Dawn broke weakly, its light barely gilding the frost-covered tents and the ashen remains of last night's fire. Milla woke to the symphony of her own body—shoulder joints creaking like unoiled hinges, lungs raw from pond water and pride. She found Emma curled beside her, windburn blazing across the girl's cheeks in vivid reds and pinks.
The salve tin clicked open with fingers still stiff from yesterday's drowning. Milla worked the salve into Emma's wind-chapped cheek, its sharp tingle cutting through the dull chill. "You're freezing," Emma murmured, her hand darting out to catch Milla's wrist, her touch startlingly warm.
"Don't worry. I'm an iron shield," Milla lied. Her voice was steady, but her limbs trembled. She curled her numb toes inside damp boots. Their breath mingled, two pale ghosts whispering of yesterday's terror.
Emma took the tin from her. Gently, she traced a finger over Milla's split lip—the one flaw in her iron shield. "Next time," she whispered, "let Alan play tough alone."
Across the camp, Jareth and Silvermine emerged from the morning mist, their cloaks dusted with fresh snow. "No traps," Jareth announced cheerfully. "Unless you count the ones we're meant to find."
Ms. Silvermine said nothing. Her hand flexed rhythmically—a swordsman's tale.
The breakfast fire crackled defiantly against the biting cold. Mr. Wellform ladled porridge into bowls, its herbed steam curling into the frosty air. Alan poked absently at his portion, his gaze distant. Across from him, Sylas stole glances, pretending to listen to Mr. FluGer's droning lecture on the mana trap.
"The pond's trap responded to mana fluctuations," Mr. FluGer explained, his voice even as he stirred his bowl. "It activates the moment someone releases a spell—designed to ensnare the unwary."
Milla snorted, leaning back. "So we're bait now?"
Jareth stroked the bowl with his spoon. "Bait survives by staying vigilant," he said. "Now eat. We're leaving in five."
—
They marched into the shadow of Kragnir Peak, the wind sharpening its bites. Ms. Wellform and Mr. FluGer led the way. The children followed, their mana shields flickering like candles in the wind. All except Alan's, which burned steady and bright.
"Stay within arm's reach," Jareth ordered, marching closer to them than he was yesterday. His usual cold stare had shifted into something tight and watchful.
The mountain's spine rose sharper, the wind shrieking through its jagged passes like the wail of a scorned spirit. Yesterday's climb had been a torment. Today, they pressed on in silence. Milla's infusion held steadier. Sylas matched her pace. Only the red flush of their cheeks and chattering jaws betrayed the relentless bite of the cold.
At midday, Mr. FluGer called for a rest under the skeletal pines. Milla collapsed cross-legged, slapping her thighs. "Bet frostworms nap in blizzards," she grumbled. "Smarter than us."
Emma offered her water. "Your infusion lasted three hours today."
"Four," Sylas corrected, his eyes scanning the horizon.
Jareth seized the moment. "Our world hosts countless kingdoms, each with unique magic and traditions. For centuries, wars raged over whose arts reigned supreme—"
"Enough lectures!" Milla groaned, rubbing her calves. "We're freezing, not bored."
Jareth pressed on. "The Eastern mana infusion requires aligning with nature's rhythm. While others plunder—"
"Move out!" Mr. FluGer's foot thudded the ice sheet, cutting him short. The group rose as one, shoulders squared. Frost sparkled on the pines as they moved, the winter's beauty mocking their struggles.
"How much farther?" Milla squinted at the jagged slopes ahead.
"Patience," Ms. Silvermine intoned from the rear. "The real trials lie beyond sight."
—
The afternoon brought smooth, icy slopes, glinting treacherously in the pale light. Sylas eyed one with a grin. "Bet I can reach the bottom faster than you!"
Milla scoffed, already crouching. "You? Please."
Before Mr. FluGer could stop them, they launched down the hill, rolling and tumbling like barrels. Snow sprayed in their wake. Sylas' scarf unraveled, whipping into Milla's face.
"Cheater!" she shrieked, blind but still rolling.
"Survival of the fittest!" Sylas roared, crashing into a snowdrift.
Emma's laughter rang out as Milla darted past him, the scarf trailing behind like a banner. Alan facepalmed. "They're going to kill themselves."
Jareth watched, bemused, as Mr. FluGer sputtered about "reckless youth." By the third hill, even Nora's lips twitched upward when Milla attempted a "dignified slide" only to cartwheel into Sylas, sending them both sprawling.
That evening, by the fire, the duo's antics continued. Milla mimed Sylas' flailing roll, nearly toppling into the flames. "And then he screamed like a startled goose—!"
"Lies!" Sylas threw a biscuit at her head. "You were the one screaming about frostworms in your pants!"
The group erupted in laughter, their breath fogging in the cold air as the sound carried briefly over the crackling fire. Gradually, their energy began to settle, the warmth of the flames and the weight of the long day softening their spirits.
Jareth cleared his throat, cutting through the lingering chuckles. "As I was saying… King Albert's madness—"
Milla let out an exaggerated snore. Sylas harmonized in mockery until Emma swatted them both with a mittened hand. "Hush. Let the man speak."
As the fire popped and danced, Jareth's voice wove through the shifting shadows, resuming his tale:
"Long ago, a king's hunger for power turned to madness. Albert of Runeheart watched his armies fall in battle and swore that death itself shall bow to him. Through twisted arts lost to time, he dragged soldiers back from the grave—hollow puppets forced to march anew."
Milla edged closer to the fire. "So he cheated death?"
"Worse, he enslaved it. Soon, Runeheart's fields sprouted tombstones, not wheat. Neighboring kingdoms rallied when his shambling legions crossed their borders. Swords shattered on bone, arrows pierced rotted flesh in vain."
Emma hugged her knees. "How did they stop him?"
"A wanderer from the East came unbidden—no blade at his hip, no spells on his lips. Yet when he strode into Albert's sea of corpses…" Jareth leaned forward, flames dancing in his eyes. "The dead cowered. His mere touch unraveled Albert's dark magic, freeing their souls."
Gerral frowned. "What magic was that?"
"Pure mana. No rituals, no incantations—just will, forged to perfection." Jareth tossed a twig into the fire. "With his kingdom crumbling, Albert died screaming among the tombstones of his own making. The survivors vowed no man would rule again, to keep Runeheart's madness at bay."
A log collapsed in the flames. Somewhere in the dark, the wind moaned through distant peaks.