"Even if a wound vanishes from the body, its shape can remain in the soul. And that, perhaps, is one of the most persistent human weaknesses."
(Several days before the events at "The Solitary Crow" tavern, at the Academy of Duality, when Catherine and I did not yet know that our road to Liranis would prove to be more than just a friendly journey.)
The air of the 23rd of Nocturne was fresh and clean, saturated with the scent of the first snow. The students, chattering like flocks of sparrows, were already bustling with preparations, departing to spend time with their families. And although the winter holidays in Valtheim lasted a Veytra and a half, I had no opportunity to travel to my mortal parents, Alice and Fed Nox. Not because I would not have had time, but because I had promised Catherine I would spend this time with her.
Perhaps this was my most dangerous experiment. If I could find the reasons for my vulnerability, then by the end of Cryonics, I could likely draw conclusions about how to counter the chaotic virus growing within me.
Although the clothes for this journey had been purchased in advance and all my belongings had long been prepared and structured with mathematical precision, the same could not be said for Catherine, who was still fussing with her traveling bag with a bewildered look.
I fastened the last strap on my dark tunic, checking every seam and loop. Convinced that everything was in order, I began to braid my hair into a tight, long plait, which I then coiled into a neat bun and secured with three sharp-ended pins. My reflection in the mirror was harmonious. A simple gold brooch gleamed at my collar—my personal symbol of my connection to Order. Only then did I allow myself to look at Catherine.
She was pulling on gloves of soft leather with a dissatisfied expression. Her usual academic mantle was neatly folded on a chair, and she was already wearing a dark blue traveling dress with silver embroidery. It seemed more intended to impress someone than for a comfortable journey.
Suddenly, she caught my gaze in the mirror. A light, teasing smile touched her lips.
"Arta… are you quite sure you're leaving for the holidays, and not to stand guard on the Tarvarian border?"
I chose not to answer immediately. Placing my dark cloak over my travel bag, I methodically checked all the clasps.
"Do you have any idea how this looks?" she continued, not waiting for my reply. She came closer, her dress rustling. "Girls usually go home in something comfortable, beautiful. You know, dresses, soft capes... Not a military campaign kit." Finishing, she smiled softly.
I turned my head slightly. "Most women in the Tarvarian Empire do indeed prefer dresses. But not as light as these. Our winters are real. The fabric is dense, the capes are multi-layered, the footwear is heavy. Here, in Valtheim, winter is rather… decorative. And the clothing is the same," I replied ironically, understanding that she would not grasp my full thought without a figurative comparison.
Catherine laughed quietly, and the sound of her laughter seemed warm in the cool room. "Decorative winter? I definitely like that definition! We even wear our hoods more for show than for warmth."
I allowed myself a faint, barely perceptible smile. "In the northern provinces, the price for a mistake in choosing clothes is paid with frostbite. Or with one's life. Though there are exceptions, they rather only confirm the general rule."
She smirked, carefully putting on her gray traveling cloak. "So this isn't your personal style—it's just a habit from the harsh realities of the Tarvarian Empire? You know, I've read about your country, managed to learn a lot of interesting things. But the funniest thing is—there's not a single word about what the local women look like."
"The women are functional. There is more true femininity in their efficiency than in all the local beauties who spend their days preening before a mirror."
"Oh, so you're the embodiment of beauty, are you, Arta?" She took a few steps toward me, mischievous lights dancing in her eyes.
"I did not say that. But you asked about personal style, so: if I could truly choose, I would get rid of skirts first and foremost. Traditions demand a certain form," I finished my thought coldly.
"Traditions," she muttered, her gaze becoming serious for a moment. "They are a strange thing. Sometimes it seems they make us more beautiful. And sometimes—just more vulnerable." Then she turned away, looked somewhere at the ceiling, and only after turning back and biting her lip, added, "Though I am definitely impressed even by this style of yours. I doubt anyone else could combine so much black and not a drop of femininity."
I turned to the mirror. My reflection was perfect; it did not argue, only reflected the essence: styled dark hair, the strict vertical of my silhouette, a covered neck, and heavy boots—not a single superfluous line.
"I dress this way because the color black is less conspicuous, and I like it more," I answered honestly.
"And I thought it was to frighten those around you," she muttered, and this time—almost to herself.
I carefully examined her appearance, assessing it as completely unbalanced.
"If we are to talk about your clothes, I can point out a few main problems. You will hardly be able to fence in such a traveling dress. You will not be able to perform quick maneuvers either." I formed my fingers into a makeshift blade and aimed it at her throat.
But she just waved it away lazily. "Must you speak of hypothetical wars again?" she asked, shaking her head nervously. "One where girls are expected to fight?"
