Iris came to him in the late afternoon, when the snow village was at its quietest.
Eira was seated near the outer ridge, where the wind softened, and the white plains stretched endlessly beyond the barrier.
He hadn't noticed her approach until a shadow fell across the snow in front of him. When he looked up, she was already there, holding a small bundle of pale blue flowers tied with a thin silver thread.
"For you," she said simply.
The flowers were unfamiliar—petals thin as frost, glowing faintly with mana. Healing blooms, he realized, the kind that only grew in places touched by ancient spells. He accepted them awkwardly, unsure what to say.
"You protected the village," Iris continued. Her voice was calm, steady, without the warmth or shyness the others often carried. "Gratitude should be given properly."
Eira stood too quickly and nearly slipped. He caught himself, cheeks warming, and she watched with a faint flicker of amusement in her golden eyes. Silver hair fell straight down her back, long and unbound, catching the light like freshly cut ice.
She looked nothing like someone who had been on the brink of death days ago.
"You… you're healed?" he asked.
"Mostly," she replied. "The recovery magic worked. Slowly."
She glanced past him, toward the village. People were watching—curious, hopeful, cautious. Ever since he had awakened, their attention followed him wherever he went. Confessions, offerings, whispered prayers. Iris seemed untouched by it.
They walked together without planning to.
"This place," Iris said after a while, "was not always meant to be a refuge."
Eira turned to her.
"The previous hero created this realm before the war," she continued. "A place to hide those he could not protect on the battlefield. He promised to return. He never did."
Her steps slowed.
"Through records, through those who fought beside him, we learned there was… interference. His death was not clean. The truth was buried."
She stopped near a half-frozen stone platform, ancient runes barely visible beneath the snow.
"Before he left," Iris said, "he placed a spell here. His shadow sword. It activates only when its owner dies. The blade draws itself back to this land."
Eira felt something stir in his chest.
"You think I can use it?" he asked quietly.
"I think," she replied, meeting his eyes, "that if it reacted to you at all… then you are connected to it."
They approached the sealed altar together. When Eira placed his hand near the embedded hilt, the air trembled. Frost climbed the stone. The sword did not move—but it answered.
Light flickered.
A scroll formed midair, unfurling on its own.
You are not yet ready to bear this blade.
The words faded.
Eira exhaled slowly. Disappointment rose, but it didn't crush him.
Iris studied him for a long moment.
"Then we make you ready," she said.
That was how the training began.
---
The morning air was sharp when Iris led Eira to the lower clearing, where frost still clung to the ground like breath that refused to fade. No audience, no ceremony—just the two of them and the sound of steel leaving its sheath.
"Speed without noise," Iris said, lowering her stance. "Power that never announces itself."
She moved first.
Her blade traced a looping pattern, not wide, not aggressive—tight, coiling, drawing an invisible serpent around Eira's guard. Eira tried to parry, but her sword slid past his defense as if it had always planned to be there, the tip stopping just short of his wrist.
"Again," she said calmly.
By the third attempt, Eira stopped thinking about strength. He let his sword follow hers, not fight it. When he finally felt the coil tighten, when his blade slipped into the narrow opening she left behind, Iris nodded once.
"That's it," she said. "Serpent's Quiet Coil. You don't strike first. You finish first."