A week had sharpened itself into muscle memory.
Rin's training under Rose wasn't about swinging blades anymore—it was about listening with his body.
"Strength means nothing if you're always late," she told him. "Your ice isn't a trick. It's part of you. It should move before you think."
So she made him sit. No blade, no bursts, no dramatic stances. Just stillness, and her hand tossing pebbles.
At first, they clipped his hair, his robe, his cheek. Not because they hurt—they shattered harmlessly against his skin—but because he was a fraction too slow, reacting instead of sensing. He hated it.
By the third day, his palms lifted just as the stones arrived, frost whispering over skin at the last instant.
By the fifth, his arms moved in arcs his mind hadn't planned, deflecting each flick with minimal effort.
By the seventh, he was answering the shift of the air itself—his body catching, stepping, or brushing aside the stones before thought intruded.
Rose had watched quietly through it all, a flicker of satisfaction hidden in her eyes. "Better. Now hold that awareness when you're still. If your body doesn't listen before you do, you'll always be behind."
Today, he sat cross-legged at the center of the royal academy's crystalline ring. The world around him blurred into breath and faint sensation, his ice coiled inward, waiting to answer. The Sword of Gluttony rested untouched nearby.
Rose stood at his shoulder, crimson hair catching the high light. "I'm going to greet the principal and Lady Sylvanyr. Keep working. Let the world touch you first—then answer it. If you force it, you'll start over."
Rin inclined his head. "Understood."
Her footsteps receded down the corridor. Silence folded around him again.
Then came laughter. Too loud. Too smug. The kind that didn't belong to discipline, only to boys who'd never bled.
Rin didn't open his eyes.
"Well, well," a new voice drawled, dripping with mockery. "Meditating again, half-blood?"
He didn't open his eyes. Rin let the words float by. He had already faced worse insults in his past life so he didn't respond. To be precise he considered them as unworthy of his response.
"Did you hear me?" the boy went on when silence cut his momentum. "Or did your human side freeze your ears?"
Rin didn't take the bait. The river moved with the breath. Three counts. Two. One. And Rin's body became to harden.
Another voice, a little shriller: "Caelion, forget him. Rose isn't even here."
So the ringleader had a name. Rin kept still.
Caelion's footsteps clicked closer until the voice came from above his right shoulder. "My little brother can do better than that posture," he announced to his entourage, as if Rin weren't a person but a prop. The others chuckled on cue.
Rin lowered the river another notch, feeling for the thin line where held became locked. He let his awareness brush the air around his right shoulder. If a blow fell there, he could armor it in a finger-snap. If.
"Did you hear me?" the boy went on when silence cut his momentum. "Or did your human side freeze your ears?"
Rin didn't take the bait. The river of limitless ice moved within Rin with the breath he took in and out.
Another voice, a little shriller: "Caelion, forget him. Rose isn't even here."
So the ringleader had a name. Rin kept still.
Caelion's footsteps clicked closer until the voice came from above his right shoulder. "My little brother can do better than that posture," he announced to his entourage, as if Rin weren't a person but a prop. The others chuckled on cue.
Rin lowered the river another notch, feeling for the thin line where held became locked. He let his awareness brush the air around his right shoulder. If a blow fell there, he could armor it in a finger-snap. If.
The terrace doors at his back sighed open again. Rose's voice cut in, cool, businesslike. "I'm going to greet the principal and Lady Sylvanyr. Caelion and Co help me take my place in training all you need to do is throw harmless objects at him till he learns to block them all on reflex. Then she looked to rin, If you leak, you start over."
Rin inclined his head without opening his eyes. "Understood."
Her presence receded down the corridor, a curtain of winter and command leaving with her. The moment it did, Caelion laughed softly, like he'd been waiting for an adult to leave.
"You hear that?" he said to his friends. "He only trains because Rose throws pebbles and tells him to breathe. Pathetic."
Rin counted another breath. Don't spend coin on gnats. He pictured the ocean of ice circling his ankles, silent. If he rushed to answer mockery, he'd spill. Then he'd start over. He didn't have hours to waste on a stranger's insecurity.
A palm clapped his shoulder.
It was not a friendly pat; the weight carried intent—a shove meant to topple meditation and claim the moment. Caelion's fingers dug in, testing.
Rin didn't move. The river in him quieted, then turned—there. Frost condensed in a skin-thin sheath exactly beneath Caelion's hand. No glitter, no spikes. Just density.
Caelion flinched as if he'd grabbed a stone in snow. He pulled back, frowning. "Oh? So you do something."
Rin kept breathing. The sheath receded the instant Caelion's hand left. He didn't chase the sensation. Let it be automatic. In on threat, out on safety. No waste.
"Let's see how automatic," Caelion murmured.
The scrape of a weapons rack. A practice sword hissed as it left its cradle. Footsteps returned, heavier now, brimming with the courage steel lends cowards.
Rin didn't open his eyes. He listened. The air told him more than sight would. Caelion's stance was too square, the approach too loud, telegraphed. The swing came from above and to the right—downward diagonal, aiming for the collarbone. Predictable.
Rin's shoulder armored on instinct. The instant the edge entered his space, the skin under it turned to tempered winter.
Crack.
The training sword exploded at the point of contact, wooden shards clattering across the ring.
Gasps. A curse. Someone's nervous laughter died immediately.
Rin still hadn't moved. The sheath dissolved as soon as the threat ended. He let one more breath go—four, seven, eight—then another. The river held.
