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The wind had picked up sometime in the night. Scott could hear it before he saw it—scraping frost off the eaves, dragging brittle leaves across stone. Somewhere outside the tower, one of the old iron gates creaked open and didn’t close again.
He pulled the blanket higher over his shoulders. No reason to get up yet. Not when the fire was still alive in the hearth and the bed still warm and—
“You’re hogging the covers again,” fWhip muttered beside him, half-buried under the pile of quilts.
Scott smiled without opening his eyes. “I’m freezing. You’re the one who always runs hot.”
“I’m also the one who rebuilt this room from rubble, so maybe I get the extra blanket on principle.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have made it drafty,” Scott mumbled.
“I didn’t! That’s the stone’s fault. And your weird royal taste. Why does every castle need arched windows the size of a cart?”
“Because it looks dramatic.”
“It looks freezing.”
They bickered like this every winter. Same arguments, same jokes. Some part of him wanted to call it a tradition, even though it had never started that way. Just one of those rituals that slowly grew out of repetition. Like the frost blooming on the windows, or the scarf fWhip insisted on wearing wrong every year.
Scott turned his head. Fwhip’s hair was sticking up on one side, flattened on the other. His breath steamed faintly in the morning air. A thin line of light was creeping through the open window shutter, pale and silver.
“You should close that,” fWhip said, not moving. “Before it snows on the floor again.”
“You close it.”
“You’re closer.”
“Am not.”
“You are now.”
He rolled over and shoved at Scott until Scott groaned, kicked off the quilt, and dragged himself across the freezing floor to bang the shutter shut. The latch stuck a little. Probably warped in the cold. He made a mental note to fix it—after breakfast. Maybe after lunch.
When he turned around, fWhip was already holding the covers open with one arm, smug expression half-hidden in the pillow.
Scott climbed back in and pressed cold feet to fWhip’s calves in retaliation.
“Hey—! That’s illegal!”
Scott grinned. “It’s for warmth.”
“There’s a law! An actual law! Against using your corpse feet like that.”
“I am royalty. I make the laws.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re stuck with me,” Scott said, quieter now, settling into the crook of his shoulder. “So it balances out.”
Fwhip went still for a moment. Then his hand found Scott’s beneath the blanket, fingers curling loosely around his own.
“I like being stuck with you,” he said.
Scott didn’t answer. Just laid there, pressed close, listening to the fire crackle and the sound of snow beginning to fall.
No war. No monsters. No kingdom matters right now. Just a quiet morning in the old tower, frost on the windows, and someone beside him who never left, no matter how many times the world tried to take him.
Eventually, Scott would have to get up. Eventually, he’d have to tend to the beacon flame, feed the birds, maybe send word to Mythland that he’d survived another winter week without freezing solid. But not yet.
Not while the fire was still warm.
Not while fWhip was still holding his hand.
---
The snow didn’t stop for three days.
At first, it was pretty. Soft drifts curling over the tower’s parapets, flakes melting against the glass like breath. Then it thickened—white swallowing white until the horizon vanished entirely. The beacon flame burned dull gold in the haze, half-smothered by weather, and the roads out of Rivendell disappeared beneath it all.
Scott didn’t mind. Not really. He liked the quiet that came with storms. He liked being shut in, forced to stop moving for once. There was something comfortable in it—something small, almost safe.
He’d found an old wool cloak buried in one of the wardrobes and wrapped it around his shoulders as he made tea. fWhip was still asleep in the chair by the fire, legs pulled up, arms folded over his chest. He’d fallen asleep mid-conversation again, halfway through a joke about Scott’s “fancy northern tolerance for bad tea.”
Scott smiled. “You’re getting old,” he said softly.
fWhip stirred, though not enough to wake. His head lolled toward the side, hair falling in front of his face. The firelight caught on the copper in it.
Scott left the tea steeping and crossed the room. He brushed the hair from fWhip’s forehead and kissed the spot where it had been.
