I used to think the worst thing that could happen to a person was being hungry.
Turns out—it's running for your life, while hungry, while holding a cold piece of bread, while being chased by ducks, while carrying a half-dead wanted criminal bleeding all over your shoulder.
Multitasking. I don't recommend it.
I don't remember how long I was sprinting—maybe minutes, maybe lifetimes. My legs were jelly. My arms were screaming. The bread? Still there. Still cold. Still uneaten.
Then fate—as always—decided to give me a slap.
Thud.
I crashed into someone. A woman. Robed. Mysterious. Smelled like fire and mint.
We both hit the ground. I rolled instinctively, clutching the bread like it was sacred scripture. Frost? He hit the dirt like a sack of disappointment.
"Hey!" the woman snapped, but I was already scrambling, dragging his limp body behind a crooked half-dead tree.
I sat. Finally. Breathless. Shaking. My lungs sounded like broken flutes. I propped Frost against the tree trunk—he looked more corpse than boy.
And then I had a thought:
Where the hell was I even running to?
Nowhere. That was the answer. I had no home. No friends. No place to hide a dying man and eat a pathetic crust of bread in peace.
Then—I heard them.
Pat. Pat. Pat.
Feathery footsteps. Waddling. Judging.
The ducks.
But they didn't attack me. They didn't even hiss.
They just... walked past me.
Slow. Eerie. Like they were late to a funeral.
Which, considering Frost's condition, might've been some weird duck prophecy.
Still. Victory.
The moment was here. I held the bread. It was cool to the touch—maybe chilled from being next to Frost. I didn't care. Cold bread was still bread.
I lifted it to my mouth, eyes fluttering, stomach growling like a demon mid-exorcism.
Then a breeze.
Not just any breeze—a cold one. Sharp. Icy. Felt like a whisper made of knives.
I turned.
Frost.
He was awake. Barely. His blue eyes flickered under his cracked mask, and his lips parted like he was about to say something meaningful, prophetic, romantic maybe—
> "You smell like fear and stale onions."
Okay. Not romantic.
"You're alive," I said, stunned, still holding the bread like a sacred offering.
"Disappointing, I know."
But before I could roll my eyes or thank him for the compliment, my brain connected a terrifying set of dots:
Ducks were chasing us.
Hunters were chasing the ducks.
Ducks had caught up to me.
Which meant…
"Frost," I whispered, bread halfway to my mouth.
He groaned. "What now?"
"I think... the hunters are—"
Then the world slowed.
A sound. A slicing hum. My skin prickled. My bones screamed.
The Spear.
I felt it in the air before I saw it—like death tapping you on the shoulder to say hi.
I turned.
And there it was.
A metal-tipped spear, cutting through the air like it hated me personally. Heading straight for my skull.
Back in the detached space of the gods—also known as Destiny's bougie boredom bunker—our divine narrator sits forward, eyes gleaming. He's intrigued. Which, in case you don't speak Eternal Cosmic Entity, is a big deal.
We see him watching the screen. And then—bam—the spear hits.
We flinch. Destiny smirks.
"The girl is smart," he says to us like a proud teacher watching a student cheat creatively.
You lean forward. I lean forward. Everyone leans forward.
Destiny, in all his dramatic flair, decides to rewind the reel. For dramatic tension? Probably. For fun? Absolutely.
Rewind.
Back to the moment before the boom.
Let's shift focus to your girl—me. Arya.
Let me tell you something. Pain is a weird thing. It's loud and silent at the same time. When you see a spear flying toward your head at terminal velocity, you don't exactly start composing poetry. No, your body goes "Do something, idiot!" and mine did. Because guess what? I may be broke, lonely, and deeply unimpressed with life—but I'm also an Ogun nature mage. Iron. Metal. The whole "bend steel with your brain" package.
Unfortunately, I've got the Aye reserves of a flat battery. Using magic costs energy, and I don't have a lot. But I wasn't about to let some spear rob me of my last bite of hope—literally. I still hadn't eaten that damn bread.
