The winters in Greyline didn't kill you quickly. They worked patiently.
Snow fell early and stayed late, packing the narrow streets into white corridors where sound vanished and warmth became a rumor. Houses leaned into each other like tired men, sharing heat through cracked walls and shared misery. Fires were small. Food was smaller.
People survived by learning how not to feel.
It was a small village, far from any real civilization. Easy food was rare. Help rarer.
Most days followed the same pattern. People rose late because there was no reason not to, then lingered near cold hearths pretending warmth would return if they waited long enough. Doors stayed closed. Windows stayed shuttered. When someone left their home, it was with purpose—water, wood, trade, or theft.
Children learned early which streets to avoid and which corners offered shelter from the wind.
Older folks watched from behind glass, counting bodies and measuring whether winter had taken another name from the village.
No one talked about spring like it was guaranteed.
Greyline survived by assuming tomorrow would be worse and planning accordingly.
Riven learned early.
He learned to keep his hands tucked beneath his sleeves even when they went numb, because if he didn't, they would freeze. He learned to count meals in his head instead of days. He learned that silence was safer than asking questions, and that watching carefully saved you more often than strength ever would.
He was eight when he met Cael.
Cael was loud.
That was the first thing Riven noticed—not the red in his hair, not the split lip or the torn boots, but the noise. Laughter echoed down an alley where sound usually died quietly, sharp and unafraid of being heard.
Riven followed it out of curiosity.
He found Cael standing knee-deep in snow, arguing with three older boys over a loaf of bread that had already fallen apart in his hands. Crumbs dotted the ground between them.
"I found it," Cael said, gesturing with the ruined bread. "That means it wasn't yours."
"That's not how that works," one of the boys said.
Cael shrugged. "Seemed like it was working fine until you showed up."
The punch came fast.
Cael went down hard, snow bursting up around him as the loaf scattered completely. For a moment, Riven thought that would be the end of it.
Then the boy sat up.
He wiped blood from his mouth, looked at the bread, and laughed.
"Yeah," he said. "Alright."
Riven's body moved on instinct alone. The moment blurred, edges soft and unreal.
He remembered throwing a stone.
It cracked against the oldest boy's temple with a sharp sound. The boy staggered back, swore, and the other two hesitated just long enough for Cael to rush them like he didn't care how it ended.
The fight was ugly and fast.
But it ended.
When it was over, Cael sat in the snow, breathing hard, knuckles split and red. He grinned like he'd just proven something important.
Riven stood a few steps away, heart hammering, already counting exits.
Cael looked up at him.
"Nice throw."
Riven didn't answer.
Cael held out a hand anyway. "Cael."
Riven hesitated, then took it. "Riven."
Cael squinted at him. "You always pick fights with bigger kids?"
Riven shook his head.
That was how it started.
They didn't talk much at first.
They didn't need to.
They shared heat behind abandoned walls, backs pressed together while the wind clawed uselessly at stone. Cael talked enough for both of them—about things he'd never do, places he'd never see, fights he'd definitely win next time.
Riven listened.
He learned Cael's rhythms—when he burned bright and when he crashed, when the laughter meant don't worry and when it meant don't ask. Cael learned Riven's silences—those that meant thinking, those that meant danger, those that meant run.
They stole together.
Riven planned it. Cael did it.
They failed often.
When they did, Cael took the bruises and laughed through them. Riven remembered every mistake.
Winter after winter, they survived together.
On the coldest nights, Cael shivered hard enough that Riven worried he'd stop. Riven pressed closer, counted breaths, and told himself it was just for warmth.
Sometimes Riven went too quiet, too still, thoughts slipping into places Cael didn't understand. Cael nudged him, talked louder, pulled him back with sheer presence.
They kept each other human.
Magic came later.
For Cael, it came in bursts—sparks when he was angry, heat when he laughed too hard. Uncontrolled. Dangerous. Alive.
For Riven, it came as awareness—a tightening in his chest before things went wrong, patterns locking into place just before disaster struck.
They didn't know what it meant.
They only knew that together, they would last longer.
On nights when the city went quiet and the cold settled deep into bone, Cael would stare up at the frozen sky.
"One day we'll leave this place," he said. "See something better."
Riven would nod.
Not because he believed it.
But because Cael needed him to.
When the academy notices came years later—clean paper in a dirty world—neither of them spoke at first.
Cael broke the silence with a grin. "If there's a test, I'm beating you."
Riven folded the letter carefully. "You can try."
They shook on it.
Outside, winter loosened its grip for the first time in years.
They left Greyline together.
They didn't look back.