Brando stared at his reflection in the Academy bathroom mirror.

  The image showed him exactly what he expected: a split lip, the beginning of swelling on his right cheek, and a few drops of blood still trickling from the corner of his mouth. He studied himself thoroughly for a few seconds, motionless.

  "You piece of shit," he murmured, lightly touching his swollen lip with his fingertips. "Don't think I'll give up that easily."

  Yeah, Brando Casadei wouldn't give up like that, but now he had other things to worry about. Survival, certainly, but it was noon and today's lessons were over for him, with classes resuming tomorrow. First, he needed to take care of the puppy. The guards at the entrance had told him about the southeast enclosure where they kept the Pseudo-Glacials. At least there it would be safe, with others of its kind.

  He slipped off his backpack and began rummaging through the side pocket. What did he have with him? An old but clean bandage, a few adhesive strips, and an anti-inflammatory ointment with a worn label. He removed his shirt, holding back a curse when the movement pulled at his muscles.

  "Ah! Fuck."

  His ribs were already purple, but when he carefully ran his fingers over them, he realized they weren't broken. Just a bruise. It was almost incredible. His Cold Veins had awakened only a week ago, yet they had already strengthened his body. Too bad it would take divine intervention to progress beyond this level. The puppy peeked out from the backpack, watching Brando with curious eyes.

  He put his shirt back on after finishing with the ointment and gave one last look in the mirror. "Well," he said to his reflection, "better than nothing."

  At noon, the Vesuvius Academy was teeming with life. A river of students moved toward the cafeteria, and Brando found himself navigating upstream through the chaos. The age variety was impressive: there were kids who looked like they'd just left elementary school and guys who could be his father.

  It wasn't strange. Bearers were divided into three age brackets based on when their Cold Veins awakened: the youngest bracket, fourteen and under; the intermediate, fifteen to twenty; and the senior bracket, twenty-one and up. Brando, at seventeen, was practically in the middle.

  Nea-Polis didn't want to waste time with training. As soon as a group of twelve new Bearers formed, they were immediately sent to the Academy. Every month a new class, one year of coursework, and so on. That's why you could find a fifteen-year-old studying the same things as a forty-year-old. The Cold Veins decided when to manifest themselves.

  Brando headed outside, moving toward the entrance area. The zone was crowded, and in the midst of that chaos, Brando spotted Giordano's red hair. He was surrounded by a small group of female students, probably from the youngest bracket judging by their uniforms, and was gesticulating wildly while telling what must have been, judging by his expression, the most incredible story in the world.

  "No, you absolutely have to hear this!" Giordano ran a hand through his hair, trying to give himself a protagonist's air. "A few weeks ago, I was at that new place that seems suspended in the air. I don't know if you know it..."

  "The Terrace on the Gulf?" A raven-haired girl raised an eyebrow. "The one built with permanent ice?"

  "Exactly!" Giordano became even more animated. "You should see this place. It's this huge venue situated on a hilly area overlooking the gulf, and there's this enormous terrace that's entirely made of permanent ice. The floor is completely transparent, it really feels like you're walking suspended above the Gulf. At night, you see the lights of the boats below you and it seems like you're floating in the sky."

  Permanent ice was one of the most advanced manifestations of Cold Powers. Only Bearers who had surpassed the Green Stage could crystallize ice to the point of making it virtually indestructible. It had become the elite symbol of Nea-Polis: structures, decorations, and entire sections of buildings were commissioned at a premium by the wealthiest.

  "And how did you get in?" A girl taller than the others interrupted him. "The Terrace is reserved for first-tier families."

  "Not just first-tier," another chimed in. "My father says they check your family tree before even letting you approach the entrance."

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  "Well, being a Volpe opens certain doors..." Giordano began.

  "A REAL Volpe, you mean." The tall girl crossed her arms. There was no malice in her voice, just a cold observation.

  Giordano's smile faltered just slightly, but he recovered immediately. "Hey, rules are made to be broken! And besides, I wasn't alone. There was this friend of mine who... Oh! BRANDO!"

  Brando, who was trying to pass unnoticed, froze. Shit.

