The morning crept in like a thief, gray and suffocating. Thick clouds churned overhead, devouring any traces of sunlight. Frost crusted the tents in jagged lacework. Alan woke to the wind gnawing at the campsite—a guttural, hungry noise that set his teeth on edge. Beside him, Sylas sat upright, his breath puffing visibly even inside the tent. "My nose feels like it's going to snap off," he muttered, rubbing at its red tip.
Outside, the world had turned monochrome. Snowflakes spiraled fiercely, coating the ground in glassy sheets. Milla stumbled from her tent with a dramatic shiver. Ice chunks clung to her hair. "This isn't cold," she announced to no one. "It's the mountain telling us to leave."
Ms. Silvermine stood at the edge of camp—her sword drawn. Snowflakes vaporized as they neared her skin. "The wind's shifted," she called to Jareth. "A blizzard's coming. We need to turn back."
Jareth squinted at the gray horizon. His face tightened. "Retreating would strand us on open slopes when the storm hits. Kragnir Peak is three hours ahead. We push forward."
Ms. Silvermine's blade twitched. "The children can't sustain their infusions in this storm."
"Then we adapt." Jareth turned to the group. "Pack up. We leave in five."
—
Breakfast was a hasty affair—cracker crunched between numb teeth, sloshed lukewarm tea sipped from chipped mugs. Ms. Wellform gathered the children in a tight circle without giving them time to digest. Her frosted gloves trembled as she clasped them. "This will sting," she warned.
The air rippled. A dome of light enveloped them. The wind dulled to a whisper. Sylas blinked. "It's warm," he said in awe.
Milla poked the barrier. It rippled like jelly. "You had this the whole time?!"
Ms. Wellform looked away. "Jareth insisted that you learn resilience."
"Resilience?" Sylas threw his hands up, nearly clobbering Emma. "We've been freezing for days! My toes are purple!"
"Oh, save your whining for court later, princess," she teased. "For now, Move!"
The dome pushed through the storm like a plow. Snow fell harmlessly to the sides. With the dome's protection, the children marched faster. Milla danced ahead, her boots barely leaving any marks in the snow. "This is cheating!" she exclaimed gleefully.
But, her crow died under a sound—a crack like the sky breaking apart.
The dome shook. Cracks spider-webbed across its surface. Ms. Wellform gasped, her hands trembling as she fought to hold the barrier together. "Jareth! The storm—"
"Stay focused!" he barked.
Ms. Silvermine dashed out of the dome and slashed through deep drifts with her sword. "Follow me!" she yelled.
The group surged forward. The dome flickered. Alan's ears popped as the wind tore in. He saw the cave—just ahead, shaded and safe.
"Almost there!" Jareth pointed.
"Aaaghhh!" A piercing cry rang out.
The dome shattered.
Ms. Wellform collapsed. Her scream was ripped away by the storm. The wind punched through the group. Mr. FluGer vanished in a blur. "Sarra!" he screamed as he was pulled into oblivion.
"Grab hands!" Ms. Silvermine roared. Her sword plunged into the ice, anchoring herself in place. Alan grabbed Emma's wrist. Milla locked onto Sylas. Their breaths burned. Their world shrank to screams and snow.
Silvermine carved forward, each swing of her blade buying them an arm of progress. "Faster!" she bellowed.
The mountain rumbled.
Alan looked up—and froze. A wave of snow thundered onto them. It towered higher than the academy's clocktower—vast enough to bury a town.
Milla screamed, the sound swallowed by the avalanche's roar.
Ms. Silvermine whirled. A crescent of mana erupted. For a heartbeat—an impossibly fragile heartbeat—Alan saw the avalanches parted like curtains, rushing past like a river diverted.
Then, the world went white.
—
Alan's eyes snapped open to absolute darkness—a void so complete it pressed against his retinas like a smothering blindfold. He could feel the cold stone beneath him. No snow. No wind. Just a cold, hard rock and silence.
Where Am I?
He slapped his palm to his chest and gasped. A faint glow spilled from his skin. The glow revealed jagged walls, wet and glistening.
"Emma!?" His shout fractured into echoes, each iteration smaller, weaker. "Milla! Sylas!"
No answer. Drip-drip-drip.
He swirled around. Nothing but empty tunnels. "Three... four... seven," he counted. The tunnels branched endlessly, and he couldn't tell one from another. He strokes the stone wall, marking his position. Then, he stumbled forward into the middle tunnel. His sword scraped against the wall as he walked, leaving a trail behind him.
Breathe. Breathe. His training mantra unraveled with every step. The cold here was different—not winter's bite, but the grave's patient chill. His mana infusion prickled like broken glass under his skin, fighting to hold back the suffocating damp.
A sound stopped him. Pebbles skittered. His glow flickered.
"Who's there?" he rasped, swirling around.
Nothing.
He pressed onward. Stalactites daggered downward, their tips glistening with condensation. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Then, a hum crept in slowly—a vibration in the rock, then a murmur. Alan crouched, ear pressed against the stone. Water?
He ran.
The tunnels opened into a cavern. His mana light dimmed, swallowed by the vastness. He found a stream, black and smooth, like flowing obsidian. Its surface is stippled by droplets from above.
Alan stumbled to the bank, trembling. The stream's song filled the cavern. He reached into the current. "It's real." He drank. The water was sharp and bitter.
Follow it.
The stream became his guide. He followed it, leaving blade marks on the walls until the tunnel forked. On the left, the river disappeared into a narrow crack, barely wide enough for his shoulders. On the right, a sloping path let out faint, warm air.
Alan whirled. A pebble rolled into the water—Plip—making ripples that distorted his broken reflection. He picked up something pale in the shallow water—a bone? A root? He stepped in—Gloop. His boots sank.
The current reached his knees as he sank deeper.
"No." He scrambled back. The river's pull had felt wrong—felt… hungry.
Alan crouched, eyeing both paths. The draft on the right smelled faintly of moss—or was his mind imagining it?
Mark the wall. Decide—right.
His sword scraped the wall. Somewhere ahead, water roared into emptiness. Somewhere behind, the dark waited.
He squeezed into a narrow gap, stone scraping his shoulders. The stream roared louder.
Almost—there!
Light pierced the dark—not his own.