He is dressed in simple pajamas, his white-and-black hair messy. He looks entirely like a normal twelve-year-old boy, except for the faint, geometric light pulsing in his left silver eye. He is pale, his lips slightly chapped, but his mismatched eyes are bright, entirely focused.
"I heard you," Asher says, his voice quiet, carrying the deep, grounded resonance of the Mortar. "You’re going to the ice."
Kade is instantly at his side, dropping to his knees and wrapping his right arm around his son’s shoulders. Asher, you should be resting, he projects, his mental voice thick with emotion. Your nervous system is depleted.
"I'm fine, Papa," Asher says, leaning into his father’s touch. He looks up at me. "Mama, you can't go without me. If you leave me here, the Formless will take me while you
