Ravensblood Forest The village school is cold and still.

His heart leaps — a violent motion, like the full-throttle desperation of a salmon struggling back upstream. Oh, Lotte. He sighs, deep and heavy, but there is a smile widening across his dark maw.

Wintersbane, he repeats, so that the young man knows that he will play by these rules, respect this statement. Yes — a good, strong name. It suited him. It would have suited Lotte — a whole lot better than snowbutt. The thought makes him smile a little wider, until he must seem near insane to his estranged nephew. He laughs, his voice throaty with unshed tears.

The last time I saw you, I could fit you in my mouth, he said, and as he spoke, he remembered that this was true, that he had tried — memories long repressed came flowing back — those last, lovely days with his twin and her family before he left on his trip, never to return to her side. She had scolded him, told him she'd break something of his if he broke one of her sons.

I am Dagfinn Ansbjørn, he said. Lotte was my sister. My twin. He would not claim the title of uncle; he was sure he did not deserve it. Nor did he ask after the rest of the children, content enough, for the moment, to bask in the presence of Wintersbane — Oh, Lotte! You would be so proud, he imagined. The boy, after all, was his rival in height and his better in sheer mass. They were near equally scarred, he thought, and so he knew the boy must also be a warrior. He wondered if he was also a bard, but asking was too much for him, then. He could only look, and drink in the many many changes, and gradually realize they were not alone.

Hello, he said, the word stretching into two appreciative syllables as his gaze shifted to Umbra.