So, in a split-second move of sheer desperation (and dumb luck), I snapped my fingers.
Crack.
Iron control spell activated.
The spear's tip—just inches from turning my face into a kabob—flattened, dulled by the force of my will and probably a lot of adrenaline.
It still hit me.
Right in the middle.
And I screamed, internally. On the outside, though? I just wheezed like a broken accordion and folded over like a poorly built deck chair.
"Pain's better than death," I told myself.
"Is it?" myself replied.
Before I could answer that existential crisis, the hunters arrived.
They weren't monsters, by the way. Just poor folk like me. Victims of the world with a little more muscle and a lot more desperation. They picked up Frost—still cloaked, still masked, still somehow looking like a tragic hero in the dirt—and as they passed me, one of them said:
"Sorry about the mess, girl. Wasn't trying to rope you in."
I didn't reply. I couldn't. I was too busy trying to breathe and not die from blunt-force bread-blockage. But even through the pain, something tickled the back of my mind.
Snap.
Faint. Soft. Familiar.
I heard it just before the hunters picked up Frost.
A finger snap.
Wait a minute.
Did I hallucinate that? Or was—
My eyes drifted to the bread. The glorious, still-untouched bread that had survived ducks, collapses, and existential dread.
"Finally," I whispered, reaching for it with the reverence of a priest holding holy relics.
But before I could get it to my mouth—before salvation could enter my digestive system—a cold breeze swept past me.
You know the kind. That subtle whisper of winter on your skin. The kind that says, "Surprise, I'm back."
Then, the voice. Smooth. Soft. Too calm for someone who was bleeding out minutes ago.
"Could you spare me some bread?"
I froze. Literally, I might've caught frostbite from the shock.
I turned.
There he was.
Frost.
Not a clone. Not a hallucination. Not some bread-induced spirit.
Real. Injured. Alive.
And asking for my bread.
"NO!" I yelled so loud even Destiny blinked.
(We cut to Destiny for half a second, just sitting there with a dropped jaw and raised brow, like even he wasn't ready for that.)
Back to me. Because of course we had to rewind again.
Turns out—get this—Frost had used an advanced ice clone spell. Apparently, while I was blunting spears like a magician with a death wish, he had snapped his fingers to cast a decoy. That was the snap I heard. The clone got captured. He didn't.
Which is cool and impressive.
Except he used the last of his energy to make it happen.
And now?
Now the Robin Hood of the Runes was standing in front of me, half-dead, half-freezing, and very, very hungry.
"I haven't even tasted it yet," I muttered, holding the bread like it was my firstborn.
Frost gave me a tired smile.
"I promise to share."
And you know what I did?
I ate half.
And then I gave him the other half.
Because even though I hated everything about this situation—my pain, my luck, my starving ducks—there was something about this guy.
Maybe it was the mask. Or the way he saved himself. Or maybe it was the fact that, for a split second, I didn't feel alone.
Anyway, that's how I met the most wanted man in Uba.
Over cold bread, broken ribs, and blunted spears.
Welcome to the Runes, baby.
Home.
A concept that's supposed to evoke warmth, safety, maybe a fireplace and a pet cat that doesn't try to kill you in your sleep. Not in the Runes, though. Here, home is what you build yourself—with desperation, rusted dreams, and in my case, iron. Literally.
Now, let me explain something before you start getting impressed: I didn't own this house, I crafted it. Over the course of a year. With blood, sweat, and enough snapped fingers to make a percussion band cry. See, being an Ogun nature mage is a lot like having a toolbox with no electricity. You're strong, sure—but try doing anything significant without fuel. My Aye? Let's just say I've had fuller days. Like, when I was six.
The ground here is cursed—or maybe just angry. After the Boltfall (that's what we call the giant lightning tantrum that split Uba like an overcooked yam), the soil here got... magnetic. Not in a fun, pick-up-scraps way. More like: every time I tried to pull iron from the earth, the soil would say "Nope!" and slap me with resistance harder than my own self-doubt.
