Winter's Proving: Part 2

The air in the coliseum was thick with excitement, the steady rhythm of cheers and groans marking each clash. Frost storms collided with cutting winds, walls of ice met bursts of air, and sometimes the same element slammed against itself, straining for dominance. Shards glittered like shattered glass across the stone, and the roars of the crowd rolled down in waves, shaking the benches beneath them.

In the waiting area below, the noise pressed like a heartbeat against the ceiling. Soren sat with elbows on his knees, facing forward. His eyes closed, an attempt to silence the rumble above, but each impact still trembled faintly through the stone.

Review. Focus.

His mind replayed what he had drilled alone—efficient turrets of ice, precision and density over volume. Magic wasn’t just a spell; it had rules, a process. His arm, once injured weeks ago, thrummed with energy, eager to be tested. He let his awareness drift lower, to the warmth buried inside him—the quiet fire that never left, tempering his body against the chill winds that crept through the waiting hall.

It pulsed, alive, tempting him to use it. Not yet, he told it. Not in the way you want.

Three matches had passed. Each time the announcer’s voice rang out, his chest tightened, loosening only when another name was called.

Konira’s words lingered. You’ve failed every year…
Not a curse. Fuel.

The fourth match ended above him in a sharp crash of wind scattering a wall of frost into fine mist.

Then the call came.
“Fourth-year match: Soren Valen versus Deymar Roane!”

His breath caught. Slowly, he rose to his feet. Boots pressing against stone, he walked the long path upward into the light.

When he emerged, the crowd shifted, whispers spilling like smoke.

His steps pressed into the arena floor, leaving faint prints in the thin snow that blanketed the stone—ghostly traces of the duels that had come before. His heart hammered, but his stride was steady.

“Didn’t he get flattened last year?”
“Won’t last a minute.”
“Poor guy. Guess he likes being embarrassed.”

Konira’s sharp intake of breath cut through the noise. She said nothing, but her fingers tightened around the railing.

Across from him stood Deymar Roane, taller, broader, his stance dripping with confidence. Soren almost welcomed it—happy, even, that his first opponent was frost and not wind. Not because he feared the other, but because beating Frost made the statement louder.

Deymar smirked, raising his voice so it carried.
“Try not to freeze up.”

Laughter rippled through the stands.

High above, the sect leaders watched. Lady Lia tilted her chin, expression unreadable. Beside her, Headmaster Halwin’s fingers combed his pearl beard thoughtfully. But it was Korrin, whose eyes gleamed sharpest. He leaned forward, anticipation cutting colder than the air.

The referee stepped between them, waited until both fighters had taken their marks, then cut his hand through the air.
“Begin!”

Deymar moved first. Natural ease, natural arrogance. With a hard stomp, jagged ice erupted from the floor, racing in a wave toward Soren.

Soren waited until the last moment, then leapt aside. His palm turned upward. Not a wall. Not waste. A shard, condensed and flawless, gleamed in his grip.

“Is that all?” whispers drifted from the stands.
“How’s he supposed to fight with one shard?”

Lady Lia’s eyes narrowed. Her lips moved faintly, caught by those around her.
“…such purity.”

Soren hurled the shard along the path the ice wave had carved. Deymar stamped again, a wall rising quick and solid.

The shard struck center. It pierced clean through before losing speed, thudding into the ground at Deymar’s feet.

The crowd gasped.

Confusion flickered across Deymar’s face. He snarled and struck again, stomping another wave forward, much thicker and sharper.

This time, Soren didn’t flinch. He sprinted straight toward it.

“What is he doing?” students cried from above.

His mind was clear. His ice was denser, stronger. Both hands raised, he split and rebuilt in rapid layers, shards stitching together faster than the eye could track.

From the stands, it looked like madness. Yet with each step, the rushing tide of ice cracked and fell apart before him. Shards sprayed harmlessly around him, as if the storm itself bent to let him pass.

Deymar’s eyes widened. He stumbled back, panic breaking through his bravado. In desperation, he leapt backwards.

“Too close,” Soren whispered.

A sheen of flawless ice spread where Deymar landed. His foot slid, balance stolen.

