The first thing Grim felt was the cold.
Not the bite of winter or the numbness of fear—this was colder, deeper, like the world itself had stopped breathing while he was gone.
He opened his eyes to the fading crimson of dawn spilling over Ashenwell’s spires. The air shimmered faintly where he stood, a veil of embers collapsing back into smoke. For a heartbeat, he halfexpected Vortharion’s voice to echo again—Rise, Heir of the Ember Seal.
But the only sound was the whisper of the courtyard fountain, cracked and dry.
The world had moved on without him.
His coat was scorched along the edges, every thread still smoldering with faint light. Beneath the soot, his veins glowed dimly gold then flickered black—flame and void pulsing side by side, refusing to settle. When he breathed, ash fell from his lips. He wiped it away, the gesture oddly human.
Students nearby froze midstep.
Someone whispered, “That’s him. The boy who vanished into fire.”
Grim ignored them. His steps echoed through the cobblestones as he crossed the courtyard, the familiar gates of Ashenwell rising ahead. The Academy had changed—its walls repaired from the Nullbinder assault, though the repairs bled faint light from Zevrine’s temporal seals. Strange runes pulsed in the corners, symbols meant to stitch time itself. It felt less like a school now, more like a sanctuary trembling between seconds.
Sparks materialized beside him in a static ripple, her form glitching in and out before solidifying. “Hey, partner… you look like you wrestled a volcano and lost.”
He gave her a tired glance. “You’re not wrong.”
She flicked at the burned hem of his coat. “You know, next time you decide to jump into a dragon’s soul, maybe text first.”
Grim tried to smile. Tried—and failed. The attempt cracked into silence.
Sparks’ expression softened. “Something’s off with you,” she said quietly. “I can feel it in your Core sync. It’s not just the flame anymore.”
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He hesitated. There was something—something vast and ancient breathing beneath his heartbeat. A whisper that wasn’t his own, coiling through his mind in Vortharion’s voice:
Guard them. Endure. Until the Sovereign wakes.
He didn’t tell Sparks. Not yet.
Instead, he murmured, “Let’s just go home.”
The dorms were quiet, almost unnaturally so. The faint hum of mana conduits, the flutter of curtains—normalcy pretending nothing had happened. His door creaked open with the same familiar groan, the same scent of iron, ink, and ozone.
Empty.
Zariya’s old coat still hung by the chair, a reminder she’d stayed through the last battle before being summoned by Zevrine. The faint shimmer of Sparks’ old maintenance field flickered weakly in the corner, like a heartbeat waiting for its owner to return.
Grim sat on the bed. The springs sighed beneath him, and for the first time in what felt like days—or weeks—he let his body remember it was mortal. The ache spread from his shoulders down to his chest, a dull reminder of everything he’d endured.
That was when he noticed the note.
Folded neatly atop the desk, weighed down by a frozen petal—translucent blue, still glinting with frostlight. He touched it, and a faint chill ran up his arm. Inside, written in Lys’s careful script:
“If you can’t sleep, find me where the frost doesn’t melt.”
—L.
His thumb traced the letter once, twice. He exhaled, the paper trembling with the motion. Sparks leaned over his shoulder, eyes soft.
“She waited, huh?”
Grim nodded. “She shouldn’t have.”
“You say that,” Sparks said, “but you kept the note.”
He didn’t argue. The frost from the petal hadn’t melted on his fingers—it never would.
Outside, Ashenwell exhaled softly. The sun had fully risen now, painting the Academy roofs in gold and shadow. Students laughed faintly in the distance. The world carried on, blissfully unaware that the boy walking its halls had stared into eternity and come back burned by truth.
Grim rested his head against the windowpane, watching the breath fog it over. The sky looked clearer than before, but maybe that was just the exhaustion. Maybe the world was clearer after everything had been stripped away—ego, fear, and flame alike.
Sparks drifted closer, hovering just enough to meet his reflection.
“You’re not planning to brood for a week again, are you?”
He smirked faintly. “Maybe half.”
“Good. I’ll charge during the other half.”
A soft hum filled the room—the faint, living sound of things resettling. But under it, somewhere deeper, Grim still heard that whisper from beyond the flame.
Guard them.
Endure.
Until the Sovereign wakes.
His hand closed around the frost petal, holding both warmth and cold in his grasp.
Outside, bells rang in the distance, signaling another dawn at Ashenwell.
Inside, Grim sat motionless, eyes on the horizon that no longer looked like home.
The world was quiet again…
But nothing inside him was.