Six months later.

  The building was gray. The walls were gray. The sky was gray. Even the food was gray.

  Orphanage Number Seven stood on the edge of a city that used to have a name. Now people just called it East Camp. Too many refugees. Too many children with no parents. Too much ash in the air.

  Kael sat on a gray bench in a gray courtyard. He was ten years old. He had not spoken in six months.

  He called himself Edge now. Nobody called him Kael. Nobody knew Kael existed. Vorn had made sure of that.

  "Edge!" A voice cut through the gray.

  Kael did not look up. He was counting stones in the wall. One hundred and forty-seven. He had counted them every day for one hundred and eighty days.

  "Edge, you creepy lump, I'm talking to you."

  A boy stood over him. Older. Bigger. His name was Tobin. He had eleven years and anger for every one of them.

  Kael kept counting. One hundred forty-eight. One hundred forty-nine.

  "I know you can hear me," Tobin said. "You hear everything. You just don't talk. Like a baby. Like a stupid, broken baby."

  Kael said nothing.

  Tobin grabbed Kael's shirt. Lifted him. Kael did not resist. He had learned that resistance made it worse. Silence made it shorter.

  "Give me your bread," Tobin said. "Lunch bread. You don't need it. You're a ghost. Ghosts don't eat."

  Kael reached into his pocket. Pulled out the bread. Gray, like everything. Gave it to Tobin.

  Tobin dropped him. Kael hit the bench. Felt nothing. He was good at feeling nothing.

  "See? Easy. Tomorrow you give me yours too. And the next day. Until you're dead. Ghosts die fast here."

  Tobin walked away, eating both breads.

  Kael sat on the bench. He did not count stones anymore. He looked at his hands.

  They were thin. White. Cold.

  He thought of Elara. She had been cold too. In the log. After the river.

  I'm cold.

  He had promised to warm her. He had failed.

  The cold was inside him now. It would never leave.

  "You're bad at this."

  The voice was small. Female. Young.

  Kael did not look up. Another bully. Another problem. He would wait for it to pass.

  "Standing up to him, I mean. You're bad at it. You just give him the bread. That makes him come back tomorrow. And the next day. Until you're dead, like he said. Ghosts do die fast here. But not because they're ghosts. Because they don't learn."

  Kael looked up.

  A girl stood there. Skinny. Freckled. Hair the color of rust. She smiled like she knew a secret.

  "I'm Mira," she said. "I'm nine. I talk too much. Everyone says so. But I also know things. Like how to not get beaten. Want to learn?"

  Kael said nothing.

  "Right. You don't talk. That's fine. I talk enough for two. Three, maybe. My mother used to say I could talk a stone into moving. Then the fire came. Now I talk to myself. You're better than myself. You have ears."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  She sat beside him. Close. Too close. Kael shifted away.

  "Don't worry," she said. "I don't steal bread. I steal other things. Information. Secrets. Like: I know why you don't talk."

  Kael looked at her. First real look.

  "You think if you talk, you'll say something important. Something true. And if you say something true, someone will use it against you. Like your real name. Or where you came from. Or who you lost."

  Kael's hands tightened.

  "I'm right," Mira said. "I'm always right. It's my curse. I see things. Like I see you're not really ten. I mean, your body is ten. But your eyes are older. Ancient. Like my grandmother's before she died. She saw the old wars. The bad ones. You saw something too. Something that made you old."

  She pulled something from her pocket. Bread. Real bread. Not gray. Brown. With seeds.

  "Stole it from the kitchen," she said. "Don't tell. Here. Half."

  She broke it. Gave him a piece.

  Kael did not take it.

  "Oh," she said. "You're proud. Or stupid. Or both. Fine. I'll eat it. But I'll talk while I eat. You can listen. That's free."

  She ate. Talked. The words poured out like water.

  Mira's story:

  Her father was a blacksmith. Her mother was a singer. They lived in a town north of here. Small. Happy. Nothing important.

  Then the white sky came.

  Her father pushed her into the well. "Stay down. Count to one hundred. Don't come up."

  She counted. One hundred. Two hundred. Five hundred.

  When she climbed out, the town was gone. Her father was ash. Her mother was ash. The well was the only thing left.