Took me a full year to gather enough iron to make my hideout. It's not much. A shack? Sure. A box? Technically accurate. A mansion in the eyes of every half-starved duck that's ever looked at me like I'm their next meal? Absolutely.
Anyway, back to the present moment, where Frost and I have finally reached this humble piece of art I call "not dying outside tonight."
Frost was leaning against the iron wall like some tragic hero from a romantic tragedy. You know, the ones that die in Act II but still manage to look really good doing it.
I, on the other hand, was less impressed.
"You gave the ducks my bread," I said.
He turned, ever so slightly, his ice-blue eyes doing that lukewarm thing again. "They looked hungry."
"They always look hungry. That's their default face!"
"They reminded me of you," he added with a straight face.
"Oh wow. So first you eat my bread, then you throw it away, then you compare me to scavenger poultry." I held up my hand, half-joking, half-considering murder. "Sir, you're on thin ice. Literally."
He chuckled, and for a brief second, the darkness around us felt a little less choking. I hated that. Like, stop being likable while I'm trying to resent you.
We reached the door. I tapped the wall twice, whispered the command word ("Open, Sesame… please."), and watched the iron slide open with a reluctant groan. The inside was cozy. Well, if you define "cozy" as a one-room furnace that smelled vaguely of regret and roasted tin.
Still, it was mine.
We stepped in, and I dropped onto a slab of shaped metal that served as a bed. "Don't touch anything sharp," I said. "Which is everything."
Frost scanned the room, his posture oddly tense. "We're being watched."
I rolled my eyes. "You say that like it's a new experience. Welcome to the Runes. There's probably someone watching us eat our thoughts."
"No," he said, narrowing his gaze toward the shadows outside the single iron-bar window. "Someone's close. Too close."
Great.
Because, you know, nothing makes a girl feel more at ease after surviving a spear to the ribs than the idea that she's being stalked in her own barely-standing house by mystery strangers with unknown motives.
I grabbed a rusted iron pipe I used to call a "weapon" before I met Frost and his ice masks and clone spells. "Friend of yours?"
"Not sure," he replied. "But they're not moving. Just... watching."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I sighed. "Fine. Let's just say whoever they are, they can enjoy the view of two broke teenagers trying not to die in a metal box. It's practically a reality show at this point."
And right then, I realized something even more terrifying than the mysterious presence outside.
I was starting to care.
About Frost.
About this shack.
About surviving more than just one day at a time.
Ugh. Disgusting.
The silence in the room was loud. The kind of loud that crept under your skin and tapped on your nerves like an annoying child asking "are we there yet?" every five seconds.
I sat across from him—or technically, diagonally across from the bed I'd forged out of sheer iron, willpower, and a year of failed attempts. The floor was still warm from when the ducks tried to end my career as a professional beggar.
Frost stared at the iron slab that passed for a bed. Most people gave it a side-eye and chose the floor. Not him. He limped over with that casual arrogance of someone who'd either survived too much or hadn't yet processed how screwed he really was.
As he slumped onto it, he let out a soft breath, as if steel was somehow comfier than the blood-soaked dirt he came from. I didn't even flinch. Maybe I should've, but something about him felt... broken in. Like an old shoe. A handsome, slightly mysterious, probably-has-a-backstory-that-will-make-me-regret-this shoe.
"So…" he said, turning his head to me with that half-lidded stare. "Do you always let bleeding strangers crash on your iron couch?"
I didn't even blink. "Do you always make yourself at home in other people's houses?"
"Nah," he replied, smirking. "Usually I'm on the run. Making it rain. Jumping walls. You know, the usual."
"You make stealing water sound like a sport."
"It is," he said, hands folded behind his head like he owned the air. "Especially the Sky Toucher High Jump. That event's got a hundred percent fatality rate. Except me."
