Rin woke before the bells.
Two dawns and two dusks had bled together since Rose took him in hand. The routine had settled into bone: meditation at first light, drills until evening, more meditation under lanterns until the city went quiet. Progress was real—but meager. He could move the ice in his body now, could feel it like a cold river beneath skin, yet every time he tried to shape it, it leaked in breathy veils from his pores, wasteful as steam.
He sat up, let the room's cool hush settle his thoughts, then dressed in the black robe the tailor had reinforced. The cloth fit him like intention. Breakfast was simple—moonfruit over warm grain, riverleaf tea. He ate without hurry, eyes stilling on the way the tea's steam curled: coherent, then gone.
A familiar cadence of footsteps drew near. When he stepped outside, Rose was already waiting at the entrance, hands folded behind her back, the morning's pale glow turning her hair the color of embers.
"Two days," she said, voice level. "Show me a third that matters."
Rin's eyes glimmered with a steady determination. "Yes, instructor."
A corner of her mouth quirked. "Mm. That tone suits you. Come."
They crossed the courtyards in silence. Platforms levitated into position at their approach, rails unspooling, runes waking in quiet silver. The academy was a living thing that understood purpose and made room for it.
Morning: the first circuit
Rose chose an open terrace bathed in the gentlest light. No blade today—his, hers, or anyone's. She stood over him as he settled cross-legged, hands resting palm-up on his knees.
"Breath first," she said, soft but cutting. "Four in, seven hold, eight out. Your frost only listens to rhythm."
Rin obeyed. Four counts in—the air cooled in his chest. Seven hold—his pulse steadied, a slow drum. Eight out—thin threads of mist leaked from his skin. He grimaced.
"Don't clamp," Rose warned, reading the tension in his jaw. "Guide. Imagine a river and floodgates. Open one gate. Just the right hand. Fill it, only it."
He turned his attention inward. The ice in him wasn't water but a sensation—weightless and heavy at once, like night gathered in liquid form. He coaxed it down the shoulder, past the elbow. It wanted to spill everywhere; he fought the urge to wrench it.
"Gentler," Rose said, lower now. "You choke it, it rebels."
Rin loosened. The flow obeyed. His palm cooled, then bitingly so. Tiny crystals bloomed on the pads of his fingers. The rest of his body steamed faintly, frost leaking where focus frayed.
"Close the other gates," Rose murmured. "Picture shutters—click, click, click."
He did. The stray mist thinned. A film of ice formed across his palm, thin as breath on glass. It held for one heartbeat, then shattered with a soft hiss.
Rin exhaled. "Again."
"Again," Rose echoed.
They fell into a cadence: breath, guide, hold. He learned the topography of himself—where the flow caught, where it slipped. The shoulder stubborn. The inner wrist eager. Twice he overfed the hand, crystal spurs lancing outward with a crack; Rose flicked her fingers and the spurs powdered to harmless dust mid-flight.
"Your valves," she said, crouching beside him now, voice a quiet metronome. "You have them—you just never named them. Think of eight along each arm. Knuckle, wrist, inner forearm, elbow, outer forearm, biceps, shoulder, collar. Open one, close the rest. When you feel the urge to push, throttle. When you feel panic, widen. Do it until the command is a hum you don't hear anymore."
He tried. Failure was steady. So was correction. Sweat ticked down his temple. His mouth dried. The terrace's wind cooled the damp at his neck.
"Now move it backward," Rose said. "Palm to shoulder without losing density."
He fought the recoil, teeth gritted, sweat pooling at his collarbone. The film slithered, thinned, broke. Rose's foot tapped once.
"You're still treating it like a trick," she said. "It's breath. It never ends. Let it turn."
He closed his eyes. Counted. Four, seven, eight. Palm chilled. Up the arm—slow, slow—crack. He let it crack and didn't panic. Collected the shards inward in his mind's eye, pressed them together like kneading dough. His biceps numbed. Shoulder prickled. The film reached the collar and evaporated in a puff.
"You forced it at the end," Rose said. "You always rush at the last gate. Again."
Hours passed in that narrow world. The terrace rang once, softly, when Rose clapped as his forearm kept a uniform glaze for a full ten counts. "Hold," she ordered, hand hovering an inch from his skin. "Good. Now move while holding."
He rose carefully, coating his right forearm, then took a step. The glaze spider-cracked.
"You must be able to walk with it," Rose said, "fight with it, bleed with it. Sit."
He sat. Breath, guide, hold. The glaze returned, this time staying intact when he flexed his fingers. His shoulders unlocked a fraction. The next attempt held when he rotated the wrist; failed when he curled the forearm in defense. He catalogued the failure with the same care as the success.
"Left arm," Rose said. "Mirror it."
The left refused his respect. It sloshed, spilled, fled into his torso. Mist boiled from his ribs, cold and wasteful.
Rose placed two fingers against his sternum. A cool thrum vibrated through bone. "Center first," she said. "Home is behind the heart. The blade made a home there. Don't grab it—just sit beside it and borrow its quiet."
Rin obeyed. The silence that answered wasn't empty; it was a held breath. The frost inside steadied. Left arm—willing now—took shape. Thin, imperfect, but shape.
"Good," she said. A rare warmth touched her tone. "You're listening."
She stood, closing her fist. Her hand flashed to ice—sleek, translucent, a blade of winter growing where fingers had been. She relaxed and the blade receded, skin returning unscarred. She lifted her other wrist and it shed a chain of ice links, each forming and falling in a glittering arc before evaporating to mist halfway to the floor. The movements were effortless, an afterthought.
