Chapter 7 · free to read
A hundred winters had kept him. He woke owing every one of them a meal.
The cold that climbed the stair was nothing like Cha-an's. It was the winter he had only ever imitated.
The lineage had always eaten downward. He simply reached for the nearest full cup, and it was his own blood.
A gate of old iron against a founder's frost. She knew it would hold for a breath, and threw it anyway.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.