Winter didn't care who you were. It didn't care if you were a prince or a peasant, or if your cloak was made of velvet or itchy wool. It arrived the same way a river did when it decided to take something: cold, quiet, and entirely without apology. In Asmora, that cold threaded itself into every gap—under boots, beneath cloaks, and into the fresh mortar between the stones the workers had only just set.
Frost clung to the palisade points like silver teeth. Alaric stood outside the main pavilion, his breath rising in steady clouds. Beside him, Dawn was bundled so tightly in furs she looked more like a very expensive bear than a lady of House Angelique. They watched the village as if it were a living thing learning to stand after a long fever.
Alaric could feel the ring beneath his glove—a band of moonlit ice that never truly warmed up. His body still felt the phantom ache of the Third Sphere magic he'd touched in the ruins. It was a hollow sensation, like a bruise on his soul that throbbed whenever he pushed his mana too hard. But he stood there anyway, because in Zoridia, a ruler who couldn't control his power was just a prize waiting for someone else to claim.
"Do you think it'll hold?" Dawn asked, her voice small and muffled by her scarf.
Alaric looked at the gabions anchoring the riverbank. "If the river tries to take the village again, it's going to have to work for it," he said. It wasn't a 'yes,' but in this world, making the elements work harder was as close to a victory as you got.
"Training time," Alaric said, and Dawn straightened up immediately.
They stepped into the pavilion, where the warmth was functional—mostly just a low-glowing brazier and the scent of faint incense. Gina remained by the entrance, arms folded, looking like she expected the air itself to commit treason. Alaric sat cross-legged on a cushion, and Dawn mirrored him, her posture stiff until she remembered to breathe into her stomach instead of her chest.
Alaric knocked on the door of his mind—a door he still didn't entirely trust.
You return, Alanor's voice murmured, unfurling like a heavy cloak over Alaric's thoughts. And you bring your moon-bound companion.
"He's here, isn't he?" Dawn whispered, her eyes wide.
"He's always here," Alaric replied. "Just listen."
First circle spells, Alanor continued, his tone sharpening into the dry rasp of a man who had no patience for sloppiness. Your Zoridia calls them 'First Sphere.' It matters little. These are not for grand duels. They are for staying alive long enough to become dangerous.
When the lesson ended, they were both spent. Mana training didn't tire the muscles as much as it frayed the mind's grip on reality. It left you feeling 'clean,' but hollow.
Dawn looked at him, her blue eyes bright with a resolve that seemed too big for her four-year-old face. "Am I useful now? Can I help in the ruins?"
"You'll survive better," Alaric said honestly. "Being useful comes after you learn when not to cast."
Dawn nodded, taking the restriction as if it were a knight's oath.
Inside the ring, Alanor's presence shifted with a dry, metallic amusement. You learn quickly. And you teach well. That is rarer than talent.
"What did it say?" Gina demanded, stepping closer. She never trusted anything that didn't have a visible leash.
"It said we need discipline," Alaric lied—mostly.
"That ring isn't a tutor, Alaric," Gina warned, her eyes darting to his gloved hand. "It's a thing that wants."
Asimi entered the pavilion then, her silk robes whispering against the floor. "Everything wants, Gina," she said calmly. "The only question is whether what it wants aligns with our survival."
Outside, the hammers kept falling, carving a future out of the mud. Inside, two children sat with the First Circle etched into their bones. Small magics. Practical magics. The kind of magics that kept you breathing long enough to change the world.
And beneath Alaric's glove, the ring stayed cold and patient. It had finally found students worth the effort.