For nearly a month, the Ironroot seedlings had trained under Mrs. Maiven's unblinking watch — each falling snowflake a small, cold reminder that winter was no longer coming. It was already here, creeping into the edges of the world like frost threading the corners of a forgotten pane, whispering against the glass, patient and impossible to turn back.
The field was never silent anymore. From dawn until the pale light faded, the crunch of boots over half-frozen dirt mingled with the sharp snap of commands, breaking the air into clean, hard pieces.
Mrs. Maiven's regimen spared neither muscle nor spirit, stripping them to the core and reforging them into something she deemed worthy of Ironroot 1A — before the Last Delve arrived with the new year.
The hope wasn't glory.
It was survival.
Every drill pushed them until their legs quivered under their own weight. Every lecture stripped away the comforting illusions that talent or luck could carry them through the Iron Vein's darkness.
[ Mrs. Maiven ]
"The Iron Vein will not care how well you did yesterday."
"That is why I will continue to test you today, tomorrow, and every day after that…"
"Until all of you are adequately prepared."
Her voice was sharp as the flat edge of her parasol.
They believed her.
And the results were undeniable.
From the bare-bones fundamentals taught on the first day — Guard, Strike, Aid — new forms had begun to bloom like frost-flowers on steel.
Kaiden's Strike had grown into Radiant Fang, a dagger-thrust born in pure light that ended in shadow, like the last flash of day before night closed in. The twin energies seared and froze the wound at once, leaving enemies caught between pain and numbness.
Rio's spear now sang with a caged rumble. Thunderstrike made each blow crackle through the air like a storm's heartbeat, the echo leaving a faint taste of copper and ozone in the lungs.
Nerim's Seismic Slam shattered the ground with bone-deep shockwaves that rolled outward like the growl of the deep earth, rattling both bones and thoughts.
Peggy had fully embraced the Augmenter's role. Her Stoneheart Aegis raised her above the fight on an earthen tower, while rotating barriers of jagged stone whirled around her allies — the walls of a living fortress that moved with their steps.
Everyone had changed.
Everyone except Irna.
She smiled when the others unveiled their new skills. She clapped at their progress. She even played her guzheng in quiet celebration when Peggy first raised her wall of stone.
But when the day ended — when the cheering faded and the dorm lights dimmed — the weight returned.
No new skill.
No breakthrough.
Just Guard. Strike. Aid.
Not enough for the Last Delve.
Not enough for Kaiden.
Not enough for herself.
Sometimes, lying in the narrow dorm bed, she could hear the faint creak of settling wood and the slow, even breathing of her classmates — a rhythm that only deepened the silence where her own progress should have been.
◈◈◈
That evening, training dragged on longer than usual.
The Old Training Field smelled of churned dirt, sweat, and the faint mineral bite of frost in the soil. The air was thin and crisp, burning the lungs if you breathed too fast. And every exhale curled into a pale wisp before fading into the cold.
The sun had slumped low, a bruised-orange smear bleeding into the jagged treeline. Shadows reached long across the ground, sharpening the splintered fence posts into black spears.
Mrs. Maiven dismissed them with her usual parting shot.
[ Mrs. Maiven ]
"Lose tonight, and tomorrow will eat you alive."
"A good night's rest is the most important part of training."
[ Rio ]
"Don't worry, Mrs. Maiven."
"That part of training is my specialty."
[ Nerim ]
"You got that right."
[ Kaiden ]
"Thank you for today's lesson, Mrs. Maiven."
[ Mrs. Maiven ]
"You are dis—"
The boys didn't linger. A senior had reminded them earlier about picking up decorations for the Moonfrost Eve celebration — the old turning-night, when lanterns were lit to welcome the frost's first breath, and the year's last page was folded shut beneath the eyes of the watching stars.
Kaiden, Rio, and Nerim were already jogging off, muttering about being late. They could already smell the wax and pine drifting from nearby houses outside the Academy.
Peggy stayed just long enough for Irna to notice how pale her face had gone.
[ Irna ]
"Are you okay, Peggy?"
[ Peggy (muttering) ]
"That cursed mess hall stew…"
"Must be from yesterday."
[ Irna ]
"The stewpot was empty when I got there."
[ Peggy ]
"Well, lucky you."
"Wait for me..."
"Nature's call."
[ Irna ]
"Run, girl..."
"Run."
"Hehe."
Peggy staggered toward the latrines, bent slightly as though walking against an invisible wind.
[ Mrs. Maiven ]
"I didn't know Ms. Orlson could run that fast."
[ Irna (chuckled) ]
"Hehe..."
"Neither did I."
[ Mrs. Maiven ]
"Anything I can help you with, Ms. Nguyen?"
[ Irna ]
"It's okay, Mrs. Maiven…"
"Just finished packing my guzheng."
"I'll wait for Peggy here."
