I’d given up on him ever coming back. After 12 years of searching, even after destroying every last demon, I had never gotten Graham back.

At first, I had avoided the swings where we used to play together, under the arch, high enough to overlook the mountains separating our home of Rhumesok and the country of Arenshu. The hike had always been endless, taking us days at a time, camping against snow-covered cliffs and under the branches of frost-bitten trees. Although we had been so young during that time, we had still found the trek to be endless fun—even when we were nearly eaten by an ice dragon.

Reaching the top of the mountain that no one wanted to climb had required a special kind of magic on both our parts. I hadn’t realized what we had done until I had traveled to Kiedtano to complete my training as a magician.

But now I sat on my swing under the arch, Graham’s empty next to me. I still pictured him as my little eight-year-old brother, even though by now he’d be fourteen—nearly grown up. I could feel the soft but cold breeze playing with my hair, and my breath fogging the inside of my double twisted infinity scarf. My large, forestry green square glasses were far enough up on my nose that they were protected from my exhalation.

I pushed a little on the icy snow beneath me, swooshing back and then forward. The increased cold of the arch on top of the mountain was a relief. It took me out of my grief. I knew I had to leave tonight, but I wanted to stay up there for a few more days, camping out under the tree where Graham and I had always slept, and climbing the arch to watch the sunrise and eat a breakfast of sweet bark drizzled with sap and leaves.

But I had to be back for the Bubble Festival. As the “hero” who had destroyed the Demon Queen, I was expected to give a speech at the morning celebrations. I knew they wanted me to talk about losing Graham, but that thought made me queasy. I didn’t mind public speaking, but getting up in front of a crowd of thousands of people and being expected to pour my heart out about something so personal sounded like a special kind of torture.