"I simply do not exclude such a possibility. As for girls, good luck to you sitting at home if it suddenly happens. Or do you still not understand that our training is not aimed at you just waving a sword? First and foremost, a weapon is needed to kill."
Catherine squeezed her eyes shut, as if from a blow. "Arta, don't be ridiculous. You can't just kill anyone."
"Just like that, perhaps not. But if there is a substantial reason, it may be the only necessity," I answered dryly.
"Can I not think about that, at least for the holidays, okay?" she said, lowering her eyes.
"Alright. But still, a fabric woven to attract attention will not be able to protect you in the event of unforeseen problems."
Catherine shook her head, smiling almost warmly, "Arta, I asked you!"
I looked her calmly in the eye. "Yes, but I had to finish the thought. This is no joke," I answered coldly, understanding that she was not taking my words seriously.
Catherine sighed. "Arta, please understand, it's not about you. I just want to believe that sometimes… one can be just beautiful. Without the need to defend oneself." Notes of disappointment were audible in her voice.
"One can," I said slowly. "If you are sure that no one will want to test your confidence for strength."
She came closer, stopping a step away from me. Her gaze slid over my face, lingered on my eyes. "And what if I want someone to test it?" she whispered. There was no challenge in her voice. There was something else—vulnerable, almost desperate. "What if I'm tired of being strong only for myself?"
"Catherine, what I am saying is no joke."
"I'm not joking either, Arta. I want to be myself and I don't want to be strong only for myself," she finished with a firm note in her voice.
"I will repeat myself: this is not a jest. I am training you to be self-reliant. Your mind must be governed by logic, not by sentiment."
Catherine sighed. "Why is everything so complicated…" she shook her head in disappointment. "Maybe I should just forget about all these stupid things and not worry about them?"
I looked at her—not as a student, but as a person who believes that "being yourself" is simple. Unlike me. I was myself as much as possible in a body that constrained my true essence.
She took another, almost imperceptible step. Now I could feel the warmth of her breath. "Arta," her voice became quieter, "tell me honestly, by what percentage do you want to go with me? Just don't lie." She stared into my eyes, as if trying to read my soul.
I performed a quick, internal calculation. "Approximately seventy percent," I answered honestly.
"Well then," she put her hands on her hips and smiled mischievously. "I thought it was much worse."
"As you can see, it's not so bad," I smiled back.
"Well, alright, shall we go wave goodbye to the academy? I'll be honest, I won't miss it," she replied.
"Why?" I asked with a slight interest.
"Arta, is it really so hard to guess!" She smiled sweetly. "Because you're coming with me."
"And that's all?" I clarified.
She exhaled. "Well, if you're asking, then I don't want to think about classes and homework. I'm really tired," she said sadly.
"Alright, let's go wave goodbye to the academy," I repeated her phrase ironically.
We took our bags, locked the door, and only the snow outside the window continued its silent dance in the emptying academy.
We walked slowly through the echoing, empty corridors of the dormitory. The fire in the magical lamps lazily flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls. I could hear the muffled, measured sound of my boots. Catherine stepped more quietly. The light fabric of her cloak sometimes rustled, as if arguing with the frosty air.
When we emerged into the main hall, the cold was already palpable. The sky above the Academy was leaden-gray. Light snow fell silently on the cold, cleared stone. The frosty air hit our faces, and we slowly walked toward the eastern gates.
Catherine pulled her hood over her head, and her shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly. "Are you cold?" I clarified, to make sure she was alright.
She cast a quick glance at me from under her hood, "A little. But it's a pleasant cold. The kind that's… necessary for concentrating one's thoughts."
"I agree. Concentration is one of the necessary things."
The cold did indeed structure one's thoughts. We slowly walked to the eastern gates and stopped to wave goodbye to the academy. The view of the educational institution where we had spent almost half a year evoked various associations. Judging by Catherine's smile and the carefree way she waved, they were positive. I repeated these meaningless movements after her, simply to support her.
Leaving the academy grounds, we hailed the first driver. And only as we were getting into the carriage did I see her—Reina Morgan. She stood at a distance, by an old oak tree, and was definitely watching us, hiding her red hair under a dark hood. I did not draw Catherine's attention to this, only opened the carriage door, allowing her to enter first. She climbed up, leaning lightly on the handrail, and disappeared into the semi-darkness.
I followed her inside, and soon the carriage set off, carrying us away from the stone walls of the academy and the murky waters of the Luren River. Ahead of us lay an almost week-long journey and ice, but not the kind that lay on the ground, but the kind that was stored in the darkest corners of the soul.