Session 90
The docks of Icesyn groaned under the weight of the cold.
Wooden planks cracked and shifted. Around Kervoite, the fishers moved between sled-boats on ice and the wooden dock with a quiet, exhausted rhythm. The boats were crafted with very long sled legs to prevent breaking through weak ice patches. It was a dangerous profession, one that produced hope of getting a Glasvryn.
Boots scuffed across ice and boards. Nets sprawled like spider webs across the ice, trembling in the wind, laid out to prepare, by fishers who had performed this ritual every day of their lives…Habit more than hope drove them now.
With Kervoite, Sigunia followed with grace, observing the sights. Kervoite had been task with showing Sigunia Icesyn and all its workings. Today was the fishing industry of Icesyn. The resource that Sigunia was traded for. Glasvryn. Kervoite didn’t do this out of malice though. Sigunia had curiosity how the fish was caught and wanted to go with Kervoite to see about catching one.
Kervoite pointed across the ice. “There,” he said. “Ice-Singer. My boat.”
He said it with quiet pride. He fished the Glasvryn when he could. Not for the alchemical oils, or the coin. For the thrill. The chase. The rare spark of something alive beneath the surface.
Sigunia tilted his head. “It’s a bit small,” he said, voice lilting with amusement. “Are you sure you know how to use it?”
Kervoite did not return the smile. “The smaller the craft, the lighter it rides. Heavier boats crack the weak ice.”
There was a silence between them. Comfortable, if uncertain. Kervoite didn’t mind the company. He found Sigunia odd, yes, but not unpleasant. What he found more strange was that Mikhailen hadn’t placed more restrictions on him…hadn’t demanded atonement for the treachery that led to the Houseweave. Stranger still that Sigunia had been placed under his care, as though exile itself weren’t punishment enough.
“Where do I sit?” Sigunia asked, casual and bright. It struck Kervoite again…how light this man seemed. Like he hadn’t yet understood the weight of being cast aside. Or perhaps… this was him. This laughter. This strange ease. And if that was true, then Kervoite didn’t know what to make of it.
He’d known few who could afford to be so open. His sister, Vetrova, had always matched his grimness, his resolve. She’d known the truth of him too…his fondness for men, the quiet shame the old ways demanded. But she’d kept his secret. Shielded it. That, more than anything, had proven her loyalty.
Kervoite glanced back at the small craft. “We’ll have to sit close. Supplies hang off the sides. We’ll steer clear of the thinner ice sheets.” He paused. “The Kalovarn breach at night. We’ll be safe in daylight.”
Sigunia’s eyebrows lifted, intrigued. “So they really exist?”
Kervoite didn’t answer. He just stepped into the boat, settling at the front to guide the sail lines. Sigunia followed, sitting at the rear of the boat.
As Kervoite moved into position…bracing himself, leaning forward…his chest brushed Sigunia’s shoulder. The contact was brief, but solid. Intimate, in a way that caught him off guard. Sigunia said nothing, only tilted his head with a half-smile as Kervoite reached past him to set the sail.
The wind caught at once, tugging the cloth tight. The sled-boat surged forward with sudden speed, cutting across the ice like a knife through silk. Sigunia let out a sharp gasp…half shock, half exhilaration…as the world blurred past in a rush of snow and frozen light.
And for the first time that day, Kervoite smiled.
The docks of Icesyn groaned under the weight of the cold.
Wooden planks cracked and shifted, strained by another winter too heavy for them to bear. Around Kervoite, the fishers moved between sled-boats with a quiet, exhausted rhythm. The boats were crafted with very long sled legs to prevent breaking through weak ice patches. It was a dangerous profession, one that produced hope of getting a Glasvryn.
Boots scuffed across boards slick with frost. Nets sprawled like spider webs across the ice, trembling in the wind, laid out to prep by fishers who had performed this ritual every day of their lives…perhaps longer than memory cared to track. Habit more than hope drove them now.
Beyond the harbor, the Sleeping Waters stretched out…one vast, frozen pane of mirror-black ice. Somewhere beneath that frozen skin darted the Glasvryn: a silver-blue fish, warm-blooded, their hearts pulsing against the cold in ways no humanoid heart could match. They said the Glasvryn never froze, even at the eye of the fiercest storm.
Fishers here hunted those legends.
Sometimes they caught them.
Sometimes the ice caught them instead.
Kervoite drew his cloak tighter, feeling the cold creep through layers of cloth as if it were a living thing. He turned his eyes to the ship waiting at the far end of the dock, where the ice had been cleared…a black slash against the endless white, the ships sails furled, its deck rimed with snow. Soon, that ship would carry his sister away to the isle of Thermdenn.
Vetrova walked beside him, close enough that he could hear the steady rasp of her breathing. Her boots crunched softly over the snow-packed wood. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The silence between them was heavy enough, a presence of its own.
Houseweaving. That was the name for it. An ancient custom, a binding of families by blood and oath rather than by marriage. Vetrova would be made daughter of House Sunamatel, while a stranger…Sigunia…would be given in return, bound to House Traxdina as brother.
Old customs for an old world.
Most had abandoned the practice long ago. Monarchs found it easier to forge alliances with vows of love and children bred for political ends. Yet Mikhailen, their father, had sought it out in recent events. He had negotiated this. He had planned it.
