The sound of his own heartbeat jolted him awake: quick and insistent, a rhythm that felt out of sync with the stillness of the room. Kai Fischer opened his eyes to darkness interrupted only by the faintest rim of pearl behind the dormitory shutters. The cold struck him first—a thinness in reality that clung to his skin, more unsettling than any chill of winter. Maya often muttered that the old orphanage stood right on a tired ley line, one that was failing to provide the vital data and energy needed to keep the room solid and warm, allowing the Entropy to seep in and rob the rooms of solidity and warmth. He felt its drain in the dull ache across his shoulders, along the fine bones of his legs, and along the left side of his neck where he'd landed badly on a practice dummy the day before.
He lay perfectly still for a few breaths, waiting to see if any of the others had stirred. Dormitories at the Shenya Orphanage followed the logic of a beehive: order, quiet, and a communal sense that any disturbance in the hive would bring the wrath of the Matron, Maya, upon you. It was a logic that suited Kai. He'd never liked being noticed.
But he had things to do before the sun came up.
Kai paused at the edge of his blanket, holding his breath as if even the faintest exhale might trigger some hidden trap in the hush. He pushed aside the thin covers, careful not to let the faded green-and-black plaid drag or flutter, and eased his feet to the floor. The boards groaned minutely, a sound so soft it barely punctured the morning's hush but nevertheless summoned a brief spike of dread to Kai's chest. He hesitated, the too-cold air bite-sharp against his bare ankles as he rose onto the balls of his feet and crept along the aisle between cots.
Every morning, there seemed a little less orphanage to walk on.
Overnight, entropy gnawed holes into the perimeter of his world. Maybe it was the failing ley lines. The geometry of the dormitory shifted subtly each night. The cots never seemed quite the same distance apart from dusk to dawn. Kai would have dismissed this as tricks of tired eyes, except that every morning, something else in the orphanage went missing: chalk, paper, buttons, a sliver of soap.
The worst, though, were the glitches.
He caught it now, just past the third cot on the right: a thumb-sized patch where the wood grain no longer made sense, as if the world's careful rendering had buffered then given up. Instead of honey and ochre streaks, the floorboards here lost their color and bled into matte-grey static, shimmering in the dimness like a wound that refused to heal. It was as if some giant hand had reached down and tried to erase the plank with a careless swipe.
Kai's stomach did a slow, icy roll. He hovered, watching the veins of the wood dissolve and reconstitute, flickering at the edges like a low-resolution screen. He'd seen it before—sometimes in walls, sometimes in the orphanage's glassless windows—but it never got easier to witness. Maya said it was dangerous to fixate on these spots, that your mind could get lost there and forget its own edges, but Kai couldn't help it. The emptiness was mesmerizing, like a cold pond calling you to its depths.
He skirted the glitch instinctively, giving it a wide berth, remembering the whispered stories of a boy named Toma who'd stepped into one and never quite come back out.
The rest of the dormitory—if you didn't look too hard—seemed almost normal. The rows of cots were uneven, but each still anchored by its own child and its own little world of threadbare blankets and scavenged treasures. Kai found comfort in knowing exactly where each of the others lay.
Beyond the trembling patch of floor, Lin and Cori slept curled in a tangle of wiry limbs, arms thrown over each other's chests, the white-blonde shock of Lin's cowlick pressed against Cori's chin. They were twins, but if you asked them, they'd claim to remember being born in rival cities. Their breathing synchronized in a slow, tidal rhythm, sometimes interrupted when Lin would murmur a word in her sleep, and Cori, even unconscious, would shush her.
A few cots further down, Ryn sprawled diagonally, blanket kicked off, one arm trailing over the side so that his knuckles nearly brushed the floor. He'd grown so much over the past winter that his toes poked past the bedframe. Even asleep, Ryn radiated brashness; he snored openly, each exhale a guttural challenge to the morning's silence, and even the entropy glitches had learned to give him space.
Kai moved on, picking his way through the sleeping bodies and the landmines of entropy, until he could see the door. Past the door, he knew, was the greater cold—real air, raw and unsheltered. It was where every morning began.
He crouched by his own cot, found the worn slippers he had hidden underneath—if you left them out in the open, they'd be gone by sunrise, claimed by either another orphan or the entropy itself. Even with the slippers, the cold found its way through the thin soles, biting his feet as he tiptoed toward the exit.
He pressed two fingers to his chest—where, beneath his nightshirt, the little steel pendant of his father's old badge rested against his skin—and exhaled through pursed lips. Not quite a prayer, but close enough.
