I made myself stand. Made myself breathe. Made myself turn away, even though every cell in my body wanted to keep staring until the ice gave up its secrets.
Not yet. Not today.
I had a plan. The plan required patience. Required preparation and training I couldn't get anywhere else. Required not dying on a mountainside because I got impatient.
I started walking again.
My hands didn't stop shaking for another quarter mile.
Frosthaven appeared gradually—first the old stone watchtower marking the eastern boundary, then the rooftops of the main buildings, then the full sprawl of the academy laid out across the mountainside like something that had grown there instead of been built.
I paused at the boundary marker.
I looked back, once.
Denali was gone. Hidden behind the curve of the mountain, swallowed by the angle of the terrain. From here, you'd never know the most dangerous peak in North America was less than fifty miles away.
That felt deliberate.
Frosthaven was built to contain. To focus. To make sure students looked inward instead of outward, at the academy instead of the wilderness beyond.
I wondered how many people noticed.
I wondered if that was the point.
The main hall was warm after the climb, and smelled like wood smoke and floor wax and the particular staleness of buildings that had housed generations of students. I slipped through the crowd of new arrivals without making eye contact, heading for the administrative wing.
Check-in first, then dormitory assignment, then I could disappear into my room and start the real work.
That was the plan.
The plan lasted about thirty seconds.
"Miss Orlav."
The voice came from my left—low, gravel-rough, carrying the kind of authority that didn't need volume. I turned and found Headmaster Twilson standing in the corridor like he'd been waiting for me specifically.
He probably had.
"Headmaster." I kept my voice neutral. Polite. Nothing he could object to.
He studied me with eyes that had seen too much to be impressed by anything. Silver hair cropped short, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that tried to look casual.
"You are finally here as a student I see," he said.
Something flickered across his face—not quite sympathy, not quite warning. "The rules apply to everyone, Miss Orlav. Even students with something to prove."
"I'm not here to prove anything."
The lie hung between us, obvious and unacknowledged.
Twilson's expression didn't change. "Dormitory C, third floor. Orientation begins at seven tomorrow. Don't be late."
He turned and walked away before I could respond.
I watched him go, cataloging the interaction. He knew why I was here. Knew and disapproved, but hadn't stopped me from coming. That meant something. I just wasn't sure what yet.
Still angry. Still watching.
