The first weeks of January passed in a blur of cold mornings and long nights.
Shirou had thought he knew discipline before — the endless drills of his own training, the solitary grind of the Steel‑Eyed Raven's campaigns. But Medea brought a different kind of rigor. She was patient where he was relentless, precise where he was forceful. And she had no interest in letting him hide behind brute strength.
"Again," she said, her voice calm but unyielding.
They stood in the courtyard of Ryūdō Temple, the winter air sharp in his lungs. Around them, the wards she'd woven shimmered faintly, bending light and sound away from prying eyes. He lunged, projected blade flashing — and found himself stumbling as the ground beneath his feet shifted into slick, illusory ice.
He caught himself, barely. "You changed the terrain mid‑step."
"You telegraph your momentum," she replied. "An enemy who can read you will own you. You must learn to break your own rhythm."
They went again. And again. Until his breath steamed in the air and his muscles burned. Until the Raven's brutal efficiency began to give way to something sharper, subtler.
The days settled into a rhythm. Mornings were for physical drills — reinforced sprints up the temple steps, sparring with projected weapons, endurance runs through the wooded slopes. Afternoons were for magecraft: layering bounded fields, weaving illusions, practicing the delicate control needed to mask his mana signature even under stress.
At night, they would sit in the temple's main hall, the paper lanterns casting warm light over the tatami. She would quiz him on the finer points of ancient enchantments, and he would share what he knew of the city's shifting security net. Sometimes they spoke of the War to come; sometimes they spoke of nothing at all.
It was in those quiet moments that the distance between them began to shrink.
One evening, as snow drifted against the shōji screens, she poured him tea without a word. He caught the faintest smile at the corner of her mouth when their fingers brushed. He didn't comment. Neither did she.
But outside the temple, the world was moving.
Elsewhere in Fuyuki
Rin Tohsaka stood in the center of her workshop, the air thick with the scent of ozone and hot metal. Jewels glimmered on the workbench, each one a reservoir of stored mana. She was methodical, precise — every circuit in her body tuned for the coming War. Archer watched from the shadows, arms folded.
"You're pushing yourself," he said.
"I don't have the luxury of holding back," she replied. "Not with what's coming."
She didn't say his name, but they both knew who she meant.
Kirei Kotomine knelt before the altar in the church, hands folded in mock prayer. Behind him, Lancer leaned against the wall, restless.
"Your orders?" Lancer asked.
Kotomine's smile was thin. "Observe. Wait. The pieces are not yet in place."
He thought of the Raven, of the chaos his return had already sown. The War would be… interesting.
Illyasviel von Einzbern walked through the snow‑covered forest outside her castle, her breath misting in the cold. Berserker followed, a silent mountain of muscle and steel. She stroked his arm absently, her crimson eyes distant.
"They'll all come for us," she murmured. "Let them. It will be fun."
Sakura Matou sat in her room, the winter light pale through the curtains. Most of the worms were gone now — only the one on her heart remained, the last fragment of Zouken's essence. She could feel it sometimes, a faint pulse that wasn't hers. She hated it. But she was free enough to breathe, to think. And she knew the War was coming. She didn't know yet if she wanted to be part of it — or if she could avoid it.
The Magus Association's new Masters moved quietly through the city. One, a tall man in a long coat, had claimed Rider — the Servant's elegance and lethal grace a perfect match for his own cold precision. The other, a woman with eyes like polished steel, had summoned Assassin — a shadow among shadows, his presence barely a whisper even to other magi. Both were here for the Grail, and both had no ties to Fuyuki's old families. That made them dangerous in ways the locals weren't used to.
Gilgamesh stood atop a high‑rise, the winter wind tugging at his golden hair. His crimson eyes swept the city below with the bored disdain of a king surveying a realm that had failed to impress him. The Gate of Babylon shimmered faintly at his back, treasures glinting in the cold light.
"This mongrel city," he murmured. "Let us see if it can produce a worthy opponent."
He stepped off the edge, vanishing before he touched the ground.
Back at Ryūdō Temple
Shirou's awareness of the other players was constant. Medea's scrying spells gave them glimpses — a flash of crimson eyes in the forest, the shimmer of a bounded field being woven in the Tohsaka estate, the ripple of mana from the church. Each sighting was a reminder: the War was not waiting for them.
But something else was changing, too.
The Steel‑Eyed Raven had been a weapon — blunt, terrifying, effective. Medea was shaping him into something else. His movements were quieter now, his strikes more precise. He still trained with the same intensity, but there was a new purpose in it. Not just to kill, but to protect. Not just to win, but to be worthy.
One night, after a particularly grueling session, they sat on the temple steps, the city lights flickering below.
"You're different," she said.
"How so?"
"You're thinking like a hero," she said. "Not just a killer."
He was silent for a moment. "Maybe I want to be."
She looked at him then, really looked, and for a heartbeat the air between them felt charged in a way that had nothing to do with magecraft.
The Final Days of January
The temple was a fortress now — layered wards, hidden armories, escape routes mapped and memorized. Medea's mana reserves were full, her spells honed. Shirou's body was at its peak, his circuits primed.
But the city below was a powder keg. The JSDF's patrols were tighter than ever. The Mage's Association's enforcers moved like sharks through the streets. Every faction was ready to strike.
And in the quiet before the storm, Shirou found himself standing at the edge of the temple grounds, looking out over Fuyuki. Medea joined him, her presence warm at his side.
"Two weeks," she said.
He nodded. "Two weeks until the War."
"And until you summon her."
He didn't need to ask who she meant. Artoria Pendragon. Saber. The King of Knights.
Medea's gaze was unreadable. "When she comes, you'll have to be the man she can trust. Not the Raven."
"I know."
She smiled faintly. "Good. Then let's make sure you're ready."