“Lazy,” he murmured.
From the chair, fWhip muttered something in his sleep. It sounded like, “Love you too,” though the words blurred at the edges.
Scott sat down on the rug and leaned back against the chair, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from the fire and from fWhip behind him. He stared into the flames until his eyes unfocused.
The storm howled outside.
The casement rattled, just once, and then stilled.
He should have felt lonely, maybe. Or restless. But he didn’t. He felt… watched. Not in a bad way. More like the tower itself was aware of him, breathing with him, keeping time.
He tilted his head back. “You ever think it’s strange,” he said aloud, “that it always feels like the snow waits for us?”
Silence.
Then, “You’re getting poetic again,” fWhip mumbled, voice low with sleep.
Scott smiled faintly. “You like it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“Same thing.”
fWhip chuckled under his breath. It was a sound Scott had memorized—the kind that lived in his chest longer than it lasted in the air.
“You should eat,” fWhip said after a pause.
“Later.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“I made soup.”
“No, you told me to make soup.”
“Same thing,” fWhip said again.
Scott sighed, smiling. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m right, though.”
The conversation trailed off after that. The snow thickened. The tea went cold.
Scott drifted in and out of sleep on the rug, comforted by the occasional rustle of fWhip shifting in the chair. Sometimes he thought he felt a hand brush through his hair; sometimes he imagined it was just the warmth of the fire.
He dreamed of summer.
Of light through stained glass, and the smell of moss after rain, and fWhip leaning over the map table with ink on his fingers. He dreamed of arguments that always ended in laughter, of too many plans and too little time, of the crown sitting heavy between them, shared.
When he woke, it was morning again.
The storm had slowed, but the world outside was still white and endless.
fWhip was standing by the window now, mug in hand, half-smiling at something unseen.
“You’re up early,” Scott said.
fWhip didn’t turn right away. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Bad dreams?”
“Not exactly.”
Scott pushed himself up. His limbs ached from sleeping on the floor. “You should’ve woken me.”
“You looked peaceful.”
“I always look peaceful.”
“That’s a lie.”
Scott snorted and crossed the room. He rested a hand on fWhip’s shoulder, then followed his gaze to the window.
Nothing but snow.
Still, the longer he looked, the more he felt there was something moving in it—some flicker of shape where there shouldn’t be.
He blinked. Gone.
“Thought I saw something,” he said.
“Probably the wind,” fWhip said. “Or ghosts.”
“Don’t joke.”
“Who’s joking?”
Scott laughed quietly. “You’d haunt me, wouldn’t you?”
“Obviously,” fWhip said. “Who else would keep you from freezing to death in here?”
Scott hummed. “Then maybe don’t start early.”
“Not planning to.”
They stood there a while longer, watching nothing happen.
It was the kind of moment that stretched—thin and fragile and full of love.
Scott leaned his head against fWhip’s shoulder. “We should go into town when this clears. Pick up flour. Maybe see if Katherine has any of that weird cider.”
fWhip smiled without looking away from the snow. “Yeah,” he said. “When it clears.”
Outside, the horizon began to fade again, swallowed by white.
By the afternoon, the snow had softened into a steady drift—no wind, no sound, just the quiet rhythm of flakes piling against the glass. Scott had lit every candle in the tower. The place smelled faintly of pine and wax and tea that had gone lukewarm too fast.
“Do you ever think,” fWhip said from the table, “that if it keeps snowing like this, we’ll have to dig our way out?”
Scott looked up from his book. “You say that every year.”
“I’m right every year.”
“You’re not.”
“Wasn’t there that one winter where the drifts reached the second-floor windows?”
“That was your fault.”
“How?”
“You tried to melt the snow with gunpowder.”
fWhip grinned over the rim of his mug. “It worked.”
“It exploded.”
“Temporarily.”
Scott rolled his eyes and turned a page. The corner of his mouth still twitched.
