Snow came softly to Blackhaven.
Not in a storm, not in a rush—just a quiet, steady descent, as if the sky itself had grown tired and begun shedding weight. Four months had passed since autumn bled into winter. Four months since Elias had found himself mostly alone. Now the world lay buried beneath white, clean enough to pretend nothing ugly had ever happened here.
Elias stood barefoot in the courtyard, breath fogging faintly, toes half-buried in powdery snow. The cold should have bitten. It should have gnawed at his bones, stiffened his fingers until the sword slipped uselessly from his grip.
It didn't.
Flow ran through him in a thin, disciplined loop—nothing dramatic, nothing wasteful. Just enough to keep warmth coiled beneath his skin, a quiet defiance of the season. He had learned restraint in these months.
Not wisdom.
Not peace.
Just restraint.
The training sword rested in his hands like an old thought that refused to fade. Its surface was dull and unassuming—metal that never quite reflected the world as it was, only as it anticipated it might become. An extension of his 'Stillsword Style'.
He practiced the steps his father had taught him.
Step.
Turn.
Cut.
Snowflakes split against the blade and dissolved.
A memory surfaced uninvited.
When his father had entered the room after hearing Elias had woken, there had been no joy like his mother's. For a moment, Elias had thought Alaric might strike him himself—until his father noticed the fading handprint on Elias's cheek.
Instead, he used words.
"You are the heir of House Dukker," his father had said, voice cold and controlled. "You will refrain from unnecessary danger. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Father."
Alaric's expression had softened—only slightly. "We scold you because we care. I hope this… incident serves as a lesson."
Elias exhaled at the memory and shifted his stance.
His body remembered Aina's drills even if his mind tried not to. The angles. The footwork. The merciless repetition that had once left him shaking and nauseous in the dirt.
He didn't miss that.
Not at all.
But her absence was sharper than he cared to admit.
He pivoted, Flow tightening, blade carving a controlled arc through the falling snow.
That was when he felt it.
A gaze.
Elias paused mid-form, the sword lowering slightly as he looked toward the manor. One of the second-floor windows stood half-curtained. A shadow lingered behind the frost-laced glass.
Aina.
For a heartbeat, everything else vanished—the cold, the snow, the careful balance of Flow humming beneath his skin. His arm lifted instinctively, a small, stupid wave forming before he could stop himself.
She noticed.
Their eyes met. Hers widened—just for a fraction of a second—and then she was gone. The curtain shifted. The window emptied. As if she had never been there at all.
His hand lingered in the air before falling back to his side.
"…Right," Elias muttered.
For months now, it had been like this. Always nearby. Always present.
Never with him.
If Aina wasn't disappearing down corridors when he approached, she was hovering close to Lady Elara like a second shadow—attentive, quiet, almost anxious.
His mother's pregnancy was no longer subtle.
The last time Aina had spoken to him properly, Elara's stomach had been barely rounded—three months along, perhaps. Something that could still be dismissed as posture or fabric.
Add four more months.
Seven.
Now there was no mistaking it. Elara carried life visibly, undeniably. Her movements were slower, her presence fuller. Aina was almost always at her side—offering an arm, fetching things unasked, watching her with an intensity that bordered on reverence.
Sometimes she even slept in Elara's room when Alaric was away or buried in work. The commerce war still raged, and dark circles clung stubbornly beneath his father's eyes.
Elias understood that kind of exhaustion.
Sleep rarely came to him anymore. Instead, he drifted through his Spirit Domain, lying beneath the vast Sigil suspended above that endless space. In a way, it felt like watching 'The World'—as it watched him in return.
He didn't know what to make of any of it.
He didn't resent his mother. She was one of the few reasons he had managed to adjust at all. But Aina's distance felt personal—even if he knew it probably wasn't meant to be.
He exhaled and returned to his stance.
Jamie was gone too.
Four months without her blunt remarks. Without her reckless curiosity. Roric still visited, but less often. When he did, he carried bad news like it had been stitched into his coat.
Elias remembered overhearing one conversation clearly. He'd been passing through the corridor when Roric spoke in a low voice to Alaric.