Then he eased open the door, careful not to let the hinges sing, and slipped into the corridor. The orphanage was darker here, the walls less real, the air oddly thick with the scent of lemon wax and old paper. Every step toward the outside world was a negotiation between memory and willpower; you had to refuse to let the emptiness notice you.
Kai moved faster now, across the creaking landing and down the stairwell, head ducked to avoid the sagging beams overhead.
He crept down the narrow corridor, past the cold hearth in the kitchen, and out the scullery door. The yard beyond lay glassy in the predawn gloom—frost clinging stubbornly to the fence rails and coating the patchy grass in brittle white. Each breath stung his lungs, but it cleared his head like nothing else. He closed the door behind him with care, listening to the latch click, and stood in the biting air.
He found the training dummy at the edge of the yard, half-shadowed by the orphanage wall. It was a crude thing: a post, two crossbars lashed on for arms, and a gourd for a head, the paint already flaking off from too many eager blows. His wooden practice sword hung from the fence post. He gripped it with both hands, knuckles whitening. The aches in his arms and shoulders warned him what was coming.
He started slow, as always. Simple strikes, left to right, right to left, stepping in and out. His muscles complained bitterly, but he pressed on, counting each swing in his head. Fifty. A hundred. The sword felt heavier with every pass. By the second set, his forearms burned. By the third, his breath came in short, frosty puffs, his brow beaded with sweat that the morning refused to dry.
He shifted to the forms he'd learned at the chapter house, the Knight's Path—the way his father would have done it. Block, parry, feint. Move the body as one unit. Kai was not good at any of it. His left foot dragged on turns, and his arms lacked the reach to make some of the moves look elegant. The dummy mocked him with every misstep, the gourd's painted grin splitting in the blue half-light. He practiced anyway. The only way out was through.
Halfway through a complicated sequence, his right wrist buckled on the downswing. The wooden sword slipped from his grip and landed with a dull thunk in the grass. Kai went to pick it up and hissed—his palm already blistering from the friction. He gritted his teeth, wiped his hand on his shirt, and started again.
The next set of strikes was worse, if possible. But he did not stop.
The edge of dawn came creeping over the fence, gilding the tips of the grass with gold. By then Kai was swaying on his feet, arms trembling with every motion. He forced himself through the last ten swings—one, two, three, breath catching at four, five—and finished on a parry so weak the sword barely rebounded from the dummy's arm.
He collapsed onto the grass, legs folded beneath him, the wooden sword lying across his lap. For a moment he let himself feel it: the exhaustion, the soreness, the utter futility of it all. He would never be a knight. Everyone knew it, even the instructors at the chapter house. He was a curiosity, a shadow of a name that once meant something. The sickly son of a hero, the orphan who kept showing up.
He unclasped the pendant at his neck, the simple steel disk cool and heavy in his hand. Alaric Fischer's only possession to survive the Brumo Cataclysm. The town's last hope, they'd called his father. The hero who faced down the demons and gave Shenya a chance. The stories were told at every festival, the songs louder with each retelling. But Kai remembered only snatches of the man's voice, a rough hand on his shoulder, and one final promise: that he'd be back in the morning. He never was.
Kai looked down at the steel disk, thumb tracing the edge. He traced the two crossed swords and the shield behind. It was a sign of the Second Order—the fighting line. The First Order, the mages and scholars, rarely came this far north, preferring their hidden academies and their arcane wars. He pressed it to his lips, and then to his forehead, as he had every morning since the day it was given to him.
"I'll make you proud," he whispered. The words came out raw, barely audible. "I'll prove I'm worthy of your name."
He squeezed the pendant tight, so hard the rim bit into his palm. For a second, the metal felt almost icy against his skin—a living cold, deeper than the dawn air. He let go quickly, embarrassed at the sting, and tucked the disk back under his shirt. Maybe it was always that cold. Maybe he just never noticed.
Kai stood, brushing frost from his knees. The memorial stone waited at the edge of the town green, past the fence and down the worn dirt path. He walked it every morning, and this day was no different. The cold gnawed at his ankles, and his breath came white and uneven, but he kept moving, clutching the practice sword in one hand.