Not for honor. Not for loyalty.
For survival of the old ways of Icesyn.
Kervoite flexed his gloved fingers, feeling the leather crackle with frost. He and Vetrova had dared to name the Syn Trials for what they were: a quiet slaughter, a culling of the weak disguised as tradition. Strength, they had been told. Survival of the fittest.
Murder, Kervoite called it.
Vetrova and Kervoite had whispered rebellion into the cracks of the old world. And Mikhailen had heard. And answered…with this.
A houseweave to secure an alliance and trade routes, a guise to its true intentions.
He looked at Vetrova again. She caught his eye and smiled…a small, steady thing. A brave smile was more than he deserved.
He hated that it had to be her.
And yet…
At least it would take her far from here. Far from the Trials. Far from the grave disguised as home.
Snow whispered underfoot as Vetrova stepped onto the ship’s gangplank. A figure descended the opposite way to meet her…a tall man, wrapped in a heavy coat. His steps were deliberate, each one measured with a care that spoke of understanding what was being lost.
Sigunia, Kervoite thought.
In Icesyn, the people bore the mark of their land: skin pale as the snows, hair light as the mists, eyes bleached by survival. Those who endured the Syn Trials bore additional signs…white hair like woven frost, and eyes the color of azure glaciers, a legacy of blood reshaped by cold.
Thermdenn’s denizens were different. They spoke of flame, not ice. Their city was built atop the furnaces that forged Brathun steel, their bodies shaped by generations of living beside fire.
Sigunia’s skin was deep brown, rich against the snow. His features were strong: a broad nose, high cheekbones, full lips pressed in a line of thoughtful restraint. His hair, tightly curled, formed a neat, disciplined crown. His winter coat shimmered faintly under the aether-lanterns…dark fabric shot through with fine gold embroidery, sunburst patterns tracing his sleeves. A mark of devotion to Lesoilel, the Sun God.
The man moved like the ice itself parted for him. Not with arrogance, but with gravity. As if the world shifted to accommodate his presence.
Sigunia’s gaze found Kervoite.
And it wasn’t filled with disdain. Nor anger.
Sorrow.
Real, aching sorrow that hit Kervoite harder than hatred ever could.
Kervoite stiffened, heart hammering too fast. He hadn’t been prepared for this. He had expected a pawn…a lesser son, disposable and weak. Not… this.
Sigunia held his gaze a moment longer, then inclined his head…a gesture of respect. Of mourning.
The world seemed to tilt around Kervoite. The cold, the snow, the cracked and broken boards of the dock…he felt all of it and none of it at once.
Too much. Too soon.
Losing Vetrova. Watching her disappear into the ship’s yawning mouth. Bearing the weight of a father’s betrayal. And now… standing before a man who shouldn’t have mattered at all, but somehow did.
Sigunia didn’t need to speak. His presence alone said enough.
In Icesyn, danger wore many faces. The gnashing teeth of winter. The sharp smile of tradition. The whispered promises of duty.
Today, it wore Sigunia’s quiet gaze.
Kervoite drew in a breath, tasting ice on his tongue. He forced himself to breathe again, slower, deeper. In a life like his, mistakes were not forgiven. A glance too long. A heartbeat too fast. A single slip…and it wouldn’t be the Syn Trials that ended him.
It would be this.
He had built walls inside himself, stone by stone, fear by fear. He could not afford to let them crack now.
Not when the snow curled like restless spirits at their feet.
Not when Vetrova was already halfway to another life.
Not when Sigunia stood before him, wrapped in solemn grace and quiet, inevitable danger.
Kervoite locked the ache deep inside. Buried the traitorous bloom of feeling.
And stood…Still…Silent…Unyielding.
He needed to push any selfish desire aside. The Syn trial was what mattered. For everyone. He would find a way. He must find a way.
- Muvara and Ember reflect on those they miss:
- Ember misses Preslynn, who is currently in New Moonshire
- Muvara mourns Yeivesa and Xanthos, who are gone
- Muvara declares that New Moonshire is now under their protection
- Muvara explains spirit echoes:
- Qai and Poe are known echoes
- Tessa is one as well, but she latched onto Aydriann when he traveled to Paridis
- Aydriann, after speaking with Vynoxin, asks: “Who is Charlotte?”
- Muvara appears, claiming Aydriann has done something impossible
- Aydriann cuts her off and demands to go to New Moonshire
- Muvara tries to explain why that’s not possible
- Aydriann dismisses her, calling her “useless”
- Mack experiences a vision after hearing the name Charlotte:
- She sees herself in her mortal form, before becoming a golem
- A mysterious figure, Valtric, who once imprisoned her, speaks of power and dominion over Eden.
- Seeing Valtric, Mack realizes she is seeing the father of Charlotte and the one that took her
- Jaz appears and asks if he should save the creation it has made
- Jaz also explains the Mack has had her memories stolen.
- Ivoryn confronts the group while seeking Seryna:
- His intentions seem malicious
- He questions Seryna about being with the group as they exit Umbrethrone not assassinating the Cree’lan leader
- Ivoryn attacks Seryna
- Seryna urges Orianna to run
- Orianna refuses to leave and stands her ground to fight alongside Seryna