He could hear the clock ticking faintly behind them. It was one of the few things that had survived from Mezalea—fWhip’s idea to repair it, his hands careful with gears too small to see without squinting. It had never kept perfect time, but it still ticked. Scott liked that about it. The imperfection. The persistence.
Fwhip drummed his fingers against the table. “You’re reading the same page again.”
“Am not.”
“Your eyes haven’t moved in a minute.”
Scott sighed, lowering the book. “Maybe I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“Nothing important.”
fWhip tilted his head. “Then it must’ve been about me.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Because you’re smiling like you were remembering something stupid I did.”
Scott couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. “You did plenty of stupid things.”
“Be specific.”
“That time you tried to charm Katherine’s bees.”
“They liked me!”
“They stung you!”
“Small price to pay for friendship.”
Scott set the book aside and leaned back in the chair, watching him. The firelight had turned fWhip’s hair to molten gold at the edges. His sleeves were rolled up, wrists dotted with faint scars that Scott could trace from memory.
He loved this version of quiet. Not the lonely kind. The living kind. The one that hummed with the small sound of someone else breathing nearby.
fWhip caught him staring. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The sentimental one.”
Scott grinned. “You make it sound like a crime.”
“It is. Punishable by snow shoveling.”
Scott stood, stretching. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
“I don’t run in snow.”
“Exactly.”
fWhip groaned. “You’re cruel.”
“Efficient,” Scott corrected, and reached for his cloak.
“You’re not really going out there,” fWhip said, half-rising from his chair.
“I need to check the beacon,” Scott said. “You know it sputters when the temperature drops.”
“Then let me—”
“I’ve got it,” Scott said quickly, already by the door.
fWhip frowned, but didn’t argue. “Take a scarf at least.”
Scott hesitated, then grabbed one from the hook—the thick, lopsided one fWhip had knitted last winter. It was uneven, a little too long on one end, but warm.
“I’ll be five minutes.”
“I’ll set the kettle,” fWhip called.
Scott smiled back at him. “You always do.”
The cold hit like glass when he stepped outside. The snow reached mid-shin, soft and fine-grained, shifting under his boots. The air was heavy with that stillness that came before real night—the world narrowing to white and breath.
He crossed the yard slowly, gloved hand brushing against the fence posts as he passed. The beacon tower stood ahead, its light steady and low. He climbed the short ladder, checked the mechanisms, adjusted the wick. All fine.
He stayed there longer than necessary, eyes on the sky. The clouds looked close enough to touch. For a moment, he thought he could hear a voice on the wind. Familiar. Warm. Saying his name.
He turned.
Nothing. Just snow.
He smiled to himself, shaking his head. It was cold. That was all. He was tired.
When he came back inside, fWhip was sitting by the fire again, two steaming mugs waiting on the table. Scott kicked his boots off by the door, brushed melting snow from his cloak, and crossed to join him.
“Everything good?” fWhip asked.
“Beacon’s fine,” Scott said. “Still bright.”
“Good.”
He sank into the armchair beside him, letting his legs stretch toward the fire. The heat soaked into his bones. He hadn’t realized how cold he’d gotten.
Fwhip handed him one of the mugs. “Here. Extra honey.”
Scott took it, nodding his thanks.
They sat there, side by side, watching the snow fall through the window. The flames painted the room in shades of gold and red. The clock ticked quietly behind them.
“You know,” fWhip said after a while, “we should have people over once the weather clears. Invite Sausage, Gem, Lizzie—maybe Jimmy if he’s not too busy trying to charm your horses again.”
Scott laughed. “He can’t charm anything.”
“He charmed you.”
Scott looked at him. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
He shook his head. “You’re impossible.”
“Yet you’re still here.”
Scott smiled. “Where else would I be?”
Fwhip’s grin softened. “Exactly.”
They didn’t talk much after that.
