He wrenched the pack from his shoulder and opened it. Before he looked he knew what would be in there – a damp and useless map, a single apple and half a hunk of bread. All his dried beef was gone, along with the cheese. As though to remind him he’d been an idiot for eating it all so quickly his stomach suddenly grumbled.

Waylian let out a sob. He stared hopefully into the pack again, as though he might somehow conjure more food from the ether, but there was still just that apple and the mouldy old bread. Oh, and the letter she’d given him – the little roll of paper with the wax wyvern seal. He still had that at least. Good old Magistra Gelredida.

The fucking bitch.

This was all her fault. Every bit of it. He was going to die up here, of starvation or from the cold, and it was all her bloody fault. Why had he said yes? He was no grand explorer, no kind of hero. But how could he have refused? It had been his one big chance to prove himself. His one opportunity to show her he was more than just an apprentice.

And you’ve well and truly fucked that up, haven’t you.

All at once Waylian yearned for Groffham. For the quiet life he could have led – not the silent death that was slowly creeping up on him. He yearned for that winter so long ago, when the snows had seemed so harmless, and he cursed the day he had ever been sent to the Tower of Magisters. This was where his ambition had got him: an ignominious end on a lonely mountaintop.

Well, we all get what we deserve, don’t we, Waylian Grimm.

He should have known it was never going to end well. It was written in the stars – the omens were there for him to see. The journey from Steelhaven to Silverwall had been uneventful enough, if you discounted saddle sores and a randy horse, but that had been nothing compared to what awaited him once he reached the city. Oh, it had looked impressive enough – high spires and vast walls under the shadow of the mighty Kriega Mountains – but what Silverwall possessed in splendour it certainly lacked in integrity. Or that’s what Waylian decided when three robbers stripped his coinpurse from his belt then demanded his sandals for good measure. They’d been kind enough to leave him his robe, so at least he didn’t have to suffer the shame of wandering around Silverwall’s streets naked.

Could things have become any worse after that?

Of course they could.

When Waylian had finally tracked down Crozius Bowe, he was not a stuffy scholar as he’d been led to believe, but a mad old codger, crazy as a bat. Half a day it had taken Waylian to convince the venerable loon who he was and why he was in Silverwall in the first place. He had almost been tempted to stuff the sealed letter up the man’s nose. Even after Bowe had decided to believe Waylian, he still made little sense, blithering on about ancient pacts and distant mountain keeps.

It was Bowe who’d given Waylian his altogether useless map and directions into the Kriega Mountains. He’d also given him travel advice, but Waylian had chosen to ignore that, making his way to a supply house for the requisite equipment and some sane guidance. Of course said ‘sane guidance’ had been not to travel at all. Venturing into the mountains alone was tantamount to suicide, but Waylian had been given his task and he was determined to see it through. And so, raising his chin like some fabled hero, he had set off to complete his task.

Looking back, such stubbornness had been foolish – suicidal even. Not much he could do about it now, though.

As he squatted down on the icy ledge he waited for the grumbling in his stomach to subside. It had got to the stage where he only ate if he was feeling sick or light headed.