The cold didn't bother Silas.
It never did.
Not since the fire.
He stood now at the edge of the Graveglass District, staring up at the blackened husk of what used to be the Vale Institute of Cryo-Tech — his parents' life's work. Once a beacon of innovation, now a snow-covered tombstone, its twisted steel skeleton buried beneath layers of frost and forgotten whispers.
The Council called it an accident.
Silas knew better.
He was nine when it happened. Hidden beneath a staircase, clutching a frozen teddy bear, watching through the slats as masked officials burst through the lab doors — shouting orders, dragging his mother by the hair, tearing schematics from his father's hands.
Then came the fire. Not orange and red — but blue. A controlled blaze, burning cold, engineered to leave no survivors.
He remembered his mother's scream — not of pain, but of defiance. Her voice cracking as she whispered something to him through the floorboards.
"Stay frozen, Silas. No matter what. Stay cold."
Then silence.
Today, thirteen years later, all that remained was cracked ice and scorched ambition.
Silas stepped forward, snow crunching underfoot. His gloved hand reached into his coat, pulling out a shard — a piece of frost-glass embedded with runes. His father's last invention. Never activated. Until now.
He placed the shard against the wall of the ruins.
The wall pulsed.
The ice retreated slightly, revealing a hidden seal — an ancient glyph glowing faintly beneath years of decay. Silas smirked.
"Found you."
But before he could study it further — a whirring sound filled the air. Then footsteps.
Too light for Enforcers.
Too careful to be Vorr's crew.
He turned slowly.
Lyra.
Her white braid danced in the wind like a whip. Her coat, pristine — layered frost-silk lined with royal blue. Eyes sharper than before. Her Council sigil glinted like a blade on her shoulder.
"Still playing with dead tech, Silas?" she said coolly.
He didn't flinch. "Still lying for power?"
She sighed, stepping closer. "You shouldn't have come back. They're watching everything. You're already a ghost — don't make yourself a target."
"You made me a ghost," he replied. "The night you handed me over."
Lyra's eyes flickered — pain, maybe. Regret. Or just good acting.
"I had no choice."
"There's always a choice."
A pause.
"I warned you about Vorr. About what he was turning you into."
"No," Silas said. "He didn't turn me into anything. You did. You and the Council. You turned me into this."
His hand tightened on the frost-glass.
Lyra's gaze softened. "You think you're the only one who lost something that night?"
Silas barked a laugh. "Don't. Don't pretend you lost anything."
She stepped even closer — close enough for him to smell the cold steel of her perfume. "I lost you."
For a heartbeat, the world stopped. The wind slowed. The snow hung like suspended ash.
But then: a spark ignited in Silas's gauntlet.
Blue light. Cracking. Surging.
Lyra stepped back.
"You're not here for memories," she said.
"No," Silas growled. "I'm here to finish what they started."
And with one motion, he slammed the frost-glass into the glyph.
A pulse of energy shattered the silence. The glyph ignited — an ancient echo roared through the ground — and the ruins of the Institute began to shift.
A hidden vault revealed itself from beneath the earth.
And Silas stepped forward, not looking back.
Let the ghosts watch.
He had work to do.