Scott leaned his head against the back of the chair, warmth creeping through the layers of wool and fatigue. His eyes fluttered once, twice. FWhip said something—he thought it was about adding cinnamon to the tea next time—but the words blurred into the fire crackle.
When he woke later, the mugs were empty.
The snow hadn’t stopped.
And the chair beside him was cold.
---
Scott woke to silence.
The fire had burned down to embers, leaving the room tinted red and shadowed at the corners. The snow outside had stopped, or maybe it hadn’t—it was hard to tell. Everything felt muffled, like the world had pulled a blanket over itself.
He sat up slowly, half-expecting to hear fWhip humming from the kitchen, the sound of plates clattering, the kettle starting its whistle. Nothing. Just the clock’s steady heartbeat and the faint creak of the wood settling.
“FWhip?” he called.
No answer.
He rubbed the back of his neck, hair sticking up from sleep, and pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt heavy, the kind of tired that clung to you after too much warmth.
The mugs were still on the table, half-drunk. His was cold. fWhip’s looked untouched.
“Probably checking the beacon,” Scott muttered. “Or the furnace.”
He moved to the window. The snow had deepened overnight, painting the world in clean lines. Not a footprint in sight.
Scott frowned. “You really don’t make this easy, do you.”
He wrapped the cloak tighter around his shoulders and went to the door. The cold bit his skin as he stepped outside, sharp enough to steal his breath. The air glittered faintly, sunlight breaking across the drifts like powdered glass.
The beacon still burned.
He followed the path toward it, boots sinking deep into the snow. Every sound he made—the crunch of steps, the brush of his sleeve—seemed too loud. Too alone.
At the top of the ridge, he stopped.
Nothing. No sign of him.
The flame flickered, gold against the white.
Scott exhaled slowly. “You’re going to give me frostbite one of these years.”
Still nothing.
He stayed there longer than he meant to, watching the light dance on the snow. Then, finally, he turned back.
Inside, the kettle was whistling.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and hurried to take it off the stove before it screamed itself empty. Steam curled around his hands as he poured the water, filling the room with the familiar smell of tea leaves and honey.
The fire had stirred itself back to life. Or maybe he’d just imagined it fading.
He turned—and froze.
fWhip was sitting at the table again, hunched over the map they’d been annotating last night. His pencil was between his fingers. His hair was still a little messy. He glanced up, half-smile tugging at his mouth.
“Cold out?” he asked.
Scott blinked. “You—how long have you been there?”
“Not long.” fWhip leaned back, stretching. “You’re jumpy this morning.”
“You were gone.”
“Was I?”
Scott laughed a little too quickly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Isn’t that why you keep me around?”
He moved closer, setting fWhip’s tea in front of him. “Drink this before it gets cold.”
“Bossy.”
“Alive,” Scott countered. “You’d forget to eat if I didn’t remind you.”
fWhip gave him a look that was all warmth and mischief. “You’re dramatic.”
“You love it.”
“Maybe,” he said, and reached for the tea.
Scott sat across from him. For a while, they didn’t speak. Just sipped. Listened to the wind trying to start again. The tower felt full again, solid and bright. The kind of morning that passed too easily.
After a while, fWhip said, “You’re quiet today.”
“Thinking.”
“About?”
Scott hesitated. “How different the snow looks every year.”
“Different?”
“Yeah. Sometimes it feels heavy, like it’s trying to stay. Sometimes it’s lighter, like it’s already melting.”
“That’s a very poetic thing to say about frozen water.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m serious. Only you could make weather sound sentimental.”
Scott grinned. “Only because you’re always there to mock me for it.”
“Someone has to keep your ego in check.”
They laughed, and the sound seemed to fill the room in a way Scott didn’t want to lose. He let it linger. Let it echo.
When it faded, he looked down at the map between them—lines drawn, plans half-finished. Two kingdoms, side by side. Rivendell and Mezalea. Border marks faded from erasing and redrawing. He traced one with his fingertip.
