The Lifeblood of Silverwick
The River Ys (pronounced "Eese") flows from the Frostpeak Mountains to the north, fed by ancient glacial melt that never stops despite the endless winter. It is Silverwick's greatest gift and greatest mystery—a river that flows when all others freeze solid, splitting around The Hearthstone peninsula like arms embracing the town's heart.
Without the Ys, there would be no Silverwick. The river provides water, fish, trade routes during the thaw, and power for the mill. It is life itself in a world of ice.
The Split
The river divides naturally around The Hearthstone peninsula, creating two channels that rejoin south of town. No one knows why the split occurs here—geologically, the peninsula's shape shouldn't exist. The bedrock beneath should have eroded away millennia ago, yet it remains.
The Ice-Singers say the river chose to split here, that it recognized this as a place of power and carved protection around it. The Guild of Frost dismisses this as superstition. But everyone agrees: Silverwick exists because the river split. The peninsula is the safest place in the valley—defensible, protected, sacred.
The Ice and the Flow
For eight months of the year, the River Ys freezes thick—two feet of solid ice strong enough to support loaded carts. The Ice-Singers maintain holes for fishing and water access, their songs keeping the ice from sealing completely. Yet beneath that frozen surface, water still flows.
This is the Ys's greatest mystery. Other rivers freeze to the bedrock. The Ys never does. Even in the deepest cold, current moves beneath the ice. Miller Oren's Glimmer lets him tap that flow, liquefying ice temporarily to turn his wheel. But the flow exists independent of him—it was there before any Glimmer-user ever touched it.
Some say the river's source is not mere glacial melt, but something deeper. Hot springs? Ancient magic? The river keeps its secrets.
The Living-Wood Bridges
Four bridges connect The Hearthstone peninsula to the outer districts, and they are unlike any other construction in Silverwick. They are not built—they are grown.
Centuries ago, the founders discovered that certain willows planted at the water's edge would send roots across the riverbed, weaving together into living cables. Over decades, these roots were guided, braided, and eventually petrified through a process lost to time. The result: bridges stronger than stone, that flex with the ice but never break, that seem almost alive.
The bridges require no maintenance. Ice cannot damage them. They are warm to the touch even in bitter cold. Father Solace says they are blessed. Elder Maren says they are listening.
No one has successfully grown new living-wood in living memory. The bridges are irreplaceable relics of a more knowledgeable age.
The Ice-Singers' Domain
The river belongs to the Ice-Singers in all ways that matter. They maintain the fishing holes, guide boats during the thaw, rescue those who fall through ice, and keep the old songs that make the Ys manageable. Their River House sits on stilts above the water, and they know every current, every danger, every temperament of their charge.
Elder Maren teaches that the river is conscious—not sentient as humans are, but aware in its own ancient way. It provides for those who respect it. It takes those who don't. The Ice-Singers are not masters of the river; they are its attendants, its interpreters, its priestesses.
Most townsfolk think this is metaphor. The Ice-Singers know better.
Dangers of the Ys
The river is generous but not safe:
Thin Ice: Despite the Ice-Singers' warnings, someone falls through every winter. The current beneath pulls you under the solid ice. Few escape.
The Thaw: When the brief warm season comes, the river transforms into a raging torrent. Boats are dangerous. Swimming is suicide. The Ys reclaim its full power.
Things in the Deep: Fishermen speak of shadows beneath the ice—large, slow-moving, never quite seen clearly. The Ice-Singers say these are river spirits. Pragmatists say they're just large sturgeon. No one is certain.
The Pull: Some who spend too much time on the ice report feeling a pull toward the water, a voice whispering beneath the surface. The Ice-Singers call this "river-touched" and say such people have been chosen. Most who feel it never mention it aloud.
The Name
"Ys" is an ancient word, older than Silverwick, perhaps older than the endless winter itself. It means "water that remembers" in a language no one speaks anymore. The Ice-Singers preserve the pronunciation, insisting it matters. Say it wrong—"Yis" or "Why-es"—and they will correct you with surprising sharpness.
The river remembers. What it remembers, and why that matters, only the deepest waters know.