Chapter 27—Frostbite

The nineteenth day of training began like all the others—under the pale sky of a courtyard that had grown as familiar to Raiden as the lines on his own hands. The mist had long since lifted, leaving the stones bare, their cracks and grooves deepened by sweat and steel. He rose from meditation at Liana’s word, sweat already dripping down his temples though the sun had barely crested the wall.

“Again,” she said. Her voice was calm, patient, but it carried the finality of command.

Tadari stood ready with his blade. Grenald leaned against the bench, arms folded, icy breath curling faintly in the warm morning air. Randall fiddled with his bowstring, pretending not to watch, while Ophelin sat stiff-backed, her walking stick beside her knee. Even Halia, still reluctant but curious, had begun to drift by more often, settling near her brother to observe.

Raiden exhaled, closed his eyes, and tried.

It wasn’t much—bare flickers of awareness, a ripple that felt more imagined than real—but Liana saw it. Threads of mana swirled faintly around him, thin as mist, frayed as loose fibers. They dissipated as soon as they formed, but they were there.

“Better,” she murmured. “Not good. But better.”

Grenald squinted, trying to sense it for himself. After a moment, he shook his head. “Still nothing.”

“Because you’re not looking in the right way,” Liana replied. Then, turning back to Raiden: “But yours is tangled. Messy. Like a ball of yarn left to knot on itself. Untangle it, and it will flow.”

Raiden opened his eyes, panting, frustrated. “How?”

“Patience,” she said simply, and gestured for Tadari to begin.

The days began to rotate with a kind of rhythm.

When Tadari led, it was precision above all. His blade struck at exact angles, his voice clipped as he corrected Raiden’s stance, footwork, even breathing. “Shift weight here. Exhale on the strike. Anticipate the wrist, not the sword.” Raiden left those sessions covered in welts, his arms shaking from the endless repetition, but a little steadier with each blow.

When Grenald stepped in, the fight became a dance of steel and frost. He conjured ice blades mid-swing, blocks of frozen air to deflect strikes Raiden hadn’t even seen coming. “It’s not about power,” Grenald lectured between clashes. “It’s about integration. Sword and spell must be one limb, not two.” Raiden had no magic to weave, but he learned to read the rhythm, to anticipate how a blade might hide behind a conjured shard.

And then there was Liana.

Her lessons were survival itself. Barrages of fire, jets of water, sudden spikes from the stone beneath his feet. She pressed him until his breath came ragged and his body felt carved from bruises. Then she guided him back into meditation, forcing him to feel for the elusive current inside. “Live through it,” she told him. “Only then can you grow through it.”

By the twenty-second day, something shifted.

When Raiden sat with his eyes closed, he no longer imagined the basin of water she described—he felt it. A turbulent well deep in his core, its flow crooked and tangled, but undeniably there. Liana’s eyes sharpened, watching the swirls coil tighter around him, thicker, brighter. Even Grenald frowned in surprise.

“…I feel it,” he admitted. “Not clear. But something.”

Liana nodded. “Messy. Chaotic. But brimming. A blessing of your bloodline.”

Raiden’s next spar showed it. His feet moved more surely, his body lighter, as if each motion carried more weight than muscle alone could bear. For the first time, he dodged the opening volleys of Liana’s barrage. He even closed distance before a sudden explosion behind him sent him sprawling.

Randall cursed and jumped from the bench. Ophelin half-rose, her knuckles white against her stick. Tadari only narrowed his eyes, watching Raiden push himself up from the scorch mark.

“I’m fine,” Raiden gasped, though his ribs disagreed.

Liana’s expression was unreadable, but she said quietly, “At last, progress.”

It was later that week when Yuka Olwen came.

The courtyard had grown crowded that morning. Tadari was back, Ophelin at his side. Randall lounged as always, but even he sat up straighter when the air cooled. Grenald froze mid-motion, his eyes narrowing. Liana’s gaze lifted first.

She entered like winter itself—a presence as crisp and sharp as frost on steel. Her hair gleamed like pale silver, her uniform crisp, her steps unhurried. But what drew every gaze were the blades strapped to her sides—two swords, identical in length and curve, their hilts chased with Olwen’s crest.

“Training?” Yuka asked, her tone polite but cool.

The group straightened instinctively. Only Liana seemed unaffected. “Observation. Intervention. Sometimes survival.”

Yuka’s pale eyes settled on Raiden. “I would like to see for myself.”

Raiden swallowed, then bowed his head. “If you wish.”

The courtyard fell silent. Students had begun to gather along the walls, whispers spreading like wildfire.

They squared off.

Raiden adjusted his grip, the weight of his sword familiar now, steady in his hand. He breathed, centered himself. Across from him, Yuka drew both blades in a motion so fluid it seemed choreographed.

She moved first.

Not a lunge, not a charge—she danced. Her footwork glided, tiptoed, spun. The twin blades traced arcs that wove frost in their wake, carving lines of ice into the stones as if sketching a sigil. Raiden barely registered the first strike before the second was at his ribs, the third already curving toward his neck.

He blocked one, ducked another, staggered under the third. The rhythm was merciless, elegant, endless.

And then he was on the ground.

It had taken no longer than two or three gulps of breath. His sword clattered beside him, his chest heaving. Frost clung to the edges of his sleeves where her blades had kissed the fabric.

Yuka stepped back, sheathing both swords in one smooth motion. She inclined her head. “Thank you.”

Raiden scrambled up, bowing low despite the sting in his pride. “Thank you,” he echoed.

The group erupted in whispers. Randall muttered, “That wasn’t even a fight, that was… art.”

Grenald’s jaw tightened. “That’s Olwen’s twin-blade style. Perfected.”

Tadari, eyes narrowed, added, “That’s Garid’s current style. He learned it, clumsily. What you just saw? He’s imitating her shadow.”

The words landed heavy. Raiden’s heart hammered in his chest. He wasn’t just fighting Garid. He was fighting the echo of this—the heir of Olwen’s merciless dance.

Yuka bowed once more, then turned to leave. Her parting words were calm, yet they cut like ice.

“Do not mistake survival for victory.”

The crowd parted as she left, silence trailing in her wake.

Raiden stood in the courtyard, breath still ragged, frost still melting at his boots. For the first time, he understood the true weight of the duel ahead.

Not just Garid. Not just Barowen.

Olwen.