“You ever wish we could’ve done it differently?” he asked.
fWhip tilted his head. “Done what?”
“All of it. The alliances. The kingdoms. The… wars.”
fWhip smiled faintly. “We did what we had to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s the truth.”
Scott looked up. “You’d tell me if it wasn’t, right?”
“Always.”
He believed him. Of course he did.
The clock chimed noon. The sound startled him; he hadn’t realized how much time had passed. The light through the window had changed, brighter, more forgiving. The snow outside was beginning to glitter again, surface thawing just enough to reflect the sun.
“Looks like it’s clearing,” Scott said.
“Good,” fWhip replied. “Maybe we can go into town tomorrow.”
Scott nodded. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded. The warmth lulled him, slow and easy. He thought he heard fWhip say something—his name, maybe—but he was already slipping into that in-between state, not quite sleep, not quite waking.
Outside, a crow called once.
Inside, the tower stayed still.
And when he opened his eyes again, the tea across from him had gone cold. One of these days, he’d get Fwhip to listen to him.
---
By the time the storm broke, the world outside the tower looked brand new.
The snow had thinned to soft glitter over the hills, the air sharp and clean. The beacon flame shone brighter now, catching on every bit of ice until the valley below glowed gold. Scott opened the window to let in a little of the cold, and the room exhaled with him — warm air spilling out, the smell of pine and smoke and something sweeter from the kitchen.
It was the first clear night in weeks.
“You should see the moon from here,” fWhip said, leaning half out the window beside him. “You can see it even better than in Mezalea.”
Scott smiled. “You always say that.”
“That’s because it’s always true.”
Down below, the snow reflected the moonlight so clearly that the ground looked like a frozen sea. He’d forgotten how bright the nights could get after a storm, how they made the world feel larger somehow.
He closed the window and turned. “We should invite the others up,” he said. “They haven’t seen the beacon in winter.”
“Bold of you to assume they’d survive the hike.”
“They’d complain, sure,” Scott said, “but they’d come.”
FWhip grinned. “You’re just bored of me.”
“Never.”
That was when the knock came — faint but distinct, echoing up through the tower’s stairwell. Scott startled. He wasn’t expecting visitors.
“I’ll get it,” he said.
FWhip stayed by the window, humming something soft under his breath. Scott made his way down, boots clicking against the stone steps. When he reached the door, he could already hear the muffled laughter on the other side.
“About time!” Jimmy said as Scott swung it open, cheeks red from cold. Behind him, Pearl and Gem followed, bundled in mismatched scarves.
“You didn’t send word you were coming,” Scott said, surprised.
“You didn’t answer ours,” Pearl said, sweeping past him. “We figured you’d snowed yourself in again.”
“I was fine.”
“Sure you were,” Gem said. “You always say that.”
They shook the snow from their coats, stomping their boots against the rug. Scott helped hang their cloaks by the fire. The room warmed quickly with all of them inside — laughter, chatter, and the quiet sound of melting snow.
“Wasn’t expecting company,” Scott said, still smiling. “I would’ve made more tea.”
“We brought cider instead,” Pearl said, producing a jug from her pack. “Warming spell and everything.”
“Brilliant,” fWhip said from by the hearth. “You always bring the good stuff.”
Scott chuckled. “She does, doesn’t she?”
Gem raised a brow but said nothing. “We’re celebrating surviving another year of your terrible weather.”
Jimmy laughed. “And making sure you’re not frozen solid.”
Scott rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He poured cider into mugs, the steam curling gold in the firelight. The scent filled the room — spiced apple, cinnamon, cloves.
They gathered near the hearth, sitting on rugs and low stools. The fire crackled, and the light danced against the stone walls.
“Remember that first festival after the war?” Gem said suddenly. “When Sausage tried to build fireworks out of portal dust?”
“How could I forget,” Pearl said. “He nearly took my eyebrows off.”
