gate.
Kesh whooped. "That was awesome! I mean, not the nearly dying part, but the sword? The wolves? The silent brooding? Incredible!"
Myn rolled her eyes. "Let's just hope he doesn't kill us in our sleep."
Elira smiled. "He won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because he didn't," she said softly.
They left the ruin together, Varn walking in silence behind them.
Another flame found.
And somewhere, far
away, something stirred in the dark, watching.
Waiting.