Morning arrived quietly.
The first slivers of pale sunlight cut through the palace curtains, sliding across the marble floor like cold fingers. Rudura's eyes blinked open slowly. He exhaled a faint cloud of mist. The winter air inside his room was sharp enough to sting his nose.
His bedsheets had cooled overnight, and when his bare feet touched the floor, he winced.
So winter truly settles… he thought, rubbing his hands together. It's colder than yesterday.
He dressed, layered lightly, and walked toward the training grounds. As the palace corridors opened into the courtyard, the first thing he saw was the ground dirt hard as stone, dusted by a fragile sheet of frost. His boots crunched softly.
The grass was brittle. The breeze carried small white specks. His breath came out visible.
And the wooden dummies?
They looked different.
"Winter is here," Malavatas said, approaching with his arms behind his back. Frost dusted his shoulders casually, as if it bowed to him first. "The cold strengthens wood. Makes grain tighter. Makes muscle slower. Makes breath shorter."
Rudura stood straight.
Malavatas paused beside a dummy. He pressed a hand against the wood.
"Today, you will learn what winter asks of warriors."
He stepped back and pointed.
"Strike."
Rudura nodded, gripped his iron sword tight, inhaled sharply and swung.
THUD.
The dummy didn't even dent.
The vibration rattled through his wrists, numbing his fingers.
"…shit," Rudura whispered under his breath.
Malavatas heard anyway. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Winter exposes human weakness," he continued. "Cold sinks into tendons. Steel becomes heavier. Hands become sluggish. Wood becomes stubborn."
Again, he gestured.
"Strike."
Rudura bit down, lifted, and swung harder.
THUD.
Nothing.
The vibration went up his forearms. He almost dropped the sword.
Malavatas watched silently, unreadable.
"Breath," the master finally said.
Rudura blinked.
"Winter steals breath. You must protect it. Control it. Without breath, strength leaks."
Malavatas began a demonstration. He inhaled slow, steady then exhaled sharply as he cut. His strike was precise and effortless.
The dummy split into two clean halves.
Rudura's jaw tightened. How…?
Malavatas turned back toward him, voice calm:
"One perfect strike. Not two. Not ten. Just one."
Rudura gritted his teeth, stepped forward, and swung again.
THUD.
Still no cut.
Malavatas didn't scold. He simply nodded.
"Good. You feel winter now."
Rudura glared weakly at the dummy. "Feels like winter fucking hates me."
Malavatas smirked faintly. "Winter hates those who arrive unprepared."
He lifted Rudura's hands gently, adjusting finger angles.
"Your grip must change. Cold makes wood deflect."
Then he pushed Rudura's elbow.
"Your stance must change. Frozen ground steals balance."
He nudged Rudura's foot outward.
"Your breath must change. Ice tightens lungs."
Rudura swallowed. "…Everything changes."
"Yes," Malavatas said softly. "Everything."
He stepped back.
"You strike until the dummy yields. Not your body."
Rudura inhaled, breath sharp. He struck. Again. Again.
Hours passed.
Sweat steamed off him. Frost melted beneath his feet. Every muscle screamed.
His palms burned.
By noon, Rudura leaned on his sword, panting violently.
Malavatas spoke only then:
"Enough."
Rudura staggered upright.
"You understood something today," Malavatas continued, voice low. "Summer teaches enthusiasm. Monsoon teaches patience. Autumn teaches harvest."
He tapped the dummy lightly.
"And winter… teaches resolve."
Rudura stared. Silent. He wasn't sure what to reply.
Malavatas turned away slowly.
"Rest. We continue tomorrow."
The master disappeared into the palace corridors.
Rudura glanced once more at the dummy solid, unbroken, mocking him.
He frowned deeply. Winter is cruel.
But then
So what?
He clenched his fists.
I'll be crueler.
Night came.
The courtyard emptied. Moonlight stretched across the ground in silver streaks. The frost thickened again as temperature dropped.
Rudura returned silently.
His boots crunched the frozen dirt.
The dummy still stood. Waiting.
He inhaled slow, controlled.
Exhaled sharp.
One perfect strike.
He lifted his sword and slashed.
THUD.
Nothing. His wrists screamed.
He swallowed and tried again.
THUD.
His breath fogged heavily. Fingers numb. But he didn't stop.
Swing.
Swing.
Swing.
Hours passed.
His breath grew ragged.
His face flushed.
His fingers trembled.
One. Perfect. Strike.
The frost on the dummy glimmered taunting him.
Rudura clenched his jaw. "I'm not losing to wood."
He swung again.
CRACK.
A small split appeared.
His eyes widened slightly.
"…shit. That counts."
His pulse rushed. He struck again aiming precisely.
CRACK.
Wider.
He wasn't shivering anymore. His blood was boiling now.
Just a bit more…
He focused on breath. Let it flow. Let it anchor. Malavatas's voice echoed distantly:
"One perfect strike."
Rudura tightened his core
SWING.
CRRRRRRK—SNAP.
Half the dummy slid slowly and fell onto the frosted ground.
Rudura stared. Breath uneven. Eyes wide.
"…finally."
He collapsed backward onto the cold dirt, breath visible.
Above him, the stars shimmered like silent witnesses. His palms were red. His arms numb. His cheeks tightened with a cold-smile combination.
He inhaled deeply.
"I'm getting better."
His voice sounded small in the winter night.
"…I will."
He stood, sword across his shoulder, boots crunching on frost, and returned to his room.
The bed felt warmer than ever.
As sleep pulled him under, the last thought he whispered was:
"I won today."
In the distance, hidden behind a darkened corridor window, Malavatas closed the curtains silently.
"…winter forces choice," he murmured.
His breath fogged the glass.
"Most break. Some bend. Rare few sharpen."
He watched Rudura's window dim.
"Sharpen, boy. Sharpen."
Malavatas turned away, coat fluttering in the cold.
The palace returned to silence.
Winter, however, kept watching.
(Continued in Chapter 44)