4 Hours Ago:

Calista clutched her white earmuffs against the biting wind, her fingers stiff with cold. The icy air wormed its way beneath her woolen coat, despite her best effort to pull it tighter across her chest. A shiver ran down her spine — not the kind that made you giggle, but the kind that made your teeth knock together and your ears sting.

Up ahead, the Kraluantian children were ushered inside first, their coats thick and tailored, boots polished and scarves tightly wrapped. Their laughter was light, echoing faintly like something far away.

Then came the Northern children.

Threadbare jackets, some too big, some too small. Patches on knees. Frayed sleeves. Calista glanced down at her scuffed shoes; the soles lined with bits of newspaper Mama had stuffed in to keep the water out.

Still, when her turn came, she turned and waved toward Erik and Kam with a bright smile, the kind of smile you give to make someone else feel okay, even if your cheeks are already red from the wind.

The school’s entryway was dim and musty, lit by weak bulbs overhead. Calista slowed her steps, eyes scanning the notice boards — filled edge-to-edge with essays, photographs, and gold stars. Every single one had Kraluantian names printed beneath.

She looked a moment too long. No names like hers. No projects like hers.

She turned into the left-hand corridor, joining the other Northern children as they shuffled into a narrow, colder classroom. The room was a mismatched patchwork of old wooden desks and rusty chairs. A six-year-old boy in a coat three sizes too large sat next to a teenage girl clutching a broken pencil.

The heater in the corner let out a cough of warmth — then died.

Calista took her seat near the back, brushing melting snow from her sleeves, and quietly pulled out a pencil worn down to a stub.

She didn’t complain. She didn’t realise.

But for just a moment, she wondered what it might feel like to sit in the other classroom — the warm one — where the gold stars came from.

Suddenly, the classroom door slammed open.

Two Kraluantian soldiers stormed in — one tall with short, coarse brown hair and sharp green eyes, the other shorter, with tight black curls and cold, calculating features. Their boots thudded heavily on the warped floorboards.

Every child froze.

Their eyes swept the room — hunting. Then they spotted him.

Felix.

Sixteen, quiet, kind. He’d helped Calista last week with a math problem she couldn’t get her head around. He was going to graduate at the end of the year.

“On your feet,” barked the tall soldier, his voice venomous and sharp. Without waiting, he yanked Felix up by the collar, dragging him backwards crashing into one of the desks near the front — far too small for someone his age. It looked deliberate. No one dared to speak.

Calista flinched. She gripped her desk — the wood rough and splintered beneath her small fingers — and forced herself to look away.

The second soldier tore the coat from Felix’s back, revealing a faded letters stitched onto it: N.L.O. The letters were jagged, stitched in defiance. The soldiers exchanged a look, one of pure hatred and malice.

They shoved Felix toward the door.

But Felix, voice raw and shaking, twisted back toward his classmates. His face was flushed, eyes wild — and yet his voice rang out like a match struck in a cave:

“THE NORTHERN SPIRIT SHALL NEVER BE VANQUISHED! THE FLAME IN US BURNS ETERN-”

A thick hand clamped over his mouth. A cloth sack dropped over his head. The hallway swallowed him as his screams were silenced.

Calista sat frozen, her breath shallow, her fingers trembling against her textbook — so old the print had faded in places. A tear rolled down her cheek before she even realized she was crying.

What did Felix do?

He was a kind boy.

Why did they take him?