The memorial stone was not grand. Just a slab of granite, worn at the edges, set upright at the end of a row of wildflowers. Below it, a crack in the stone, patched long ago—a deep, jagged line that they said was left by the shadow-beast his father defeated, one of the last true Gloom Incursions. The words were simple, too:
ALARIC FISCHER
KNIGHT-CAPTAIN
HERO OF BRUMO
Someone—probably Maya from the orphanage—had left a fresh sprig of pine on the base. Kai knelt before the stone, legs numb, and set the sword across his thighs.
He closed his eyes, letting the silence fill him. The world was quiet here. No one to judge, or snicker, or remind him that heroes' sons should be bigger, or braver, or at least not the first to fall behind in drills. Just the stone, the sky, and the cold that seeped all the way in.
He reached for the pendant again, clutching it with both hands. "Morning, Father," he said. "Hope I didn't wake you. I've been practicing the seventh form, but my turns are still awful. I tried to as my instructor says—shoulders loose, eyes up—but I keep losing the target. I'll do better tomorrow."
He waited, as if the stone or the sky would answer him. They never did.
But the ritual was its own comfort. He bowed his head to the ground, pressing his forehead against the rough frost-blistered earth, and let the world be quiet for as long as it wanted.
Then he stood, brushed his hands, and started back toward the warmth of the orphanage, the steel disk pressing a steady, silent weight against his heart.
Back inside, the heat of the kitchen walloped him, almost sweet in its suddenness. Kai set the wooden sword behind the door, as always, and slipped into the narrow galley where Maya stood with her back to him, stirring the cauldron. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hair a tidy gray knot, and she sang under her breath—a song with too many verses to ever remember. The light in here came from two low windows and the ever-present glow of the oven.
She didn't look at him, but her voice sharpened on the next verse. "You're early, Kai."
He shrugged and flinched, only then realizing how much his shoulder hurt. "Couldn't sleep."
Maya turned, ladle in hand. The years had left lines around her eyes and mouth, but nothing could blunt the way she seemed to see straight through a person. "And you thought battering that dummy would help?"
Kai offered a lopsided smile. "It might, eventually."
She grunted and returned to her work. "If you break yourself, who'll I have to chase Lin and Cori when they get into the jam again? Or is that your plan, to get out of chores?" She gave the porridge another stir, then set the ladle aside. "Sit."
The table was already laid—bowls, spoons, even a wedge of yesterday's bread waiting on a plate. Kai sat, slow and careful, and tried not to make a face when the bruise on his hip touched the bench. Maya noticed, of course.
She ladled out a generous portion for him, then another for herself. "Eat. You look like a ghost."
"Thank you," he said, and meant it.
The other orphans trickled in, sleepy-eyed and grumpy. The twins fought over the heel of the bread, while Ryn claimed the biggest bowl for himself and rolled his eyes when Kai didn't protest. Lin and Cori sat on either side of him, as if his mere presence would keep them from trouble. Maya's table rules were clear: no fighting, no shouting, no complaints. This morning, the rule seemed to be "no talking unless you have something worth saying."
Kai ate quietly, eyes half-lidded. The porridge was hot and sweetened with honey, the bread fresh enough to still smell like yeast. With every mouthful, the aches in his arms dulled a little. But the tiredness was deeper today, harder to shake. He pushed through, finishing his bowl.
Maya watched him over the rim of her cup. "You need rest more than training, Kai. You'll wear yourself to sticks."
He shrugged, and she fixed him with that look—the one that made him wish for a helmet. "The drillmaster says I'll never build up if I don't put in the hours."
"The drillmaster isn't the one who'll be scraping you off the ground come winter." Maya's voice was soft but edged with steel. She reached across the table and set her hand lightly on his. Her hands were always warm, even in the cold. "You can't fight the world, you know. It's too big for one person."
He tried a joke, because that was easier than talking about feelings. "That's what my father thought, too. But he still tried."
She smiled, but it was a sad one. "Yes. And that's why I worry."
He didn't want to talk about it anymore. He scraped his bowl clean and stood, gathering dishes so the younger kids wouldn't have to. "I need to get to the chapter house," he said, voice careful. "Instructor Vantis said he wanted to see me before the others."
Maya gave him a look that said she doubted the urgency, but she let him go. As he pulled on his coat, she stopped him at the door.
"Your father would be proud of your heart, Kai. I just wish you could see you don't need to break it to prove yourself," she said, her voice gentle now. "He'd want you to be whole. Promise me you'll take care?"
He nodded, but they both knew he wouldn't slow down. The best he could do was survive the day and come home for supper.
He stepped into the cold again, the steel disk at his throat grounding him. The chapter house bell was already tolling in the distance.