  She walked for three days. Ate snow. Drank from puddles. Found East Camp.

  "I don't remember being warm," she said. "I remember the word. Warm. But not the feeling. Like a story someone told me. Not real."

  She finished the bread. Licked her fingers.

  "You're cold too," she said. "I can tell. Not your skin. Inside. You have the cold in you. Like me."

  Kael looked at her. Really looked.

  She was right. About everything. The talking. The cold. The old eyes.

  He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened again.

  Nothing came out. The words were stuck. Frozen.

  Mira waited. Patient. For the first time, she was quiet.

  Finally, Kael spoke. Six months of silence. Broken.

  "My sister," he said. His voice was rough. Strange. "She was cold. I couldn't warm her. I promised. I failed."

  Mira nodded. "She died?"

  "I don't know. They took her. West. I went east. A man said she was dead. I don't believe him. But I don't know."

  "What's her name?"

  "Elara."

  "Pretty. Older or younger?"

  "Younger. Eight. When I last saw her."

  Mira thought. Her face moved fast. Ideas passing like clouds.

  "Eight is strong," she said. "Younger than us, but strong. She could live. People live through terrible things. I did. You did. She could."

  "She was cold. She couldn't feel her legs."

  "That doesn't mean dead. That means scared. Hurt. But not dead."

  Kael felt something. Small. Sharp. Like a thorn.

  Hope. He had not felt hope in six months. It hurt.

  "Why do you care?" he asked.

  Mira shrugged. "Because you gave Tobin your bread. You didn't fight. You didn't cry. You just... gave. That's strange. Interesting. I like interesting. Gray is boring. You're not boring."

  She stood. Brushed off her pants.

  "Tomorrow, don't give him your bread. Give him your fist. Or give him nothing and walk away. But don't give him your bread. That's my advice. Free. Because you talked to me. First words in six months, I'm guessing. I'm honored."

  She walked away. Stopped. Turned.

  "Edge. That's your name?"

  "Yes."

  "Stupid name. Edges cut. Edges hurt. You're not an edge. You're a... a center. A warm place. You just forgot."

  She left.

  Kael sat on the bench. The sun was setting. The gray was turning black.

  He pulled something from his shirt. Hidden there, always. A wooden sword. Small. Carved with a flower on the handle.

  Elara's.

  "She's cold," he whispered to the dark. "Someone should warm her."

  The dark did not answer. But something did. Inside him. The weight. The sense that choices mattered.

  He had chosen to talk. To trust Mira. A small choice. But real.

  The Trust grew a little stronger.

  That night, in the dormitory, Kael did something new.

  He found the smallest child. A baby, really. New arrival. Crying in the corner.

  He sat beside her. Picked her up. She was light. Light as Elara had been.

  He rocked her. Hummed a song his mother used to sing. The baby stopped crying. Slept.

  Mira watched from across the room. She smiled. Said nothing.

  Kael held the baby all night. When morning came, he gave her to the matron.

  "What's your name?" the matron asked.

  "Edge," he said.

  "Strange name. But you have gentle hands, Edge. The little ones like you. Would you help with the babies?"

  Kael thought. Babies. Cold. Needing warmth.

  "Yes," he said.

  The next day, Tobin came for his bread.

  Kael stood. Looked at him. Said nothing.

  "Give it," Tobin said.

  Kael walked past him. To the baby room. To Mira, who waited there, holding a bottle.

  Tobin grabbed his arm. "I said give it—"

  Kael turned. Looked into Tobin's eyes.

  Tobin saw something there. The old eyes Mira had talked about. Ancient. Tired. Not afraid.

  He let go.

  "Tomorrow," Tobin said. But he did not sound sure.

  Kael went to the babies. Fed them. Changed them. Held them when they cried.

  Mira worked beside him.

  "See?" she said. "Not an edge. A center. I was right. I'm always right."

  Kael almost smiled. Almost.

  The cold was still there. It would always be there. But now, in the baby room, with Mira talking and the infants warm in his hands, the cold felt smaller.

  Like something that could be beaten. Eventually.

  Like something mercy could melt.

  END OF CHAPTER 2