An excerpt from 508.75UJ, section D of the Whitewick castle library. Translated by Guido Maniscalchi. 

I liked my original hair color. My mother used to say it reminded her of the rye fields near her childhood home, so I guess a part of me saw it as a connection between the two of us. Maybe that’s why, even when Nitor and I hadn’t eaten in days, I still wouldn’t part from the bar of soap I’d managed to scavenge from a ransacked mart. I just wanted to keep my hair clean, so that I wouldn’t forget about those rye fields. 

I know it might seem silly, but silly things can go a long way to keep a scared, lonely kid alive during the literal end of the world. All I had back then was a hungry stomach, my memories of the past and Nitor’s hand gripping mine when the distant sound of explosions wouldn’t let her fall asleep. 

Well, none of that matters anymore. My hair’s a silvery white with a creeping tinge of blue now; the color of early frost. 

My cape has changed too, but it doesn’t bother me as much. The thick, heavy fabric keeps me warm enough and I think this shade of azure looks good on me. Nitor would bark with laughter if she heard me call it azure, but it’s not my fault she’s got no eye for aesthetics. Were it for her, she’d walk around dressed like someone on laundry day. Every day. 

I didn’t know her before the Pen, so I have no way of knowing if this is a consequence of having lived through the apocalypse, or if she just can’t dress. Either way, she always lights up when I commission new clothes for her, and that’s enough of a reward for me. 

Part of me still can’t believe I can just walk down the street and find a tailor nowadays. Sure, they won’t know what an automated loom is, but they will still take my measures and sew me a good coat if I ask them to. As long as the world is getting back on its feet, I won’t sweat the details. It’s taken far too long.

My hair’s not the color of rye fields anymore, and Nitor’s hair is a bright red that looks like it’s on fire in the summer sun. We immolate ourselves at the end of our titular season each year, but the Mother brings us back to life with a sleepy flick of her fingers. 

After such a long time spent scrambling for scraps, I’ll take it. And if it ever becomes too much for me to bear, I can always pass down the mantle to someone else, so to speak. That might even bring my hair back to normal. 

In the meantime, I’ll happily keep on serving as the Herald of Winter.

Bruno