The air was pale and sharp that morning.
Frost clung to the stone walls of the palace like a thin layer of glass, and every step Rudura took left a faint print in the frozen dirt. The training ground was silent so still it felt like even the wind had chosen to sleep.
He exhaled slowly. His breath came out white.
"Finally," he murmured, voice barely louder than the breeze. "Winter has arrived."
He stood there for a while, just breathing, feeling the cold seep through his fingers. The weight of the iron sword at his side felt heavier in the chill, but it also felt real something to hold onto when everything else faded.
The frost reminded him of his first night here, ten years ago. The confusion. The helplessness. The disbelief that this was real. That he had been reborn. He could still see the faint image of his younger self, trembling under the same gray sky, holding a wooden sword that was too big for his small hands.
Now, the sword was heavier. His hands were steadier. His heart colder, but stronger.
He walked to the center of the training ground. The dirt beneath the frost was hard and uneven, and the pale morning light made every blade of grass sparkle like shards of broken glass. The palace towers loomed behind him, their shadows long and blue. Somewhere in those upper floors, he knew, his parents Chandragupta and his mother were awake.
Rudura took a deep breath.
And drew his sword.
The steel sang against the cold.
A sharp, pure sound that cut through the quiet.
He began to move. Slowly at first, his feet pressing into the dirt, his sword cutting the air in deliberate arcs. Every movement left a trail of frost dust behind. His arms ached instantly the cold made his muscles stiff but he didn't stop.
The memories from his dream still lingered in the back of his mind. His father's stern eyes. His mother's gentle hands. The weight of everything he was expected to become
It was strange.
For ten years, he had trained like this almost every day. But today felt different. The frost changed the air, the rhythm, the sound. Even the smallest movement felt heavier, truer.
Each swing sent a puff of white mist into the air.
Each breath turned into a cloud.
And somewhere between the motion and the stillness, he began to feel something rising within him.
Not anger.
Not pride.
But a quiet, burning clarity.
The more he trained, the more his heartbeat began to match the rhythm of the wind. He could hear it—the soft whisper of his blade cutting through air, the crunch of frozen ground beneath his feet, the distant rustle of leaves that had survived the frost.
He was alone. Yet he wasn't.
Because in his mind, Malavatas's words echoed again and again
> "Power without control is nothing."
"Patience builds mountains."
"A sword in disciplined hands becomes destiny itself."
He stopped for a moment, letting the sword hang loosely by his side. His breath came hard, white and fast. His knuckles were red from the cold, but there was a strange peace in that pain.
That's when he heard it
the soft crunch of footsteps behind him.
He turned slightly.
Malavatas stood at the edge of the training ground, his cloak drawn close against the chill. His expression was unreadable, as always but his eyes carried something softer today.
"You're up early," Malavatas said. His tone was calm, low, but the faintest trace of pride lingered under it.
"I couldn't sleep," Rudura replied, rubbing his hands together. "It's too cold to sleep, and besides…"
He raised his sword slightly, a faint grin appearing on his lips.
"…I wanted to see how steel feels in winter."
Malavatas stepped closer, the frost crunching under his boots. "And what have you learned?"
"That the cold doesn't care," Rudura said quietly. "It doesn't forgive either. You move too slow, and it punishes you. You grip too hard, it numbs you. You stop" he raised the blade, watching his reflection tremble in the metal, "and it wins."
For a moment, Malavatas didn't speak. The wind moved between them, carrying the faint scent of snow.
Then, he smiled faintly. "You've grown."
Rudura lowered his sword, breathing hard. "Maybe. But not enough yet."
"No," Malavatas said, "not yet. But growth isn't measured in strength alone. You'll learn that soon enough."
He turned his gaze toward the frost-covered palace behind them. The rising sun painted the walls in pale gold. "The world beyond these walls won't wait for you to be ready, Rudura. It will break you the first chance it gets. But…"he looked back at the boy"…if you keep that fire inside you alive through the cold, then even winter will bow before you."
Rudura said nothing. But his eyes burned brighter, like embers in snow.
For a while, they both stood there in silence—teacher and student, fire and frost. The morning light grew warmer, pushing the frost back bit by bit.
Malavatas finally spoke again, his tone quiet but heavy with meaning.
"Winter has begun, Rudura. It will test you more than any blade ever could."
Rudura nodded slowly. "Then I'll make it my ally."
A ghost of a smile crossed Malavatas's face. "Good. Because when the frost learns to fear your fire, you'll know you've truly begun walking the path of an emperor."
The sound of the wind filled the silence that followed.
Rudura sheathed his sword and turned to look at the pale horizon, where the sun was just breaking through the clouds.
The frost glimmered in gold.
And somewhere deep inside him, the fire burned quietly—steady, patient, alive.