The sun lingered behind thick winter clouds, casting a pale, silver light over the kingdom. The frost on the grass sparkled faintly like tiny shards of glass. Cold air pressed against skin, sharp and thin, making every breath slightly visible. It wasn't snowing just a chilled morning where winter whispered rather than shouted.
Rudura stood at the training ground, rubbing his palms together. His breath drifted in front of him in a thin cloud. The dirt floor looked slightly stiff, patches of grass crunching under his sandals. The chill crawled into his bones faster than he expected.
Finally… winter, he thought, suppressing a smirk. The cold would make him stronger. Harder. Faster. He needed that.
Malavatas stood a few meters away, his arms crossed, cloak lightly flapping in the wind. The breeze tugged strands of his hair gently. His face remained unreadable, but something subtle flickered in his eyes interest… observation… judgment.
"Your stance is too tense," Malavatas said, his voice calm, coated with the quiet authority that felt heavier than the iron sword itself. "Cold air makes one instinctively tighten. Fight that instinct."
Rudura inhaled, letting the frost-colored breath from his mouth drift out. He relaxed his shoulders, shifting weight evenly on his feet. The sword felt colder today. Metallic. Real.
He swung. The iron blade cut the air with a quiet hiss.
Too stiff, he thought.
Again.
Too forced.
His fingers numbed slightly. The cold was eating at his grip. He clenched his jaw, refusing to complain. He refused weakness. Weakness was death was failure was the feeling he swore never to taste again since the moment he lay beaten on the cold ground on that first day.
Malavatas watched silently. Then, step by step, he approached.
"Cold changes everything," Malavatas explained. "Grip. Balance. Breath. Precision. If you cannot control your body in harsh weather, how do you expect to survive real battle?"
Rudura swallowed his breath, exhaling through his nose.
"I won't lose to the cold," he muttered.
Malavatas's eyebrow twitched barely noticeable, yet somehow amused.
"Forged steel expands with heat and shrinks with cold," Malavatas continued. "The body behaves similarly. But the mind…" He tapped lightly on Rudura's forehead. "The mind must remain constant."
That touch carried weight. Rudura nodded, gaze sharpening.
He took his stance again, sword raised. Frosty air bit his cheeks as he slashed.
A faint imprint formed on the wooden dummy's surface. Not enough.
"Again," Malavatas instructed.
Rudura attacked harder this time. His breath grew heavier with every swing. The cold punished sweat instantly, chilling him more.
I won't stop.
Not because of the weather.
Not now. Not ever.
Minutes expanded into what felt like hours. Rudura's hands tingled, half numb. The blade grew heavier not from the metal but from fatigue.
Malavatas watched quietly from behind, expression unreadable. His eyes gleamed with something like expectation… or maybe curiosity.
Rudura exhaled sharply and repositioned his stance. He imagined warmth, imagined the feeling of the sword cutting perfectly through the dummy. He visualized it. Believed it.
The blade arced down
CRACK!
A clean split formed, wood fibers snapping apart. Steam-like breath puffed as Rudura gasped.
He did it.
Malavatas's voice cut through the cold, steady as always.
"Better. But not perfect."
Rudura tightened his jaw. He wanted to shout It is good enough!
But deep down, he knew it wasn't.
Perfect required patience. Discipline. Calm.
He forced his breathing slow, let the cold air fill him, let the stiffness settle into his muscles. He repeated the strike again and again until his arms trembled violently.
Malavatas finally stepped forward, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. The contact was surprisingly warm.
"That is enough."
Rudura looked up, confused. "I can still...."
"No," Malavatas interrupted, voice firm but gentle. "Cold weather is a teacher. But push too far, and you will break. The point of winter is adaptation, not destruction."
Rudura lowered the sword reluctantly.
The clouds shifted slightly, letting a streak of winter sunlight fall upon the training ground. It illuminated Rudura's breath, the faint frost on the dirt, the cuts in the wooden dummies. It painted him tired, breathing hard, iron sword nearly slipping but unbroken.
Malavatas studied him quietly. "Winter sharpens minds that endure it. Remember that."
Rudura nodded, chest rising and falling rapidly.
As they left the grounds, the wind picked up gently, carrying tiny frost particles across the surface. The landscape whispered differently now quieter, harsher, honest.
That night, Rudura lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The cold air settling into his bones made sleep slow. His hands twitched subconsciously, remembering the strikes.
Winter changes everything, he thought.
Then I'll change with it.
His eyelids finally grew heavy. The frost outside glimmered under the pale moonlight like silent witnesses of the relentless grind of a ten-year-old boy against the world.
Hours later, Malavatas stood by his room's window, looking at the training ground now coated with a thin shimmer of frost. His expression remained hard to decipher.
"Winter has arrived…" he murmured. "Let us see who it breaks… and who it reforges."
His eyes narrowed slightly, a ghost of a smile forming.
"And you, Rudura… you might just be the latter."
He turned away, cloak drifting behind him in the cold air.
(Continued in Chapter 43)