[ Mrs. Maiven ]
"Very well, then."
"I'll see you tomorrow."
Irna gave a slight nod before Mrs. Maiven vanished through her æsther-relocation glyph.
In less than half a minute, she was alone.
She adjusted the strap of her guzheng case, the polished wood pressing lightly against her back. The air felt cooler now, but heavy — the kind that made every uncovered inch of skin prickle with awareness.
Somewhere far off, snowmelt dripped from a bare branch, the sound sharp in the stillness.
Then even that stopped.
The quiet became so complete she heard the slow settling of dust on her boots.
A shadow peeled itself from the sparring posts.
Then the shape resolved into Dessie Marron.
Her bow was already in her hand.
The last light of the sun caught in her eyes, turning them to narrow bands of molten amber. She smiled faintly — but there was no warmth in it, only precision.
Like the curve of a bowstring drawn to its limit.
[ Dessie ]
"Training's not over, mountain monk."
"You and me…"
"We still have some score to settle."
Irna frowned, shifting one step back.
[ Irna ]
"Settle?"
"What are you talking about?"
Dessie's fingers brushed the fletching of an arrow.
[ Dessie ]
"You'll understand soon enough."
Her tone wasn't the kind used in challenges.
It was the kind used in sentences.
The first arrow came without warning.
Irna didn't see it — she felt it.
A sudden shift in the air. The lift of her braid. Instinct yanked her head aside a breath before the shaft hissed past her cheek, close enough to chill the skin.
[ Irna ]
"Dessie!"
"What are you—"
The second arrow cut her words in half.
She dove, rolling behind a cracked sparring post. Dirt grated under her palms. Her guzheng slid from her back in one practiced motion, the polished wood shifting in her grip as strings tightened, bow limbs locking into place.
[ Dessie ]
"No point wasting breath."
"Draw, or you're done."
Her voice was the sound of a knife drawn from its sheath.
Irna loosed an arrow — a low Strike, meant to force movement rather than hit.
Dessie didn't move so much as flow aside, loosing in the same breath.
Now the arrows came like verses — each one different, each one closer.
One slammed the post beside Irna's head.
One punched a hole in her sleeve.
One struck the dirt at her heel, grit stinging her calves.
Each shot folded Irna's space smaller and smaller.
[ * Irna * ]
"She's herding me like a sheep."
"I must do something!"
Irna pivoted, sidestepped, and ducked behind the post again. Wood thudded as an arrow buried itself inches from her head.
Her heartbeat thudded harder.
This wasn't like practice — where hesitation meant a reset and a breath of laughter.
Here, hesitation meant something else.
[ Irna ]
"What is your problem?!"
Dessie kept on pressuring, no answer — only another arrow, close enough that the wind of its passing slapped her cheek.
The next one came low. She twisted, but it grazed her sleeve, the jolt numbing her shoulder.
Her return shot went wide. Dessie's expression didn't even flicker.
The fence was behind her now. She could feel it — the cold wood pressing between her shoulder blades, the field's edge a trap closing in.
Her calves burned from constant pivots. Her breath came hot and shallow, steam curling up in front of her face. Every draw now trembled, her strength spent in Mrs. Maiven's drills earlier that day.
Dust swirled around her boots with each desperate movement. The last light bled away, and the sky dulled to steel-blue, the training field fading into shadow.
[ Dessie ]
"This is your last chance, Irna."
The words were too calm.
Her hand rose again, arrow nocked, point leveled — not at center mass, not at an arm or leg.
Straight at the heart.
Irna froze.
[ Dessie ]
"If you can't hold the line…"
Her draw was smooth, unhurried.
"…you shouldn't be standing in it."
Irna's mind swam. The edges of the world blurred.
The wind, faint and cool, carried the smell of old grass. Frost sparkled faintly along the worn fence boards at her back. Her bowstring felt slick in her fingers, not from rain — from sweat.
One thought rang louder than the rest.
She's going to shoot.
Her muscles locked. She lifted her bow.
One last shot.
But Dessie was faster.
The string was already drawn to her cheek, the arrow's tip catching a final glint of light.
A sound like the faint hiss of spilled sand touched Irna's ears.
Not sand — snow. Tiny grains of frost tumbling from a sky she could barely see now, each flake catching the last ghost of light before vanishing into the dark.
Her gaze fixed on the slight sway of Dessie's arrowhead, so close it seemed to nudge against her breath. The rest of the world smudged away — the fence, the field, even the cold air — leaving only the taut line between that arrow and her chest.
Somewhere deep in her skull, Mrs. Maiven's voice murmured from earlier that day.
"The Iron Vein will not care how well you did yesterday."
"That is why I will test you today…"
Irna swallowed hard. Her fingers itched on the string, the bow trembling like it wanted to move before she did.
[ Dessie ]
"You don't deserve…"
The sound of the bowstring releasing filled the space between them.