Grisha, Do You Still Remember the Wind and Frost of the Northern Territory?

"Do you want your fried fish spicy?"

"A little."

Bettis sprinkled some chili powder over the fried fish, then placed it in a paper box she had prepared beforehand and deftly fastened the four corners loosely—she could not seal it tight, or the fried food would turn soggy and lose its crispness.

She finished packing the fried fish and held it out, but the hand reaching for it failed to catch it securely, and the box fell to the ground.

The loosely closed lid sprang open, and several pieces of fried fish fell onto the ground.

"Ah, sorry!" Bettis froze for a moment, then looked up and apologized. The fried fish shop was short-handed; both of her employees had gone to the Northern Territory, leaving her alone to handle everything.

She had been so busy that her mind had gone blank, repeating the same motions of frying fish over and over until she herself seemed to have become a machine, numb and mechanical.

But when she looked up at the customer, she suddenly froze.

He was a boy even younger than she was, yet all traces of childishness had long vanished from his face. Children always grew up quickly in times like these. If they did not become adults early enough, perhaps they would never grow up at all.

Yet what stunned Bettis was the boy's right hand.

That hand had long been severed at the root. In its place was an intricate steel prosthetic.

Prosthetics made by Castel might have been finely crafted, but they were nowhere near the level of the Mechanical Cathedral's work. Forget replacing the original hand—they could barely support basic daily life.

What had just happened was proof. Though the boy had clearly long grown accustomed to his prosthetic, he still had not managed to