The dormitory was too cold in winter.

The hearth barely held a flame, and the stone floors seemed to drink whatever heat their threadbare blankets offered. So the six of them made up a game.

Every night, they pushed their beds together into a cramped pile near the one cracked window that didn’t leak too much wind. Rael called it a strategic defense against “thermal tyranny.” Corin called it “the Blanket Fortress.”

Whoever got in last had to brave the icy corner. Akari always made sure Caeli wasn’t the one. He’d curl himself like a border around her, hoodie hood tugged low over his face, feet tucked in so she wouldn’t notice his shivers.

Sometimes Lira sang softly as they settled—half-hymns from chapel, half lullabies she made up on the spot. Mirae would mutter about how stupid it was and then yank the blanket tighter around them.

They never spoke it aloud, but it was their way of saying: We are still here.