The scream came first.
Not a sound in the room, but in the dream. Deep. Wet. A sound that cracked bone inside the ear. He'd heard it once before, when a beast lunged at the crowd in Crystalis and he couldn't find the angle in time.
He turned in the dream, rifle trembling. Fire rained behind him.
And then nothing.
The snow swallowed everything.
He woke in silence.
Ilya sat up slowly, breath tight. The frost-glazed window glowed pale blue, and the faintest light cut across the floorboards like broken glass.
Anna was still asleep across the room, arms tangled in the blanket. Her breathing rose and fell, slow and even. Safe.
He envied her.
He sat there for a while, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the cracks in the wood ceiling.
With a slow sigh, Ilya rose and reached for his coat. Anna shifted in her bed across the room but didn't wake.
By now, the rooftop path was routine.
He climbed through the familiar crack beside the hall window, lifted himself past the chipped stones, and stepped out into the cold air above the tavern.
The rooftop was colder than before. Ice clung thick to the edge bricks, and his hands stung as he pulled himself up. He didn't shiver. Cold didn't matter anymore.
He liked the silence here.
The air above the tavern didn't care who he was.
But then, he heard it.
A sound below, sharp, rhythmic. Not the clatter of crates or footsteps, but something faster. Controlled.
He leaned forward.
Someone was training.
He climbed down slowly, one boot at a time, eyes narrowing as the figure came into view.
Yula stood on the middle of the yard, hair loosely tied, face taut with focus. Her stance was off. Her breathing was ragged. Her injured arm was clearly not ready.
Still, she moved.
Strike. Step. Her injured shoulder flinched with each motion, but she kept going. Harder. Faster.
Ilya stepped into the yard, snow crackling under his boots.
"Yula," he said. "You should stop already."
She didn't.
"You're not healed yet."
Still nothing.
"You'll tear something if you keep—"
"I don't care!"
Her voice ripped into the air like a whip crack.
Ilya froze.
She spun, hair sticking to her temple, eyes wide, not with tears, but fire.
"You think I care if I break it worse?"
Her voice climbed.
"You don't know anything about me! You stand around like some tragic little soldier, acting like you've seen it all. Like this is just another stupid story for you to write down in that frozen head of yours!"
Ilya's lips parted. But no words came.
Yula pointed the training sword, not at him, but the air between them, like she wanted it to land somewhere sharp.
"You don't feel anything! You fight like it's nothing, like we're all just in your way. You think I want your help? You think I needed saving?"
Her voice cracked there once, but she covered it with more.
"I hate this. I hate this place. I hate that I froze up. I hate that I saw your face when I couldn't move—your face—like you were just waiting to clean up my mess!"
She threw the sword. It hit the dummy with a dull thud and bounced off, landing at her feet.
She was breathing too fast now, fists clenched so tight her knuckles blanched white.
Neither of them moved.
Yula's eyes were still locked on him. But now there was no space for shame or explanation. Only fire. Heat pressed up against pride.
She bent, snatched the sword off the frost.
And took a stance.
"Come on then," she snapped.
Ilya blinked.
"What?"
She shifted her feet. The blade dipped slightly, one hand steadying her weak side with practiced stubbornness.
"You wanted to say something?" she shouted. "Then say it with your hands."
Ilya stared at her.
Then took a breath, and stepped into the yard.
No bell. No count. Just breath and tension.
Yula came in first. Sharp, fast, like she was trying to cut the silence in half. Her swing was wide, telegraphed, but full of weight. Ilya sidestepped without effort.
Ilya caught her second strike with his sword, wood scraping wood. The blow jarred up his arm. She wasn't pulling anything.
He stepped back. She pressed forward.
Her movements weren't clean, her footwork was uneven, her arm lagging at times, but she moved like it didn't matter. Like she'd tear herself in half before she'd slow down.
He parried another strike. Then one more. She twisted suddenly, overcommitted, and he tapped the inside of her elbow with the flat of his blade.
She hissed, eyes flashing.
He saw the next blow coming from her shoulder, not her stance.
It wasn't training anymore.
It was release.
The sound of the clash echoed off the wall. Again. Again. The rhythm picked up. Neither of them said a word. Just wood on wood, boots on ice, breath in steam.
Ilya began to match her pace. Every strike was sharper. His body remembered faster than his mind could question. His eyes tracked her movements without needing to guess. She wasn't clean, but she was fierce.
He almost admired it.
Until—
She slipped.
Just a fraction, her foot hit a patch of frost and skidded. Her injured arm dropped, off balance.
Ilya didn't think.
He caught her.
His hand on her wrist, sword already lowered.
For one second, her body leaned into his.
Then she yanked away.
"Don't," she snapped.
She turned her back to him, shoulders heaving once.
The sword in her hand shook, but she didn't drop it.
And neither of them moved.
***
Yula sat on the low edge of the yard wall, one hand pressed against her ribs. Her breath was still uneven, but steadier now.
Ilya leaned against the fence across from her, sword dropped somewhere in the snow.
Neither of them spoke at first.
The frost on the ground glittered under the swinging lantern. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once. Then silence again.
Yula broke it.
"You didn't go easy."
It wasn't a complaint. Just a statement.
Ilya shrugged lightly. "You'd have hated that more."
"Yeah."
She didn't look at him.
He didn't push.
A moment passed.
"...My arm's going to be worse tomorrow," she muttered, flexing her fingers once.
"Your stance was off."
"Say it again and I'll throw a chair at you."
He almost smiled. Almost.
"I thought you were going to break your sword," he said instead.
"I thought you were going to disappear again."
Ilya blinked.
She glanced at him, quick, then away.
"I've seen the way you vanish when people talk to you. You don't even leave footsteps."
He didn't answer right away.
"I don't like talking."
"No kidding."
Silence again.
Then Yula shifted, wincing a bit, and said.
"I wasn't mad at you."
Ilya looked at her.
"I mean—I was," she corrected. "But mostly at myself."
He nodded once. No lecture. No 'I told you so.'
That made it easier.
Yula let out a breath through her nose. "I just hate being the one on the ground. You know?"
He didn't say yes.
But his eyes did.
Then Yula stood, brushing the snow from her trousers. She didn't look up as she added, almost offhand, "You remind me of my sister. Always disappear, thinking they're the only one who could do something."
Ilya tilted his head. "You mean Nadia?"
Yula's mouth twitched, something between a smile and a flinch.
She didn't answer. Just turned toward the inn's door.
At the threshold, she stopped and glanced back at him.
"You should come back tomorrow."
Ilya blinked. "What for?"
"To train. Or not. I don't care. Just don't vanish again."
Her voice had changed. No edge now. No sharpness.
Just honest, bone-tired sincerity.
Then she disappeared inside, leaving only her footprints behind in the snow.