The lecture hall had descended into murmurs, the weight of Sharo's encounter with the noble from House Karrel hanging over the students like a storm cloud. Sharo Velcryn stood motionless at the door, his gaze indifferent as the students around him buzzed with gossip, but he didn't hear them. He didn't even look at the noble who still nursed his bruises, frost clinging to his face as he glared at Sharo.
The echoes of their confrontation felt distant. The sting of that last blow, the sudden drop in temperature, the way the boy's body had crashed to the floor—these things didn't matter now. What mattered was the same thing that always mattered: the journey ahead. The path to understanding the ice that ran in his veins, the power he had yet to fully control.
Sharo turned his back to the room, ignoring the whispers that trailed after him like a shadow. As he made his way out of the hall, the voices faded, leaving only the cold emptiness of his thoughts.
~ ~ ~Flashback: The Hidden Legacy~ ~ ~
The scene shifted. The fog rolled in thick and silent, the only sound being the crunch of snow beneath boots. Sharo stood in the heart of the frozen field, the world around him alive with the hum of magic and ancient power. His grandmother, tall and unyielding, stood across from him. Her black cloak billowed in the cold wind, her eyes as sharp as ever.
She spoke as though it were just another day, another lesson in the art of survival.
"Think of this as a trial," she said, her voice cutting through the silence like the sharp edge of a blade. "Your name won't protect you in battle. The Velcryns were known once, yes. But now? We are forgotten. We are shadows in a world of light. And your legacy? It's only as strong as you make it."
The weight of her words settled like frost in his chest. Sharo's heart quickened—not with fear, but with determination. The training was brutal, every movement a test of his limits. His sword, the Strider blade passed down from his mother, felt alive in his hands. Its steel was forged to cut through not just flesh, but destiny itself. But it was still too heavy.
His grandmother moved first, closing the distance between them with terrifying speed. Sharo barely had time to react as she aimed a strike for his head. He sidestepped, feeling the wind from her blade whip past his ear, but her follow-up was already upon him—a low, vicious strike meant to cleave him in two.
The battle began in earnest. Every move was a struggle. Every step felt like wading through ice. Her strikes were calculated, designed to wear him down. But Sharo's resolve only grew.
With every clash, he learned. With every strike, he became more than just a boy trying to follow in the footsteps of an ancient bloodline. He became a warrior. The sword was no longer just a weapon; it was an extension of himself. His movements began to match the rhythm of the storm, his strikes becoming faster, more lethal.
He could feel the frost beneath his feet, could feel the magic in the air, the way the world bent to the will of those who commanded it. He was ready—but his grandmother wasn't done with him yet.
Her blade came down in a blur, faster than anything Sharo had ever seen, and he barely managed to twist away. The cold wind roared, the air itself crackling with the force of their combat. His heart raced in time with the battle, his pulse steady despite the sweat slicking his skin.
He fought back, each strike carving through the air, his sword flashing with the icy light of the storm. His grandmother's blade danced with a grace that made his strikes seem slow, deliberate. He was on the defensive, every move a desperate attempt to survive.
She didn't speak, didn't need to. Her sword was her voice. Her blade was her lesson.
But something had changed. Sharo's focus sharpened. The world around him slowed, his mind moving faster than ever before. Her sword came down in a low arc, and he moved—not just to avoid it, but to attack. His blade collided with hers in a clash of steel that rang through the air, and for the first time, he didn't just parry. He struck.
The sound of the blades clashing echoed in his ears as he swung his sword in a wide arc, the ice beneath his feet cracking with the force. His grandmother barely reacted, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—something that told Sharo he had crossed a threshold.
The ground shook. The air was thick with magic as Sharo pressed on. Every fiber of his being screamed, but he fought through it. The sword was an extension of him now, his movements as fluid as the wind. The next strike came with the force of a hurricane—swift, precise, and aimed directly for his grandmother's chest.
But she was gone.
In the blink of an eye, her blade was at his throat.
~ ~ ~Back to the Present~ ~ ~
Sharo snapped back to the present, the image of his grandmother's blade at his throat fading like mist in the wind. He was back in the academy, standing in the hallway as students brushed past him, unaware of the weight that had been placed on his shoulders.
Lira's gaze lingered on him from across the hall, her crimson eyes studying him with an intensity that made Sharo's pulse race, despite himself. But he didn't flinch. He never did. Not anymore.
The whispers had followed him outside the lecture hall. Word had already spread about his confrontation with the noble from House Karrel. The boy's bruises were still fresh, his eyes full of disbelief. He hadn't expected this—a peasant, a commoner with eyes like frost and a power that he couldn't understand.
And then there was Lira. The girl with the eyes that saw too much, who had noticed him from the moment he entered the hall. Her words, soft but cutting, "Your eyes… they're like ice that remembers fire," lingered in his mind.
He couldn't afford to let his guard down, but he felt something—something strange—when she looked at him.
Sharo walked past her, his footsteps silent against the stone floor. The echoes of the past, the lessons from his grandmother, were never far behind him. He had a long way to go.
As the door to the corridor opened, a new chapter of his life began to unfold. But Sharo knew one thing for certain—he would carve his own path. A path that would lead him to places far colder than he had ever imagined.