"Wait," I sat up. "How tall is the Sky Toucher, anyway?"
He raised an eyebrow like I'd just asked him if fire was hot. "You've never seen it?"
"Nope."
"Why?"
"Leaving this part of the Runes is stressful," I said, leaning back on my elbows. "Especially when your breakfast is hope and your lunch is imagination."
He actually laughed. Not a forced one, either. The real thing. It was light, easy. Which was a problem. I didn't trust light and easy.
"Says the only person I've seen running around flaunting a loaf of bread like it's a crown jewel."
"Flaunting?" I scoffed. "I was being hunted."
"By ducks."
He said it so seriously, I hated him for it.
"…You make it sound stupid."
"Am I wrong to do so?"
I wanted to be mad. But then my face betrayed me. I laughed. A real laugh. The kind I hadn't heard from myself since I accidentally knocked a trader's teeth out with a flying spoon. Long story.
Frost blinked like he'd just seen a rare animal emerge from the woods.
"That laugh just bought me an extra two hours on your couch."
"You're paying rent in sarcasm?"
"And charm."
"Overdrafted on both."
He grinned and settled in, finally letting his body sink into the bed like a man who knew how little sleep felt.
"Well, I'm going to have a good night's rest," he mumbled, closing his eyes.
"It's afternoon."
He cracked one eye open. "Are you always so serious?"
"Are you always giving food to ducks?"
His face twisted in mock offense. "You still remember that?"
"Oh, I'm never going to forget that."
He groaned. "It was symbolic!"
"It was stupid."
"They looked hungry!"
"So did I!"
He laughed again, softer this time. Like it didn't quite belong in this world but had nowhere else to go.
Silence fell again, but this one wasn't loud. It was comfortable. Heavy in a good way. Like a weighted blanket that didn't judge you for almost letting a man bleed out next to a flock of aggressive poultry.
I didn't say it out loud, but I was watching him. Not in a creepy, I-steal-your-hair-for-a-shrine way. Just... observing. He was young. My age, maybe a year older. But his eyes were too old. Like they'd seen too many people break, and maybe—just maybe—he was tired of being one of them.
Still, that didn't mean I trusted him.
Yet.
But I'd seen him give away half a meal when he was half-dead. And not to someone who could offer him anything. To ducks. Ducking ducks.
Maybe he was crazy. Or maybe the stories were true. Maybe he really was the Robin Hood of the Runes.
Or maybe I was just desperate enough for company that a sarcastic, ice-slinging, water-thieving outlaw on my couch was better than the silence.
Either way, I didn't stop him from sleeping.
And I didn't stop myself from watching the door.
Because even in good company, in the Runes...
You always expect a knock.
The screen flickered.
Then it died.
Destiny groaned, arms crossed in dramatic irritation as he slumped deeper into his armchair. "Great. Intermission. Just what we needed." He glanced toward us, his invisible audience, with that same smug smirk that made you want to throw a teacup at his head. "Guess we wait. Or maybe I go knock on the fourth wall and drag the story out myself."
We weren't smiling. We weren't blinking.
He sighed. "Fine. Let's see who was watching them."
The screen began to shimmer, colors twisting like a wet painting. Then—it blinked back on.
Destiny leaned forward. "Wait a second…"
Frost was awake.
---
The night was cold and the bed was iron.
I sat up slowly, ribs reminding me they weren't healed, back reminding me that metal is a terrible mattress, and brain reminding me I was still alive.
My hand went to my face. The mask—gone. Melted off when everything went sideways earlier. Just bare skin now. I clicked my tongue.
"Great. Face reveal."
I glanced over at Arya. She was curled up like a cat in the far corner, half-snoring, half-muttering about ducks and bread. Probably dreaming about revenge carbs. I watched her for a second—peaceful, weirdly—and then stood, my legs wobbling like baby deer legs on their first walk.
The iron door was heavy, but I tried to pry it open silently anyway.
