It's been five years, and the icy sting of that lake never left my cheeks. I haven't written. I've barely spoken. Arina is training with the elders. I avoid her otherwise; she reminds me of Ragna, and I don't want her to think of her father as a hollow replacement. She's young; she'll find others to look to. Others with stronger minds. I think I may leave this place. I think they'd understand, if they knew. I just hope Arina's young enough to forget. And it turns my gut to twisting knots and bile that I can't be the father she needs, but... All I see—whether my eyes are open or not—is his face. Sejm. My friend. His blood rolling across the ice. Wurm abandoned us. I don't know if I belong here anymore.