The courtyard was still.
A hush clung to the snow-covered stones, broken only by the faint whisper of frost curling from my fingers. I sat cross-legged beneath the shadow of the eastern archway, where the walls blocked most of the wind. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting pale light over the silver drifts.
'Just a little more,' I thought, guiding the flow of mana through my hand.
It had become easier since forming my core. Not effortless—never that—but more natural, as if the magic and I had finally learned how to listen to one another. This time, I was trying something new. Instead of forming a shard or a flake, I focused on weaving the ice—threading it in spirals, coaxing it into a fragile lattice like frozen silk.
A delicate strand of frost bloomed outward, curling into a shape that resembled a flower. I held my breath.
Then—
"Your Highness."
I jolted.
The magic unraveled instantly, the frostflower crumbling into powder. I looked up, heart skipping. Ser Rowen stood just beyond the archway, arms folded behind his back, expression unreadable as ever.
"I was just—"
"Practicing. Alone. Without supervision." His voice wasn't angry, but it was firm.
I stood up quickly, brushing snow from my gloves. "I wasn't doing anything dangerous."
"Magic without guidance is dangerous by nature, Your Highness. Especially at your stage. You know this."
I looked down. "I didn't mean to break the rules. I just wanted… to see if I could do it."
There was a long silence. I braced for a lecture, maybe even an order to be confined to supervised lessons only.
But Ser Rowen stepped forward and knelt beside the spot where the frostflower had vanished. He studied the fine threads still etched into the stone.
"This was intricate," he said quietly. "Delicate. You're pushing your mana in ways most wouldn't attempt until Initiate stage."
I blinked. "So… I'm not in trouble?"
"You're not being punished," he replied, straightening. "But you are being watched more closely from now on."
He paused, then added, "There's no shame in curiosity, Your Highness. It's one of your strengths. But if you want to wield power, you must also learn restraint. Magic isn't just a gift. It's a responsibility."
I nodded slowly, chastened but also… oddly pleased. "Then will you teach me how to make that again? The frostflower?"
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If you wish. But not here. Finish your morning preparations. We'll move to the training hall."
I followed him back through the corridor, frost still clinging faintly to my gloves. My steps felt lighter despite the cold.
Because I wasn't just practicing anymore.
I was being trained.
The next day was quieter than most, wrapped in the soft hush of falling snow. The courtyard was empty, save for a few servants passing by with careful steps and thicker cloaks. Most of the estate was indoors—where it was warm, predictable, and safe.
But I wanted to feel the cold again.
I slipped out to the small garden near the training hall, where the snow piled thick atop the stone railing and the icicles hung like crystal teeth from the archway above. No one followed. No one told me not to.
I sat on the edge of the marble bench, legs swinging above the snowy ground, and held out both hands.
'Just like yesterday,' I told myself. 'Slow. Careful. Let it come to you.'
A shiver ran through my arms, but not from the cold. Ice flickered at my fingertips, faint and pale, like breath on a windowpane. It took shape slowly—just a small shard, flat and thin as paper. I smiled. It was working.
"Your Highness."
I froze.
Elara's voice was soft, but it always carried a weight that made you listen. I turned my head slowly.
She stood just a few steps away, her hands tucked into her sleeves, her dark violet cloak dusted with snow. Her expression wasn't stern—but it wasn't pleased, either.
"I told you not to practice alone," she said, walking closer. "Even if you're curious."
"I wasn't doing anything dangerous," I replied, folding my hands quickly behind my back.
"You were manipulating elemental magic with no supervision." She crouched to meet me at eye level. "That is dangerous, Your Highness. Even if you're talented."
I looked down. The ice shard had already crumbled into mist.
Elara let out a quiet sigh and sat beside me, her posture still elegant and formal, even on the snow-dusted bench. She wasn't like the knights or the maids. She was the court mage of the Archduchy—appointed directly by Father. Trusted with secrets and spells I couldn't even name yet.
But around me, she always spoke gently. She never raised her voice.
"I know it's hard," she said, glancing at my hands. "You feel it more strongly than most. The magic listens to you, and it wants to be shaped. But you're still young, Claude. Your core is still new. If it grows the wrong way, you'll have to start again. And you don't get many chances like that."
I stayed quiet, snowflakes settling on my sleeves.
"You're already Awakened—Stage V. The youngest in the Empire, and by far." Elara tilted her head, her gaze softening. "Most children don't even sense mana until they're ten."
"Then why can't I try more?" I asked, barely louder than a whisper. "Why do I have to wait?"
She smiled faintly. "Because power without control is just noise. And you're not just anyone. You're the heir of Vinterheim and the son of Lady Seraphina. That means your magic isn't just yours. It's legacy. It's history."
I didn't know how to respond to that.
Elara reached into her satchel and pulled out a small wooden sphere—etched with old runes. She handed it to me without a word.
"Let's try something with supervision," she said. "Start slow. See if you can freeze just the top half."
I looked up at her, then down at the sphere.
A quiet moment passed.
"Okay," I said.
And in that quiet corner of the garden, under Elara's watchful eyes, I practiced again.
She watched carefully as I shaped a second layer of frost across the sphere. It glimmered faintly in the light, smooth and even. A few minutes passed, and I could feel the strain settling in my arms—not painful, just a quiet hum under my skin.
"Very good," she murmured. "You're learning to keep your flow consistent. That's the first step in mana shaping."
I blinked. "Mana shaping?"
Elara gave a small nod. "Yes. It's how spells are built. Most mages just release mana through an affinity—ice, fire, wind—and let it act on instinct. That works, but it's clumsy. If you shape the mana before it takes form, you control what happens. Not the other way around."
She held out her palm. A small wisp of white-blue mana swirled to life above it—like a ribbon twisting in the air. But instead of freezing, it coiled, folded into itself, and hardened into a tiny snowflake—perfect and delicate.
I leaned closer, fascinated.
"You made that without using a spell."
"Correct. This isn't magic formed by words or circles. It's mana shaped directly by will." Elara let the snowflake vanish. "Very few mages learn this early. But with your talent, I believe you can."
A spark of pride lit in my chest. I wasn't just being tested—I was being trusted.
Elara took a deep breath and placed the training sphere aside. Then she drew a faint glyph in the snow with her finger—three curved lines surrounding a single dot. The mana around us reacted at once, pulsing gently.
"This is a focusing glyph," she explained. "Try to push your mana into the center—not too fast. Let it gather, then hold it. If it breaks the pattern, we start again."
I knelt beside her and stared at the symbol. My hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from anticipation.
'I can do this,' I thought. 'I'm not just a child anymore.'
My mana moved slowly from my core to my fingertips, gentle and cold, like water sliding beneath ice. I pushed it forward toward the center of the glyph.
And the snow around us began to glow.