It creaked like a dying walrus.
I froze.
Arya didn't move. Not even a twitch.
"Heavy sleeper. Good to know," I muttered, slipping outside into the night.
The air bit at my skin, but I'd take that over the weird warmth of that iron oven of a house. I looked around—no water in sight. Of course. This was the Runes. Water wasn't a luxury here. It was a rumor.
I was just about to call it quits when I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. A hooded figure. Quiet. Slippery.
I didn't hesitate.
"Whistler."
The figure stopped. Turned.
Couldn't see the face. Not me. Not Destiny. Not even you guys.
But I knew the voice.
"You're getting soft, Frostbite," Whistler said. "Hanging around that girl like she's your ticket out. Ain't like you."
"She's not my ticket anywhere," I said. "She's just walking the same way. Loudly."
"Useful, huh?"
"For now."
Whistler chuckled under his breath. "You know, for my master... the farther I stay from you, the smarter I seem."
"That's honestly hurtful to me," I said.
"I say it with love."
There was a pause, one of those heavy ones that usually leads to something sharp.
"This isn't about her?" he asked. "You sure? You're acting like you care. And caring? That's how the last one died."
I narrowed my eyes. "Don't start."
"Just saying. History's got a nasty habit of repeating itself. Same fire, same mess. You sure this isn't just her in a different jacket?"
"It's not. Arya's… different."
"Different good or different ticking time bomb?"
I sighed. "Both. But the plan comes first. Always has. If she steps in the way… that's her decision, not mine."
"So you'd let her fall?"
"If it means getting to the end?" I shrugged. "Yeah. Eventually."
Whistler laughed, low and knowing. "Heart's still in there somewhere. Probably buried under all that ice and sarcasm."
"Let's not dig for it. Last time I did, someone died and I started naming knives."
"You and that girl… you walk too close. Might start thinking she matters."
"If I walk ahead, someone shoots her in the back. If I walk behind, she'll blow something up before breakfast. Beside her's the safest place—for now."
"You think you're holding the cards," Whistler said. "But maybe she's the whole damn deck."
"Then I hope I'm smart enough to fold before it burns."
Another long pause. Then Whistler reached into his pack and tossed me something.
A bucket.
"Here," he said. "Take it. Heard it's expensive around these parts."
I caught it, blinked. "You're sentimental. Gross."
"Tell your face. Or better yet, put the mask back on."
He vanished into the dark without a sound.
I looked down at the bucket. My hands moved automatically. I snapped my fingers, and the water lifted. Swirled. Shaped itself like memory, like muscle. I felt the chill as it hardened into ice against my face—a new mask. Smooth. Sharp.
Better.
I stepped back inside.
The door whined again, but I didn't care this time. I dropped the bucket on the floor and dropped myself back onto the iron bed.
Sleep pulled at me again, heavy and cold.
Then Destiny's grin returned, sharp and wicked as he leaned forward in his chair.
"Oh… she's awake."
I woke up to the sound of something smug breathing near the window.
Frost was already up. Sitting there like some brooding bird king, looking out like the world owed him rent. And maybe it did. But still—he was doing the most for someone who slept in a tin box with rust flakes and self-importance for insulation.
"You seem quite like a morning person," I croaked, voice still tangled in sleep.
He didn't even bother turning. "How could I enjoy sleep with that hunk of metal you called a bed?"
"The floor was always available," I muttered, arms stretching till my bones cracked.
"And so was the grass outside."
My eyes drifted to the corner—then widened.
There it was. A bucket. Full. Of actual water. Just sitting there. Like it belonged.
"Is that—?" I blinked. "You got that?"
"Yeah. Any problem?"
"Yeah, actually. Considering water's more mythical than unicorns out here, I find it a little suspicious you just have an entire bucket."
He gave it the same look someone might give a turnip. "You do know I'm the guy who steals water and gives it out, right? Wouldn't it be weirder if I didn't have any?"
Fair point. Annoying delivery.
