The Bitter Compass

The wind screamed down the Throat of Winter like a living thing, and you felt its teeth through every seam of your patched coat. You'd been walking for three hours, but the cold didn't care. It never did.

Riven stood at the edge of the crevasse ahead, their back to you, one hand shielding their eyes against the glare of the endless white. They hadn't turned around when you'd approached. They hadn't said a word since leaving camp.

You'd known them once. Known the way they held a compass, the way they read a storm. Now you only knew the scar across your ribs—the one they'd left you with, on this very glacier, three years ago.

"The map says the ruins are under the ice shelf," Riven said, voice flat, still not looking at you. "But the map's old. The ice's moved."

You pulled your hood tighter, ice crusting your lashes. "You brought me out here to tell me we're lost?"

Finally, they turned. Their face was gaunt, shadowed, the eyes you remembered now ringed with sleeplessness. "I brought you out here because it's the only way either of us goes home."

A pause. The wind swallowed the silence.

"Unless," Riven added, quieter, "you'd rather turn back and watch the city die."