Jimmy grinned. “Worth it, though. It was spectacular.”
Scott laughed, the sound bubbling out before he could stop it. “I haven’t thought about that in ages.”
“You were mad for a week,” Gem said.
“He ruined my gardens!”
“Half the valley thought the end times were back,” fWhip said, grinning.
Pearl looked over her mug, eyes soft. “It really was beautiful, though.”
Scott nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It was.”
The conversation drifted. They talked about crops, new builds, the usual gossip that always followed rulers around — who’d moved where, who’d found another enchanted artifact and immediately broken it. It felt easy. Familiar. Like nothing had changed in years.
After a while, Jimmy found an old record player in the corner, something long-forgotten under a sheet. He brushed off the dust and wound it up until it crackled to life — slow, scratchy music filling the air.
Pearl stood first. “Come on, Scott. You’re not getting out of this.”
He laughed. “It’s not even in rhythm.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She pulled him to his feet, spinning him once before he found his balance. Gem joined in next, laughing when Jimmy nearly stepped on her foot.
The room turned gold with motion. Laughter, spinning, warmth.
Scott glanced toward the fireplace once, and fWhip was there — leaning against the mantle, arms crossed, watching them with that same crooked smile that never reached his eyes but always lived in them.
Scott’s chest eased at the sight. “You should dance,” he said.
FWhip shook his head. “You’re the pretty one. They’ll expect you to show off.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “I hate you.”
“Impossible.”
The music skipped, slowed, and faded into quiet. The others sank into the chairs again, breathless and flushed from warmth. Scott sat last, dragging a blanket across his lap.
The room glowed. The snow outside had stopped glowing.
“You look better, Scott,” Gem said after a while. “Lighter.”
He smiled, tired but genuine. “Guess the storm did me good.”
Pearl nudged his shoulder. “We’ll stay the night, yeah? Roads’ll freeze before dawn.”
Scott nodded. “Of course.”
They drifted to their rooms one by one, until only Scott and fWhip were left by the fire. The coals had burned low. The clock ticked faintly.
“You were good tonight,” fWhip said.
“Good?”
“Happy.”
Scott looked into the embers. “It felt like old times.”
“It did,” fWhip agreed softly.
They sat in the quiet for a long time, neither of them moving.
When Scott finally stood to head to bed, fWhip reached out and caught his wrist gently. “You’ll be fine, you know,” he said.
Scott frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Just—” fWhip smiled. “Don’t let the snow keep you in too long.”
Scott covered his hand with his own. “I won’t.”
He squeezed once. Warm. Solid. Real.
When he turned toward the stairs, fWhip was still smiling.
“Goodnight,” Scott said.
“Goodnight,” fWhip answered.
The fire popped once. The wind sighed against the tower walls.
And for the first time that winter, Scott slept without dreaming.
---
Scott woke to sunlight.
The tower felt warmer than usual, almost gentle, the kind of morning that comes too late after too long asleep. He blinked blearily at the ceiling, trying to remember what had woken him. The silence was thick but familiar, broken only by the hum of wind and the faint clink of something downstairs.
“Fwhip?” he called, voice rough.
No answer — but he heard movement. A chair shifting. The faint whistle of the kettle starting to boil.
He smiled to himself and pushed out of bed, tugging his cloak around his shoulders. “You didn’t have to get up first,” he muttered, already halfway down the stairs. “I was supposed to do breakfast today.”
The scent of cider still lingered from the night before. Pearl’s laughter echoed faintly from the lower floor, Gem’s voice drifting up in pieces. The fire had been relit. The others were awake.
When he reached the kitchen, he saw the table set for four. Four mugs. Four spoons. Steam rising from the pot.
And one of the mugs — his favorite one, the chipped blue one fWhip always stole when he visited — was sitting beside his place.
Scott smiled. “Did you make his tea already?”
Pearl looked up from the stove. “Whose?”
