Halorax Strongforge told his body to push himself out of bed, but only one arm obeyed. The other one felt like it was still there, but it wasn't. He commanded the missing right arm to clench its fist into a ball. Then to bend its elbow. But nothing happened.

It was gone.

Forever.

What would his life come to now? A few days ago, he'd practically had the run of Everwinter, the finest school in Frosthaven. Now what was he?

All because of some foreign scum. Frostilicus Shatterblade. Whoever he was, he deserved to die.

Halorax's life was effectively over. He would become an outcast even from his own family. What good was he with one arm? His left arm wasn't even his dominant arm. Maybe he'd still manage to forge, but not effectively. Even his frost forming seemed to have waned. Was it because he couldn't forge? Did the loss of his dominant skill mean he couldn't frost form either? Five, he really was useless.

Rolling out of bed, Hal struggled to clothe himself. He could barely coordinate with his left arm. It simply wasn't used to doing as many things as his right arm. And the fact that he had to do things one-handed made the simple task of getting dressed that much harder.

"By the Five," he shouted to himself. Was he really cursing by the five now? That was something only lowlife foreigners did. But five, what did it matter to him? There was nothing left for him here.

With a tunic and pants on, he grabbed a small bag he'd managed to stuff with a few of his belongings. The school could figure out what to do with the rest. He didn't care.

It was time to leave Everwinter. Maybe even all of Frosthaven. He could still frost form, couldn't he? Not that it would do much good without the ability to wield any of his frost forged wares.

But where would he go? Five, there was nothing for him outside of Frosthaven. He wouldn't be able to stand the underdeveloped Southern lands even if he managed to survive the journey.

Standing up, he nearly toppled over. He had to angle his body to preserve his balance. The missing weight of his right arm was unexpected. He'd need to adjust to that. Five, what had he become? His legs felt weak. And that smell The time he'd spent in the infirmary had left his muscled body practically putrid and decomposed. Five, he looked like he'd been on his death bed.

Five, he hated himself. Hated life.

Five, five, five.

Halorax clenched his jaw, vowing revenge. He'd find a way to have it. One way or another. It wasn't like he had anything else to live for.

Frost would probably not make it in Everwinter anyway. Too much of a lowlife. When Frost left, Halorax would be waiting. Ready to kill.

But killing wasn't the frost mage way.

It was the way of outcasts, a way of death, a way of blood. What did Hal care anymore? He was barely a frost mage himself anymore, without his primary trade.

He could kill one man, especially a foreigner who deserved it.

Slinging his simple bag of belongings over his right shoulder, he fastened it down like a satchel. Whoever came to clean out his room could have whatever was left—his forging tools, a handful of books, his clothes. His clothes were nice enough that he could pawn them off for a bit of coin, but he didn't care about that.

Not anymore.

"I'm done with this place," he whispered to himself under his breath. Then he grasped the door to his room to make his exit.

Knock, knock, knock.

Who could that be? He swung open the door. Staring back at him with an anxious, worried look on her face was Prismatia Opticus.

"You," Halorax sneered. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to check on you," Prisma said. Her brown hair and fair light-skinned face had a look of genuine concern. She conveyed warmth and sympathy with her gestures, opening her palms outward as she spoke. "I brought you some food."

Prisma held out a steaming pot of hot soup. It smelled like freshly boiled beef stew. The taste meandered through his nostrils like it was food from heaven.

Five, who was this girl? It was like she gravitated toward...outcasts. Was that what Halorax was now? An outcast?

"No thank you," Halorax said, pushing the food away. He wouldn't—

he couldn't accept her sympathy. "You've done enough."

"I— I saved your life," Prisma said, placing her hands on her hips.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have," he said. "It's not like I have a life worth living. And it's your fault."

"I didn't— "

"If you hadn't befriended that scum," Halorax said, narrowing his eyes. "Maybe I'd still be a person today."

Prisma didn't speak, but the look in her eyes spelled sorrow.

Halorax brushed her aside and walked away from the residence. It was a cold evening, the sun was setting and moon rising on opposite sides of the sky.

"Where are you going?" Prisma said. "You can't just leave."

"What do you care?" Hal said, turning his body to face her. "You've literally never cared about anyone except the weak and helpless. We've known each other our whole lives, and it's only now that you pay any attention to me."

"You've always been the strong one," Prisma said. "Halorax Strongforge. You're the one that ignored me."

"Because you don't understand power," Halorax said. "What drives Frosthaven. It isn't compassion. It's raw power. Power that I no longer have."

"Let me help you," Prismatia said, pausing as if to think of a plan. "You—

you can work at the Refractory. Your disability won't be as much of an issue working as an optician. My family will welcome—"

"Disability?" Halorax said, grimacing. He flung his head back as he spoke. "Thank you, Prisma, for driving home the point."

"Hal," Prisma said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. Besides, where will you go? We will welcome you."

"I don't need your pity," Halorax spat. His face was beginning to redden as he spoke. "I need to be alone."