"Still," I said, brushing dust from my sleeve, "how long do you plan on staying in my home—or your personal metal coffin—without showing me your face?"
He smirked without smirking. You know the kind.
"For as long as ice can go without melting."
"Hilarious," I deadpanned.
"I'm serious. My face is only known by a few in Lome."
"Considering how high your bounty is, I'd expect it's slapped on every billboard between here and the kingdoms."
"Yeah, but no. A hero's face doesn't matter. His deeds do."
I folded my arms. "And your heroic deeds include stealing water?"
"You make it sound lame."
"You make me sound wrong."
He tilted his head. "Honestly, you're more beautiful when you're asleep. Or quiet."
"Stalker."
"I'm offended."
"Ugh, weird child." I stood up. "Anyway—I'm thirsty."
"Really? Want some water?"
"No, not really," I said, drenched in sarcasm. "I'm actually in the mood for blood."
He didn't flinch. Just stood up, grabbed two iron cups like we were in some forest café, and filled them. Classy.
"Make it cold," I said. "I'm not a warm person."
He sighed dramatically. "So now I'm your personal cooling system?"
"Better than paying rent."
Snap.
The cup he handed over nearly burned my fingers. Not from heat—cold. I almost dropped it.
"Damn," I muttered, setting it down. "Didn't mean kill me. The outside's freezing."
He laughed. "There's a reason they call me Frost."
Then the laughter faded. Replaced by silence. Not awkward silence. The kind that drips. That waits.
"Arya," he said. "Join me."
I blinked. "What?"
"Come with me. On my journey. I've got food. A plan. Safe places. You'll be taken care of."
Tempting. Way too tempting.
"Yeah… no. I'm gonna have to pass. Being on the run with a guy—you're a guy, right?"
"Last I checked."
"Cool. Still not my thing. Especially not with someone I met, like, one night ago."
"Come on. I see potential in you."
"I see danger in you," I said. "And I really wanna live."
He stepped closer. "I promise to take care of you."
I raised a brow. "Do I look that much like a beggar?"
"Says the girl who was begging on the road and got a loaf of bread."
And just like that—ice.
Not outside. Not in the air. Inside.
Because I never told him that.
He wasn't there.
Snap.
The metal beneath his feet screamed. Then shot upward—sharp, deadly, clean. Straight through his chest. His body jerked, paused… froze.
No scream.
No sound.
Just silence.
He didn't fall.
He shattered.
Ice.
I stepped forward, grabbed the cup I'd left on the table, and took a sip.
Warm.
The outside of it? Still freezing.
Crack.
Behind me, I heard a voice. His voice.
"Pretty rude for a morning conversation."
I spun around.
There he was, leaning against the wall, completely unperforated.
"How are you alive?" I hissed.
He smirked. "Let's just say… I'd rather pay rent."
My eyes darted to the bucket. Empty.
"You're not kidding. That was an ice clone."
I stared at the cup in my hand. Then at him.
"I guess I really am not a warm person."
He smiled. "And I guess you're just starting to learn what cold really looks like."
I was about to unleash every insult known to man, but then—
Pain.
Sharp. White-hot.
Both my hands flared like someone jammed lightning into my bones. My cores. My Uba cores.
"Wha—" I gasped.
Snap.
The shards of his ice clone lifted from the floor, turned to water midair, and surged toward me. Fast. Like a wall.
They hit hard—wrapped around me like chains—then—
Snap.
Frozen.
I was pinned to the wall. Arms out. Breath caught.
He walked forward calmly. Slowly.
Then—
Knock knock knock.
A voice from the other side of the door.
"Expecting anyone, Frosty?"
I glared at him. "Don't you da—"
He raised a hand. Water formed at my lips. Froze.
Just like that—I was muzzled.
BANG BANG BANG.
"RULING GUARD. OPEN UP."
Frost blinked. And for the first time since I met him…
He looked worried.
"Shit," he whispered