Soren surged forward. The path was open. Before Deymar could recover, Soren stood over him, a fresh shard pressed to his throat.

The audience fell silent.

The referee’s voice cut the air.
“Winner—Soren Valen!”

No laughter followed. Only murmurs, restless and uncertain.

Soren exhaled slowly, letting the shard melt into nothing. He rose without a glance at the crowd and walked back to the waiting area.

Different this time.
And I haven’t even shown them everything.

From the stands, Nix leaned forward, smirk curling across his lips.
“You’d better not lose before you reach me.”

Konira, from her seat, traced her eyes over the faint prints his boots had left in the snow. Her chest tightened, not with fear but with something else—something long overdue. The crowd had mocked Soren. But not anymore. This was the beginning of change. And she was glad she was here to see it.

Konira’s fingers loosened against the railing as Soren disappeared back into the waiting hall. The arena hummed with murmurs, but her thoughts had already turned inward. The way he fought—precise, efficient, as if every drop of power had a place—
it wasn’t new.

Her brow furrowed.
Why does that feel so familiar?

She drew in a quiet breath, steadying herself. Yes—she had seen it before. Long before the academy, when summer heat still baked the yard behind her family’s house.

The sun pressed heavy over the cracked dirt, waves of warmth bending the air. Konira stood barefoot in the yard, one hand lifted, fire coiling at her fingertip.

“Watch closely,” she said, more teacher than friend in that moment. “This is how you shape a spread-flame spell.”

She flicked her wrist and the ember bloomed, splitting into several arcs that fanned outward in a bright crescent. The fire hissed faintly, rippling against the daylight before fading into the air. Konira exhaled, satisfied.

“This way, the flames scatter in a wide field. Enemies in front of you don’t stand a chance—”

“Why not control the direction of each flare?” Soren interrupted. His arms were crossed; eyes narrowed at the dissipating sparks. “If they scatter like that, most of the energy is wasted. You’d hit plenty of air, but not much target.”

Konira blinked, caught off guard. Wasted? It was fire—fire spread. That was the point.

“…That’s not how fire works,” she replied, though even to her ears, it lacked conviction.

Soren, however, wasn’t looking at her. His gaze lingered on the space where the spell had burned, lips moving faintly as though testing ideas against themselves. “If each arc could be narrowed, forced into a single point… you’d lose less. Cut sharper. Cleaner. If I had that kind of control with Frost, every shard would strike exactly where I wanted.”

Konira’s hand lowered. The sun still baked her skin, but a different kind of warmth spread through her chest. He wasn’t supposed to lecture her—he was supposed to learn from her. And yet, instead of feeling insulted, she found herself curious.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, shaking her head. But even as she reignited a tiny flame on her fingertip, she couldn’t stop the thought that lodged stubbornly in her mind:
If I did what he said… would it really work?

That had been the year they would enroll at the academy. She hadn’t known then what it meant, but she remembered the moment. And now, standing in the Winter’s Proving, she realized—
Soren hadn’t changed. Only sharpened.

Her lips parted faintly, the echo of firelight still in her mind when a sharp voice broke through the haze.

“Next match—prepare yourselves!” the announcer called, his words carrying on a current of windcraft.

Konira blinked, pulled back into the roar of the coliseum. Around her, the crowd leaned forward again, eager for the next duel. But her gaze stayed fixed on the tunnel where Soren had vanished, the memory still flickering in her chest.

Below the arena, Soren lowered himself onto the bench in the waiting hall. His breath left him in a long exhale, chest tight with the weight of everything he’d just held inside. His pulse was still sharp in his ears, his muscles buzzing as though they hadn’t realized the fight was over.

He closed his hands into fists, steadying them against his knees.

There was more proving to be done.

And as his name was called many times after that, that’s what he did. Match after match, he pressed forward, breaking through the Frost mages set before him, as the murmurs of the crowd slowly became cheers, until the semifinals loomed.

This time, unlike the ones before, his opponent was no mirror of ice—
but a wind wielder, sharp and unrelenting.

A final hurdle before the finals, where Nix had already secured his place.

Soren drew a slow breath, his jaw setting. He would have to be serious now.