They made camp in the lee of a formation of boulders that might have been the bones of some primordial giant, worn smooth by centuries of wind and ice. The shelter was meager. The rocks broke the worst of the wind but offered no true comfort save the knowledge that their backs were protected. Kaelen gathered what scraps of deadwood he could find, mostly twigs and the skeletons of bushes that had given up their struggle against the cold years ago.

  The fire, when it finally caught, was a pitiful thing. Orange tongues licked at the kindling with the enthusiasm of a dying man's last breath. It gave off more smoke than heat, the acrid smell mixing with the iron tang of blood that stubbornly clung to their clothes. But it was light in the darkness and that was victory enough in this wasteland.

  They arranged themselves around the fire in a triangle, an old habit from their days of plenty when they had commanded soldiers and slept in war camps. Now it was just the three of them, but the formation remained. They each watched a different approach, even here in the heart of nothing. Trust was a luxury they could not afford.They were bound by necessity. Survival made strange and empty bedfellows.

  Lyraleth pulled the wolf hearts from her pack, the organs still dark with congealed blood. She skewered them on sharpened sticks and held them over the flames, turning them slowly. The smell of meat over a flame should have stirred a physical reaction, yet they all gazed callously into the expanse ahead.Eating had become just another mechanical necessity, like breathing or walking. Fuel for bodies that continued to function long after their spirits had guttered out.

  They ate in silence, tearing at the half-cooked meat with their teeth. Wolf heart was tough, gamey, with an undertone of something wild and wrong. But it was protein, and in the wasteland, protein was life. They forced it down, chewing mechanically, swallowing without tasting. When the meal was done, they began preparing for sleep.

  The twins moved with their uncanny synchronization, laying out their bedrolls on opposite sides of the fire, positioning themselves so they could rise and arm themselves in a single motion if needed. They had slept this way for so long that any other arrangement would have felt wrong and would have left them tossing and turning through the night. Habit was its own form of armor.

  Seraphine yawned and sighed goodnight to her companions. Her sister gave a curt nod before rolling over onto her side closer to her weapons. Kaelen didn’t answer at all. This had been a constant in their lives, ever since they were foundlings in the Iceblades. A goodnight, a nod, and nothing.

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  Kaelen always took longer to settle. He checked his sword, running his thumb along the edge to test its sharpness, though he had already cleaned and honed it after the fight. He adjusted his pack three times, ensuring everything was in its proper place. These small rituals, meaningless in themselves, were all that stood between him and the chaos that waited in sleep.

  Finally, with nothing left to delay the inevitable, he lay down on his bedroll. The ground was frozen hard as iron beneath him, cold seeping through the worn leather and fur. He pulled his cloak tight and closed his eyes.

  The dream began as it always did, with warmth. He stood in the great hall of the Iceblade Citadel, fire roaring in the massive hearth, his brothers around him laughing at some jest. The warmth was so real he could feel it on his skin, could smell the pine logs burning, the mulled wine, the leather and oil scent of well-maintained weapons. For a moment, he was home.

  Then the screaming started.

  Brother-Knight Maddox, who had taught him the seventh form, drove his blade through Brother-Knight Aldric's chest. The Commander, their father in all but blood, stood on the dais directing the slaughter.

  Kaelen tried to move, tried to draw his sword, but in the dream he was frozen, paralyzed. He could only watch as brothers he had trained with, eaten with, trusted with his life, tore each other apart. "NO!" The scream tore from his throat, in the dream and in the waking world. Hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him. For a moment the dream and reality blurred. He saw Seraphine’s face superimposed over Brother-Knight Edwin's, saw her concerned eyes where Edwin's had been full of madness and murder. His hand went for his sword, muscle memory faster than thought.

  "Kaelen!" Seraphine’s voice cut through the confusion. Reality crashed back like a wave of cold water. He was in the wasteland, in the circle of stones, with the dying fire casting shadows on anxious faces. Not in the burning hall. Not watching his world end. That had already happened. This was just the echo, the ghost that haunted him.

  He slumped forward, his body shaking with more than cold. Sweat had soaked through his clothes despite the freezing air, and his hands trembled as he pressed them against his face. Seraphine was still gripping his shoulders, a look of concern on her face. Lyraleth was sitting up in her bedroll, her eyes on Kaelen and her hand on one of her blades.

  "Rest," Seraphine said, releasing his shoulders with a squeeze. "We'll keep watch."

  He brushed her off. Kaelen wanted to protest, to say he would take his turn at guard duty, but the words wouldn't come. He lay back down, pulling the sweat-damp cloak around himself, and stared up at the stars. The twins settled back into their positions, but he could feel their eyes on him in the darkness.

  The fire died to embers, then to ash. The cold crept in, wrapping around them like a burial shroud. In the distance, something howled - wolf or wind or something worse, it didn't matter.