  "Hey buddy, come over here! Girls, this is who I was telling you about, my..."

  His voice died in his throat when Brando turned toward them. The girls stared at him for a moment. There was something about him that drew the eye, a kind of savage pride that not even the split lip could hide.

  "What happened to him?" the raven-haired girl whispered. "Looks like he got into a fight with a bear..."

  "Wait," the tall girl's eyes widened in recognition. "He's the orphan. The one with the Zeta rank."

  "The what?" One of the others stared at him in disbelief. "I thought that was just a rumor..."

  "What happened to you?!" Giordano asked with a very loud voice. The concern in his voice was genuine, and his entire lady-killer persona vanished instantly.

  "Let's go," the tall girl said, but without the usual air of superiority. There was almost a note of discomfort in her voice. "It's getting late."

  The girls moved away in silence. The last thing Brando heard was a whisper: "I can't believe a Volpe would associate with someone like that," before the phrase was lost in the wind.

  Giordano watched them leave with a shrug, as if he didn't care at all about having just ruined his attempt at flirting.

  "Seriously man, what the fuck happened? Did they..." He stopped with his eyes hardening as realization dawned. "It was because of your rank, wasn't it?"

  Brando didn't answer. There was no need.

  "Fuck," Giordano murmured, for once without his usual idiotic tone. "I should have guessed this could happen... shit."

  "Don't worry about it," Brando said, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder. "Now I've got something else to do."

  "Getting lunch? Because man, you look like someone who needs to—"

  "No," Brando interrupted. "I need to take the puppy to the enclosure."

  Giordano's eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas morning. "The puppy? That cute little three-eyed furball? But no, come on, it's so adorable! Let's keep it!"

  "What are you saying? In a month, it'll turn into a satanic beast."

  "So what? My little brother was cute as a kid too, and he turned out to be a perfect asshole. We didn't take him to an enclosure for that."

  "Giordano."

  "Okay, okay, shitty joke, I know." Giordano raised his hands in surrender. "But seriously, are you sure? I mean, look at it!"

  The puppy, as if understanding it was the subject of conversation, peeked out from the backpack. All three of its eyes fixed on Giordano with that heart-melting gaze.

  "Don't give me that look," Brando said to the puppy. "And you," he turned to Giordano, "don't encourage it. You know as well as I do that we can't keep it."

  Giordano pouted. An absurd expression on someone of his stature. "But..."

  "It'll grow as big as a bear and rip your face off while you sleep."

  "...fair point. When you put it that way." He sighed. "Fine, you win. Let's go deliver this little satanic beas—AWWW BUT LOOK HOW IT'S WAGGING ITS TAIL!"

  "Giordano..."

  "Sorry. Professional. Dead serious. Let's go."

  ***

  They headed toward the southeast enclosure, with Giordano gesticulating like a crazed traffic officer while explaining.

  "The southeast enclosure is organized into complexes, from first to fifth," he said, practically bouncing around Brando as they walked. "In grade one there are only Pseudo-Glacials, the peaceful ones. Well, peaceful is relative, in the sense that they could still kill you badly, but at least you're not their favorite dish."

  Brando nodded, trying not to show the twinge that crossed his side with each step. "And the others?"

  "From two onward, you get the real Glacials." Giordano suddenly turned serious. "In three, there are only those."

  "And four and five?"

  Giordano grimaced. "Better not to talk about it. There's a reason that area is off-limits even for normal Cold Soldiers."

  They walked for a few minutes until they finally arrived. The southeast enclosure was a standalone zone of the Vesuvius Academy where you could find five large pens that resembled a zoo. It was also clearly an area teeming with Cold Soldiers to prevent any problems. Brando and Giordano therefore entered what must have been the first complex. A man in his forties, wearing the standard Cold Soldier uniform, studied them while checking something on a tablet. He had the air of someone who had seen too much shit to be surprised by anything anymore.

  "Can I help you?" he asked, raising his gaze from the tablet.

  The puppy chose that moment to peek out from Brando's backpack, all three eyes curiously staring at the new place.

  "Ah," the man said with an eyebrow rising a few millimeters. "I see you've brought a new guest."