“FWhip’s.”
The room went quiet.
Gem froze mid-motion, spoon hovering over the pot. Jimmy, sitting at the end of the table, glanced up slowly.
“What?” Scott asked. “He’s—” He gestured vaguely toward the stairs. “He was just—”
Pearl’s expression softened, careful, the way you might approach a frightened animal. “Scott,” she said softly, “you’re the only one up there.”
He blinked. “No, he—”
“Scott.” Jimmy’s voice was quiet, steady. “He’s not here.”
Scott’s hand hovered over the mug, uncertain. The room was still warm, still filled with the smell of spiced tea and firewood, still alive with the kind of domestic quiet that meant something. He swallowed hard.
“I saw him,” he said finally. “Last night. We talked. He was—he was right there.”
Pearl set her ladle down. “We know.”
“You know?”
“You see him every year,” Gem said softly. “When the snow comes. You always say he’s right there.”
Scott shook his head. “It’s different this time.”
“You say that too.”
He stared at the mug. The steam was fading now, little ribbons curling upward, vanishing before they reached the ceiling.
“It feels real,” he whispered. “Every time, it feels real.”
“We know,” Pearl said. She came closer, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “But it’s been five years, Scott. Every year, we find you here. You always say he’s waiting for you.”
Scott laughed once, soft and cracked. “Maybe he is.”
Pearl didn’t answer. She just squeezed his shoulder.
He sat down at the table, staring at the mug in front of him. The chipped edge. The faint stain of old honey at the rim. It was the same one. It always was.
“He’d hate this,” Scott said after a while. “He’d tell me to stop moping and go outside.”
“Then maybe it’s time to listen to him,” Jimmy said gently.
Scott’s jaw trembled. “I don’t want to.”
“I know.”
He didn’t cry right away. The tears came slowly, silently, running down his cheeks without a sound. His hands stayed folded in his lap, steady despite the shaking.
“I just—” He took a breath. “I can still hear him sometimes. Laughing. Talking. Telling me to fix the beacon because I forgot again. And I know it’s not real, I do. But it’s—he’s right there. He’s always right there.”
Pearl sat beside him. Gem knelt near the hearth, pretending to check the fire. Jimmy stayed by the table, hands tight around his mug. No one spoke.
The wind outside had started again, brushing faintly against the windows.
After a while, Gem stood. “We should go,” she said softly. “The guards are packing your things. We’ll take you back to the castle.”
Scott didn’t argue. He just looked around the tower — the shelves stacked unevenly, the clock ticking faintly against the far wall, the chair by the fire that still looked like it was waiting for someone to sit in it.
“I’ll come back,” he said, not sure who he was saying it to.
“Maybe,” Pearl said, her voice gentle. “But not for a while.”
They walked him outside together. The air was bright and sharp, the last traces of snow sparkling in the sun. The path down the hill was clear now, carved clean through the drifts.
At the gate, he stopped.
Through the open door of the tower, he could still see the firelight flickering, soft and golden. And in the chair by the hearth—
FWhip sat waiting, legs pulled up, arms folded, watching him with that same faint smile.
Scott’s breath caught.
“Guess this is it,” he said softly.
FWhip smiled wider. “You’ll be fine, Scotty.”
Scott swallowed. “I’ll try.”
“Good,” fWhip said. “And take the scarf. It’s cold out.”
Scott blinked. And when he looked again, the chair was empty.
All that remained was the scarf draped across the armrest and a small ring on the seat — thin gold, dulled at the edges.
Scott’s hand trembled as he picked them up. He folded the scarf carefully, tucking it against his chest, the ring pressed into his palm until it left a mark.
Behind him, Pearl and Jimmy waited.
He turned to them, eyes glassy but calm.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
They each took one of his hands.
And as they walked away from the tower, the wind stirred once, carrying the faint echo of a laugh — light, distant, gone before it reached the snow.