Fifty days of brutal training in the frozen wasteland of Floor Three, where the temperature never rose above freezing, and the wind cut through even the warmest clothing like razors made of ice.
Fifty days of Pho's relentless instruction, where every mistake was punished with frost that burned worse than fire, and every success was met with the simple command to "do it again, but better."
Days spent learning to weaponize magic he'd spent his entire life thinking of as defensive support.
Rhys stood at the edge of a frozen cliff, staring at the massive fortress visible in the distance. His breath came in steady clouds despite the brutal cold, his body having adapted somewhat to the environment through sheer necessity.
The fortress dominated the landscape. A structure of ice and stone that rose three hundred feet into the perpetually gray sky, its walls thick enough to resist siege weapons, its towers positioned to provide overlapping fields of fire for defenders.
