Page 105 of Burning Ice
“Yeah.”
“You?”
“Yeah.”
They said nothing more. The quiet between them was its own comfort.
Mirel adjusted the brooch on his uniform, grabbed his bag, and followed Vandor out.
They drove through Zephyr. Sunlight flashed across the car’s glass as the academy towers rose ahead. Clouds gathered over the city, light shifting toward gray, a promise of rain waiting at the edge of the skyline. Gardens and domes blurred past in the light.
Before stepping out, Mirel checked his slate. No new messages. He hesitated, then typed anyway:
Mirel: Are you okay? Did you sleep?
The reply came seconds later, letters fading gold the instant they appeared.
Kylix: Focus on class, little one. Fire doesn’t rest, but you should.
He smiled despite himself.
The academy gates loomed ahead. The air smelled of morning metal and wet stone, the faint scent of coming rain already in the wind. Students’ voices drifted from the open drive.
His slate chimed again.
Cyprian: You okay? What a night.
Mirel: Yeah. You?
Cyprian: Yeah. Sending the picture we took yesterday with Mama.
The image appeared: Mama propped on her hospital pillow, Cyprian’s arm around both of them. A rare softness. Mirel’s chest tightened with love.
Cyprian: Lunch later?
Mirel: Yes.
Cyprian: Cool.
Mirel could already hear his teasing about one-word answers. The thought steadied him.
The classroom waited at the end of a corridor washed in white. A single door. Frost did not touch the handle today. He pushed it open, and calm met him like a hand to the chest.
“Good morning, Mirel.” Professor Kiba already sat by her desk. The chalkboard glowed faintly with a list:syntax patterns, context registers, civic oaths.
Mirel took his seat near the window. The view showed a small courtyard beyond, thin trees, a walkway.
“Let’s pick up where we left off yesterday,” she said. “Remind me what you remember about the founding of Helion, how the city runs, who keeps the peace, and what every citizen should know.”
He read aloud from the first page of the primer. His voice was gravel-soft but steady. It was basic history, covering Helion’s first laws, its districts, the civics every twelve-year-old learned. When he stumbled, she tapped the line with her pen and nodded.
“Good. Try again.”
He did, and the rhythm came cleaner.
“Now context,” she said. “Where does law end and courtesy begin?”
He liked the examples because they made sense. A judge, a shopkeeper, a man on a tram who would not sit. Simple scenes that showed how words worked. Reading made sense when nothing else did. Rules stayed the same. Pages waited.