"Bodies found in the Iron Forest," Roric said. "Decomposed. Wrong kind of damage. Not beasts. Human—and powerful. We suspect a rogue Saint."
That had caught Elias's attention.
It wasn't a single incident. There was a pattern. Killings spread thin over months—methodical, unsettling. As if something was lashing out rather than hunting.
Later, after Elias had woken, Roric had scolded him sharply—just like Elara. For wandering away from the outpost and for going toward danger. For nearly getting himself killed.
When Elias asked about Jamie, the answer was brief.
"You two won't be seeing each other for a while."
That hurt more than he expected.
Hunter training sessions were suspended. Jamie was under punishment. When Elias heard she had fought Aina, he assumed words—sharp ones, maybe. Pride and tempers.
He hadn't expected scorched earth.
Collapsed ground, compacted as if gravity itself had clenched a fist and slammed it down. Burn patterns that didn't resemble Aina's electromagnetism at all.
Which led to a question he didn't like asking.
Could Jamie have done that?
Her power was ice. Cold. Containment.
Not… whatever those snowflake-shaped scorch marks had been.
Elias tightened his grip on the training sword.
Whatever the truth was, it had cost him her presence.
Crunch.
"Still training in the snow?" Eddie Gable's voice carried mild amusement. "That's dedication—or stupidity given the weather. Hard to tell with you."
Elias turned, lips twitching faintly. "You say that like they're mutually exclusive."
Eddie approached, coat dusted white. He didn't need it—he was immune to the cold—but it was part of the uniform. He was on duty.
To the outside world, Elias was a 'Magician'—Cosmic class. He kept his status as 'The World' hidden. Anomalies drew attention, and there was only one of each.
Pretending meant learning the 'Stellar Aegis Style'.
But Eddie was a Cognitive.
And Cognitive beat Cosmic.
Like rock beating scissors.
It showed in how Eddie stood—efficient, balanced, every movement economical. His 'Phantom Blade Style' layered feints and illusions through motion itself.
"Spar?" Eddie asked.
Elias nodded. He was at a disadvantage, even with the Stillsword.
'Eh. Why not?'
They took positions.
Eddie moved first.
The clash was immediate.
Eddie held back—Elias could tell—but it barely mattered. Every strike demanded perfection. The Stillsword adapted, subtly shifting resistance, guiding Elias's angles just enough to keep him alive.
He struggled.
He pressed forward anyway.
Eddie baited him, favoring his injured side. The wound—inflicted months ago by an artifact blade that slowed healing—still hadn't fully recovered.
A feint.
A reversal.
For a moment, Elias felt it.
Control.
Then Eddie corrected, dropping low and striking Elias's solar plexus. Elias staggered back, blade snapping up defensively.
Too slow.
Eddie read him completely. The flat of his blade swept Elias's legs out from under him.
Elias hit the snow hard.
Breath torn from his lungs, he lay there staring up at the grey sky as flakes drifted lazily downward.
'Life is unfair.'
Not tragically.
Not angrily.
Just… factually.
Eddie offered a hand. Elias took it.
"You're improving," Eddie said. "But you're too neutral. Not attacking. Not defending. That's the stance of someone who expects to lose."
Elias didn't argue.
'You're stronger than me. So why bother?'
Why accept the spar, then?
'Shut up.'
That night, Elias lay awake listening to snow brush softly against stone before entering his domain.
He couldn't die. He'd accepted that.
Temporarily, he'd stopped trying.
Not out of hope.
Out of consideration.
He wouldn't break his mother's heart—not now. Not while she carried his sibling.
After that?
'…We'll see.'
He drifted within his Spirit Domain, lying upon the mirror-smooth waters as nebulae and galaxies turned above him.
Life was pointless. Futile.
But for a few people, he would wait.
Outside, in the real world—
Snow kept falling.
Thank you for reading, for caring, and for giving this story a place in your time. Whether this season is joyful, quiet, or complicated, I hope you are not facing it alone. Wishing you warmth and peace and may God be with you.
-StarboiUltra❄️🎄