Page 15 of Burning Heir

“For day two of Winter,” Bridger announced, “your quells should be waking up. Some of you may have ice manipulation or a variation. There are two types of quells: the one you’re born with, and the one passed through your enigma. Focus on your mark. Feel its strength.”

He raised his palm, revealing the faded snowflake etched into his skin. An icicle hovered above it, its point sharp enough to kill—a craft perfected through years of training. Withoutwarning, he hurled the spear toward me. It grazed my ear, drawing blood.

I gasped, clutching my shoulder as blood rolled down.

Myla leaned in. “Are you okay?” she whispered.

I nodded, though my hands trembled.

Death may stare you down, may laugh and offer a hand of bone, but I would not fray. I recited passages from Cully’s Fables to steady my heart.The Bones of Lovewas my favorite. Death, disguised as a friend, a lover—greedy for a single breath, a glimpse of my soul.

Everyone extended their palms. Hunter was the first to summon a snowflake, pride lighting up his face. A vein pulsed on Myla’s forehead as her eyes locked onto her mark. I raised my palm to the sky, willing the ice to break through, to prove to Bridger that I was Winter’s daughter.

“Shit,” Myla breathed as icy tendrils spiraled around her fingers. The storm grew until Bridger clamped her hand shut.

“Your professor can train you,” he said tightly. “For now, let’s not kill us all. Your father was skilled with ice powers—I expected nothing less from you.”

I couldn’t hold back. “Are you even qualified to open our quells? You’re a senior and still haven’t claimed the title. Why is that?”

The group stilled, and Bridger’s face darkened. “I don’t see your quell, Severyn. A Serpent’s daughter should’ve caused the ground to shake by now. I am… disappointed.” His tongue clicked twice.

Hunter frowned at me. “Open your palm wider.”

I obeyed, holding both hands out, but nothing happened. Tears burned my eyes as I stared at the falling snow. Father always made it look so easy. I clenched my fists, trying to summon anything—ice, frost, even a chill. Nothing.

Bridger smirked. “Good luck at the Rite tomorrow, Blanche. Jenessa was hopeful for you—it’ll be a shame when I tell her you’re falling behind.”

A few others laughed. I clenched my fists against my ribs, trying to drown out their mocking voices as the rest practiced their powers. I stared at my scarred palms.Please, give me something.

Leaning into the crackling fire, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Myla’s voice was soft. “You’ll get it. Give it a few days.”

Before I could respond, a shorter girl with pinned-back dark hair overheard and interrupted. “There aren’t days—only hours left to prove ourselves. Only twelve of us will make it on.” She gave a small nod. “I’m Chanvin. I was born in Icillian. Your father was a great man, Myla.”

At least someone’s father had kind words spoken about them.

Bridger’s gaze never left me. I felt the weight of his scrutiny with every move I made. Delwyn and Aspen, cousins from Autumn who had been placed in Winter, walked past, their fingers stained red as they popped berries into their mouths.

“What are you eating?” I asked, desperate for a distraction.

“The berries from that vine,” one said, pointing toward the mistletoe.

I shot to my feet, nearly knocking the berries from their hands. “Those are poisonous! Spit them out!”

Their eyes widened. “We were starving. We couldn’t help it.”

I stormed toward Bridger. “Two of them ate mistletoe. They’re starving! We’re starving! You’ve tortured us enough!”

Bridger’s silver eyes flared with rage. “You don’t get a say in how I lead, Blanche. This is Winter. Food is sparse in most regions, and people die. This is your first test to know if you belong, which, from the looks of it, you don’t.”

I bit back my anger. “What about those who fell off the wall? Will their bodies be returned home?”

“Most students who die here don’t get letters sent to their parents. The academy won’t waste resources dragging bodies out of the ground. People die here—it’s nothing new,” Bridger said coldly. He waved dismissively at Aspen and Delwyn, who clutched their stomachs. “They’ll live. Besides, mistletoe is the most invasive species in the North—after the Blanches.”

“I am not your enemy, Bridger.”

“I saved your life on that slope.”

“Not kicking me off isn’t heroic.”

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