Morning broke over the Ashorn Estate, cold and unnervingly quiet, signaling the start of the winter.

  The dining hall felt vast and hollow without the heavy presence of the Estate’s Lord. Cecilia sat at the opposite end of the long table, her hands trembling slightly as she held her teacup. She had barely touched her food.

  Roderick had ridden out before dawn, taking his top advisors and an escort to the off-site blast furnaces nestled in the lower valleys.

  Arthur ate his breakfast in measured, silent bites. To the anxious servants and his worried mother, he looked like a quiet boy overwhelmed by the tension of the household. Internally, his mind was still. He knew the thermal shock method should logically work. The only variable was whether the Forge Master had the skill to execute the rapid cooling without cracking the iron itself.

  There was nothing more Arthur could do to manipulate the board. He finished his meal, offered Cecilia a polite, comforting smile, and excused himself.

  Arthur navigated the empty corridors, heading straight for the library. He had questions for Marcus about the physical mechanics of mana pressure—questions he would carefully disguise as a beginner’s curiosity. But when he arrived, the heavy oak doors were firmly locked.

  He frowned. It was rare for the High Mage to close the archives.

  He turned away, wandering toward the back of the Estate. The air grew crisper as he approached the open-air training ground. Before he stepped out of the shadowed archway of the corridor, he heard the low, resonant voice of the High Mage.

  Arthur stopped, pressing his back against the stone wall, and peered into the sunlit yard.

  Marcus stood in the center of the grass while Aria was a few feet across from him, her posture rigid with concentration, her hands outstretched.

  “You are treating mana like a heavy stone you must lift,” Marcus instructed, his voice echoing in the quiet morning air. “It is not dead weight, Aria. It is an extension of your own body.”

  Arthur watched closely, his engineering mind instantly shifting into observation mode.

  Marcus raised his hand. He didn’t chant, nor did he tense his muscles. Instead, a serene, almost predatory calmness washed over the older man.

  A sphere of perfectly clear water manifested above his palm, swirling rapidly.

  “The core is like the heart,” Marcus continued. The water was spinning faster, compressing until it looked like a solid sphere of glass. “But the pathways are not mere pipes; they are woven into your body. You do not push mana with raw force. You guide it with intent. If you force the flow, the pathways will rebel, and you will break your own vessels.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened upon the realization. Intent, not force. He had treated his core like a mechanical pump yesterday, trying to violently throttle the core to create high-pressure mana. That was why it felt like his chest was tearing apart.

  “Feel the shape of the spell before it leaves your skin. This is what makes a difference between a silent caster and a regular one,” Marcus said gently, closing his fist. The water sphere evaporated instantly into a fine, harmless mist. “Again.”

  Arthur didn’t stay to watch Aria attempt the exercise. He had acquired the missing variable. Silently, like a shadow detaching from the wall, he slipped back into the corridors, spending the rest of the day in his room, meditating on the concept of intent.

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  By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the atmosphere in the Estate shifted.

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  Arthur walked out into the grand courtyard. The sky was bleeding into deep shades of violet and orange, casting long, stretching shadows.

  The Lunalar convoy was fully assembled. The contrast was striking—while the Ashborn Estate was built of dark, heavy stone, the Lunalar carriages were crafted from pale, polished ghost-wood. Their guards stood at attention, draped in thick white-wolf furs and gleaming silver armor that seemed to radiate a biting, unnatural chill.

  Viscountess Sylvia was moving between the carriages, issuing crisp, efficient orders to her knights. On the other hand, there was no sign of Elara at all.

  Arthur stood near the steps of the manor, watching the preparations. The Northern Lunalars could not afford to be caught in the political crossfire if the Ashborns failed the King’s quota. Leaving was the only logical move.

  Suddenly, the heavy iron gates of the Estate groaned open.

  The courtyard fell silent as Lord Roderick arrived. His formal riding coat was singed at the edges, while his face and hands were coated in a thick, greasy layer of black ash. He looked as though he had physically walked through the fires of the forges.

  But as he swung down from his horse, his posture was not that of a defeated man. His back was straight, and his eyes burned with a fierce, undeniable victory.

  The smell of sulfur and cracked iron washed over the courtyard.

  Roderick locked eyes with Arthur for a fraction of a second. It was a silent, heavy look—a confirmation. The “laundry” tip had worked. Preserving the Ashborn legacy was now a race against time.

  Roderick offered a tired but respectful bow to the Viscountess, apologizing for his late arrival before heading inside to change into a set of respectful clothes to see the carriages off.

  Sylvia watched him go, a faint, calculating smile touching her lips. Then, she turned her gaze toward the steps. She walked directly up to Arthur.

  “Your father is a resilient man,” Sylvia said, her voice smooth and measured.

  “He works very hard for our family,” Arthur replied politely, playing the innocent heir.

  Sylvia tilted her head slightly, her sharp, icy-blue eyes locking onto his. She no longer treated him like a thirteen-year-old boy. “Indeed. Though I suspect he had a sudden... brilliant inspiration.”

  Arthur simply offered a blank, courteous smile.

  “You have my eternal gratitude for what you did in the safe room, Oliver,” Sylvia continued, her tone dropping slightly so only he could hear. “And... it seems you are a profound blessing to your father. May your unique insights continue to serve him well.”

  Arthur kept his face perfectly still. He knew that she saw through him. She knew that the formerly crippled boy was playing a very dangerous, yet very intelligent game.

  “Thank you, Viscountess. Safe travels to the North,” Arthur replied.

  Sylvia gave a single, approving nod and walked back to her carriage.

  “Oliver.”

  Arthur turned. Elara had finally emerged from the manor. She wore a pristine white traveling cloak, the fur collar framing her pale, flawless face. She looked as cold and untouchable as the northern winds.

  She stopped a few feet away from him. Her posture was perfectly rigid.

  “I did not have the opportunity to properly thank you,” Elara said, her voice stiff, as if the words physically pained her to say out loud. “You saved my life that... day. I owe you for this one.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Elara,” Arthur said simply.

  Elara’s eyes narrowed slightly, her Ice Queen mask cracking just a fraction as a faint flush of embarrassment and pride hit her cheeks. She brought two fingers to her lips and whistled.

  It was a sharp, piercing note that sounded exactly like cracking ice.

  A moment later, the sound of heavy wings echoed in the courtyard. A stunning creature swooped down, landing gracefully on the stone railing next to Arthur. It was a Snowy Owl, but its feathers seemed to absorb the moonlight, and its eyes glowed with a faint, piercing blue mana.

  “A Frostwing,” Elara said, crossing her arms and looking away, refusing to meet his eyes. “They are bound by mana signatures. They ignore weather, distance, and predators.”

  She gestured stiffly toward the owl.

  “I’m leaving her with you so you don’t grow completely lonely and pathetic in my absence,” Elara stated, stiffly tucking a stray blond hair behind her ear. “She will act as a messenger that delivers letters back and forth. You should be grateful.”

  Before Arthur could respond, she turned on her heel, her white cloak snapping in the evening breeze, and boarded her carriage.

  A few minutes later, the convoy rolled out of the heavy iron gates, disappearing into the darkening valley.

  Arthur stood alone in the courtyard. The rhythm of the distant forges seemed to echo in his chest. He looked down at his shoulder; the Frostwing stared back at him, blinking its glowing blue eyes, a living tether to the Icy North.

  (To be continued...)

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