Winter wrapped Nedel in a frozen grip. Frost covered the streets, biting cold forcing shops to close. Only a few stayed open—the general store's shelves nearly bare, the alchemist's vapors curling through the air. The blacksmith's hammer echoed faintly, and candles still flickered in the candlemaker's shop. Taverns buzzed with warmth and spiced wine. Bakeries glowed with hearth-light, and the tea shop served steaming mugs of enchanted brews.
The hunters' guild sat empty. Its members are scattered across the region. The academy's halls were quiet, too, left to gather dust in the absence of students.
Alan and Emma stared out the window. Snow piled high, burying their hopes of visiting Lix. Six months of exchanged letters now frozen in the cold. Lix's lonely inquiries about their academy life and Joe's chaotic household grew more distant with each blizzard. Their latest response lay unfinished on the desk nearby.
Milla's laughter shattered their longing. She flipped over a sofa, knocking a table aside. Joe stood in the doorway, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you have to turn my house into a goblin nest?" he grumbled. His beard twitched, betraying the hint of a smile. These will be the days he'll later treasure—three children fraying his nerves—he hoped.
The morning's chaos came with an unexpected knock. Jareth stood on the doorstep, snow clinging to his cloak. "We're going on a training trip," he announced before the door fully opened. "To Kragnir Peak in search of frostworms. The coldbloods only surface in deep winter."
Milla skidded to the door. "You want us to dig up worms?"
"Dig up frostworms," Jareth corrected, leaning casually against the doorframe. "They are essential for Nora's elixir. The capital's stores are inaccessible in this storm. And adult mages—" He shrugged slightly—"tend to scare frostworms off. We need someone less...intimidating."
Joe's eyebrow climbed. "So you're using children?"
"Not alone. Escorted by myself and three academy instructors," Jareth added hastily. "FluGer's cares, Wellform's protections, and Silvermine's...fierceness. Perfectly safe."
"Anything beats dying of boredom!" Milla exclaimed.
Alan exchanged glances with Emma. "If Nora's in danger..."
"Splendid!" Jareth clapped, snow showering from his sleeves. "Supplies are loaded. Meet at the academy gates by noon. Pack light."
By noon, the students huddled under woolen cloaks in the academy courtyard, shivering in the freezing wind. The instructors stood like statues, unyielding and solemn as if the cold had frozen even their thoughts. No sign of Jareth or Nora.
"I got enough wool here to smother a frost giant," Milla grinned, patting her magic bag.
Sylas smirked, his scarf pulled high against his cheeks. "Better that than freezing. These ears—" he adjusted the scarf once more, its rabbit's-foot charm swaying in the breeze—"are art."
Alan squinted at the storm clouds overhead, watching their ominous churn. "The storms must have rerouted the mountain passes," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Gerral nodded, pulling out a frayed map that flapped in the wind. "This was last surveyed—"
Milla snatched it mid-sentence with a dramatic flourish. "Let the expert navigate!" Her smile turned sharp but not unkind as she unfolded the map, scanning its details, then threw it back at Gerral.
"This map is useless. It doesn't even show the peak."
Gerral caught it against his chest, lips pressing into a tight line. "Or you just don't know how to read a map."
"What?! I have loads of maps at home!" She jabbed a finger toward him. "You're not the only one whose parents are hunters!"
Gerral exhaled through his nose, shaking the map open with a dramatic flick before shoving it toward her face.
"Mount. Kragnir," he read the scribbled text with an exaggerated tone, tapping the three-triangle marking.
Milla stared, then scoffed. "That is the worst excuse for a peak I've ever seen."
Their chatter faltered as a hush fell over the courtyard. The cold seemed to deepen, and the wind grew quieter but no less biting. A subtle shift in the air drew attention.
When the wind picked up again, Jareth emerged. His presence dissipated unease like mist before sunlight. Following close behind was Nora, her silver-and-gold dress catching the wandering rays of the pale winter sun. Her face, pale and drawn, betrayed a struggle not entirely born of the cold. Snow clung stubbornly to the edges of her boots, dragging through the frost as her movements lacked the elegance they once carried. Today, she seemed fragile—a fading star against a darkening sky.
"Fashionably late to your own rescue mission?" Sylas drawled.
Jareth's smile didn't reach his eyes. "My apologies. Household complications."
Nora said nothing. The wind stole the color from her lips, leaving them the pale pink of two faded scars.
Emma hugged herself against the cold. "How do we cross the mountains in this?"
Jareth's hands hissed as he rubbed them together. "Lesson one: Become the storm."
Mr. FluGer snorted. "Don't romanticize recklessness."
"Body infusion," Jareth continued, ignoring the interruption. A hair-thin aura flickered around him.
"An Eastern technique. It requires no spells, just will." He pressed his bare hand into the snow. Steam rose. "Your mana becomes the furnace."
Mr. FluGer stepped forward, eyes narrowed with disapproval. "Their cores can't sustain—"
"Which is why we're here." Jareth's aura flared, melting his footprints into slush. "Pain is an excellent teacher."
His following words hit like a slap. "No wool."
Milla gaped. "You're kidding! We'll freeze!"
"Precisely. Desperation sharpens focus. Your body will adapt to mana infusion as a mechanism against the cold."
Stripped to linens, the children trembled in misery. Alan's breath hitched as he conjured a flickering shield—mana clinging like damp silk. Sylas and Nora mirrored him, their auras pulsing in ragged sync.
Milla, however, fought differently—teeth chattering, breaths ragged—she clawed at the air as if wrestling invisible chains. Frost crusted her lashes. Each failed attempt left her shaking harder until—
Snap.
A jagged cocoon erupted around her, rough and uneven. She gasped like a drowning survivor. "H-hate…you…" she spat at Jareth between shuddering breaths.
He inspected her crude shield. "Hate's warm. Use it." Turning to the group, he raised his voice above the wailing wind: "The air only gets worse near Kragnir Peak. By dawn, you'll master this or freeze, standing as failures in its shadow."
Mr. FluGer opened his mouth to protest—
"Move out!" Jareth barked, cutting him off.
The first stretch broke them beautifully.