"Lucky," Caelion snapped, embarrassment scalding his tone. He tossed aside the splintered hilt and backed away, the scrape of boot on stone betraying the shift from swagger to vindictiveness. "Try this."
Magic whined. A casing rune snapped open on his bracer—a wrist conduit. Air condensed with a hiss. Rin felt microcurrents forming ahead of him, a tidy lattice of bite-cold: conjured ice arrows—thin, fast, six of them, fanned to avoid a single block.
Rin's gut whispered danger; the river reared.
He didn't want to move. He wanted to let the armor trigger itself without cost. But this wasn't a single blow; this was a pattern designed for panic. He tightened his jaw. If you flinch, you feed him.
The first arrow crossed the line—left cheek, an inch below the eye.
The sheath leapt, razor-thin. The arrow shattered against skin that had turned to winter in a heartbeat. Two more followed—right shoulder, left ribs. He armored both without reaching, without flooding. Tiny cracks traced the air where projectiles broke.
The fourth and fifth came together for the throat.
Rin's eyes slid open—cold, flat. He raised his hand with a flicker of annoyance and pressed two fingers together.
The last two arrows froze mid-flight, disassembled themselves into glittering dust, and fell.
Silence spread across the terrace ring like frost. For a heartbeat, all Rin heard was his own breath and the soft tinkle of melting shards.
Then his focus fractured—not from the attack, but from the choice he'd made to intervene. He felt the river tug against his grip—his body wanting to flood now that he'd given it a taste of force.
He exhaled, long, steady. The tug calmed.
Caelion, stung by the nonchalance, made the worst decision available to him. He turned to the weapon rack again. "Enough games."
Rin didn't sigh. He didn't speak. He let the breath finish—
—and stood.
To the onlookers, it felt like a cut in reality. One moment the half-elf was seated, calm as stone; the next the terrace rang with the dull thuds of bodies hitting ground. Caelion's four friends never saw him move. A tap behind the ear here, a low sweep there, an elbow to solar plexus, a knuckle to the chin—ice running in narrow threads through knuckles and forearms, making each touch an off-switch. No wasted force, no flashy frost. Just precise violence that asked no permission.
By the time Caelion turned back with a new sword and a pout of triumph, his entire entourage lay sprawled around the ring, twitching or snoring.
He blinked. "W—what?"
The answer was behind him.
Rin stood at his back, breath quiet, aura folded tight. The calm in his eyes would have been mercy if it weren't so utterly unconcerned.
Caelion swung on reflex—wild, horizontal, all speed, no thought.
Rin's forearm armored as the blade entered his space. He stepped in, not back, let the edge kiss winter and rebound, and drove his other fist forward with a snap. Ice densified under skin at the last instant, turning bone to a mallet.
Caelion managed to layer a flat sheet of ice between fist and face—a surprisingly competent reflex—but it was like holding a paper shield against a hammer. The impact detonated through his guard, caught his chest, and lifted him.
He didn't fly far. He flew very far.
The terrace rail flashed by. Students crossing the mid-bridge below screamed as a body arced overhead. For a heartbeat it looked almost graceful—coat flaring, limbs flailing—then Caelion cratered into the polished courtyard stones of the main academy with a bang that turned conversation to dust.
A hush rippled outward from the impact, swallowing laughter, gossip, the soft music from the gardens—everything.
Up on the terrace, Rin rolled his wrist once, letting the last thread of density dissipate. He didn't indulge the petty urge to savor the silence. He simply walked.
He took the stairs with the same etiquette Rose drilled into him: shoulders back, chin level, steps unhurried. No angry halo of frost, no raised voice. Make the river obey in motion. The shockwave he'd sent had glued eyes to him, but he wore the attention like a cloak he could take off whenever he wished.
Codex Record: The Laws of Defense:
Recorded in the annals of Sylvanyr's Academy of Frost, preserved beneath the canopy of the World Tree.
The elves of Sylvanyr do not treat defense as passive. To them, defense is anticipation. It is not a shield raised after an attack, but a current that shifts the instant the air changes. The great instructors describe it thus: "When the wind turns, the river already knows."
True heirs of the frost learn to let their bodies answer before their minds. Some call this instinct; the Codex names it discipline. The difference is simple: instinct reacts once. Discipline reacts endlessly.
Common practice begins with pebbles—light, fast, harmless. A thousand thrown in silence, a thousand caught without thought. What appears trivial is the root of all mastery. An elf who cannot deflect a pebble without spilling frost will never deflect a spear of flame, nor an arrow of void.
It is said those of royal blood can hold winter within their flesh without harm. Frost coats the veins, hardens the bones, densifies the skin. Where others numb, they sharpen. This is not immunity—it is heritage. Thus, to watch a Sylvanyr heir walk through a storm bare-armed is not arrogance, but proof of blood.
Discipline versus Pride
Among the young, pride often twists discipline. Many mistake noise for strength, or speed for superiority. They forget the first law: to defend without waste is higher than to attack without end.
This is why the Queen herself once declared:
> "A blade without restraint is only another storm. But a defense that answers all storms—this is sovereignty."
Final Note
In rare cases, training crosses into legend. When one's body listens so fully that ice rises before thought, the line between man and winter blurs. Such warriors are whispered to carry silent armor—a defense that exists whether awake, asleep, or in dream. Few ever reach this state. Fewer still master it without losing themselves to numbness.