"This," she said, "is the road, not the destination. Armor, blade, chain—none are the limit. You'll learn to cast from body while the blade sings in your hand, to split your mind three ways and waste nothing."
Rin's eyes were steady on hers. "Understood."
"Now legs," she said. "If you can't hold frost in your calves while moving, you'll never close with a caster. Coat from knee to ankle. Walk in a square. No leaks."
He built the shell from the feet upward. It wobbled. He walked. First corner, it held. Second, a bloom of frost fogged his thigh as the shell thinned too far. He reset, jaw tight. On the fourth attempt he completed the square and looked up.
Rose's eyes glinted. "Again. Smaller square."
The morning died by inches. By the end, his forearms could hold a thin layer for twenty counts, his shins for fifteen if he moved slowly. His shoulders trembled. Breath was a rasp.
"Enough," Rose decided. "Break. Shower. Eat. Fifteen minutes."
He nodded, chest working, and headed for the bath wing.
Interlude: steam
The bathhouse doors sighed open to greet him. Warm steam folded around him like a blanket. He undid his robe without thought, hung it on a mana hook, watched the fabric drift in stasis. Crystalline partitions brightened to admit him; water cascaded from above, precise temperature, precise pressure. He stood under it, eyes closed, letting heat soften what the cold had clenched. The scent of frostblossom lingered in the mist, clean and almost sweet. He didn't linger. He washed, cooled the stream, sealed the pores, shut off the rune, and dressed as quickly as he'd undressed. The mirror caught him for a heartbeat—tired eyes, new steadiness—then he was gone.
Lunch was efficient: steamed grain, diced fruit, a broth that warmed without dragging. Rose did not sit; she watched him finish, then simply turned and walked. He followed.
The terrace was quiet but for the hum of the runes beneath the floor. Evening light bled violet through the sky, scattering faint gold along the horizon. Rin stood barefoot in the center circle, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. His shirt clung to his skin, sweat cooling in the wind.
For two days he'd managed circulation in his arms, his ribs, even his shoulders. But the legs—his foundation—remained stubborn. Each time he drew frost downward, it leaked in jagged bursts through his calves, coating the floor in frost he didn't intend.
Rose stood across from him, arms folded. Her crimson hair burned in the dying light. "Again," she said.
Rin inhaled, closing his eyes. He called the frost from his navel, guiding it downward. The familiar river pulsed through his thighs, but as soon as it reached his knees, it fractured, spilling outward in cold mist that kissed the floor.
His jaw clenched. He stomped once, shattering the frost he'd spilled. "It's like trying to push water through a broken pipe."
"No," Rose corrected. Her voice was calm, sharp, almost surgical. "Your pipes aren't broken. You're flooding them. You're afraid your legs will fail you, so you overfill them. And then they burst."
Rin's eyes opened, pale blue frostlight flickering inside them. "So what then?"
"Think smaller." She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the rune-etched floor. "A river doesn't need to roar to reach the sea. Guide it like breath. Slow. Deliberate."
Rin exhaled and tried again. The frost pooled at his thighs, slid into his knees, then wavered. He thinned it, forcing the flow to a trickle. For a heartbeat, it held. Then—crack—his calves flashed white and the leak spilled again, frosting the stone.
"Damn it—"
"Good," Rose cut in. "That's longer than last time." Her voice sharpened, tone leaving no room for defeat. "Again."
Rin's eyes narrowed. He wiped his forearm across his brow, tasting salt. His determination burned hotter than the exhaustion pulling at his limbs. He closed his eyes again, inhaled deep, and drew.
The frost moved. Slower. Controlled. From navel, to thighs, to knees. His breath kept time—inhale, flow forward; exhale, seal the leaks. He imagined the current beneath ice—rushing, but unseen, hidden below a still surface.
His calves tensed. The frost trickled through, wanting to burst. He clenched too hard and felt the tremor of collapse.
No. Not force. Control.
His eyes snapped open, glowing faintly. He shifted his focus, not to stop the flow, but to guide it. Thin, steady, like the slow turn of a wheel. The frost obeyed.
His shins lit with strength—not visible frost, but density. His feet pressed into the floor, grip surer, step lighter. He moved forward on instinct—one step, two—and the floor didn't crack from leakage. His movement was silent, fast, clean.
Rose's gaze sharpened.
Rin blurred forward in a sudden burst. His circulation held. He drove a kick at the practice post near the edge of the terrace. His shin connected.
The post shattered into splinters.
And still, no frost leaked. The ice had stayed inside.
Rin's chest heaved, sweat dripping down his chin. He stared at his leg, flexing it once. It felt heavier, denser, but not sluggish—like it belonged to him in a way it never had before.
A slow smile tugged at the edge of his lips.
Rose allowed the faintest curve of approval at her mouth. "Finally."
Rin exhaled a laugh, tired but fierce. "Took me long enough."
"Not long at all," Rose corrected, stepping closer, her tone softer now. "Most take decades to find what you just did in days. But don't mistake this for mastery." She tapped his shin lightly with the toe of her slipper. "This is your first step. Tomorrow, training would start by noon you'll learn to run while in combat without spilling a drop."
Rin's eyes glimmered, frostlight steady. He turned his gaze back to the shattered post. His voice was low, hoarse, but certain.
"I'll make the river flow where I command."