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owlespresso · 1 year

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decretum. arcana magia.

foreword: a piece from an original universe I and several friends have been laboring over for more than a year, at this point. i'm going to be uploading several stories from this universe. i understand if you unfollow. Xaphan belongs to @tarubunart. All other characters are mine.

character reference images: frostine, xaphan (drawn by @tarubunart ), belasko (1,2), willow

---

The northern mountains of Hiemal are immense in size. The snow-cloaked shale catches spare scraps of sun that peek through the canopy of grey clouds.

Their modest party is sandwiched by two behemoth walls of white stone, the shale having given way to ragged marble. Above their head, the jagged peaks loom like the maw of a great beast, pointed accusatory at one another. Ahead of them, the thin path opens to reveal a rounded clearing. The edges have been carved out by hand, Frostine realizes, into near perfect semicircles.

It’s a forest of tall white towers, each domed with glass or marble. Some are connected by intricate walkways one or two stories above the ground, others by walls which trace from tower to tower. The cold winds rush through the thin valleys and gaps in the stone, battering her face, tossing her mane of sable curls into her eyes and mouth. Her face feels frozen stiff, cheeks packed rosy with blood.

“This is it?” she inquires, looking up at the man to her left. He’s draped in pale fineries. The hood and sleeves of his silken robe are adorned with fur trim. The pink fabric is elaborately patterned and long, a split at each thigh dividing the coat’s tails into six separate strands. His scarf, embroidered with red roses and gingham, ties snuggly around the lower half of his face. Even in his thermal pants and hiking boots (white, heeled), he manages to look expensive.

“It is,” he confirms quietly, shoulders slumping with a sigh. “Here’s hoping Zaphrael doesn’t answer the door.”

She doesn’t ask who that is. Willow is capricious at best when he’s in a mood. She can’t imagine he would enjoy being questioned.

Their other companion somehow recognizes her curiosity. Belasko sweeps close and ducks down to speak right into her ear.

“Zaphrael is your tutor’s brother. He’s… quite eccentric.” he informs her gently. His warm breath ghosts against the shell of her ear. She nods, only sneaking a furtive glance at him when she’s sure he’s relinquished her personal space. He’s wearing his hair down today. The black strands tumble over his shoulders and down to his upper back, glistening whenever the sun deigns to peek in. His black jacket reaches down to his knees, its cuffs ornamented with a checker-board pattern. The collar is split open at the top to provide room for a tidy ascot, neatly tucked into his lapels. Bone white buttons secure it tight in place, a patterned line of similar shade rowed next to said buttons. His hiking shoes are covered in snow, but they have white laces. The palms of his black winter gloves are heart-shaped. A thin strap of fabric fastened to the jacket’s backside, right on his tailbone, is tied into a neat, bouncy bow.

She’s not sure what “eccentric” means when everything and everyone she has met thus far matches that descriptor, but she doesn’t ask. Willow approaches one of the buildings and flounces up the steps, knocking on a heavy, grey door. The thud of his fist hard against the solid steel bounces off the clearing’s rounded walls.

After a moment, the door opens with a metallic groan, grating against the hard floor. In the tall, arched doorway stands a dark-skinned, dark-haired man of steep build. His berry-colored eyes are hooded by a pair of sternly set brows. His lips, plump as they are, are fixed in a neutral frown and cupped by a firm, handsome jawline. Hard, but beautiful, she thinks quietly to herself, his sculpted face betraying nary a mote of emotion.

“Xaphan,” Willow greets with a simpering smile. “It’s been quite some time.”

“It has,” the man regards her lord and master for hardly a moment before he is looking at her, cold expression softening with curiosity. “This is the one?”

“The one and the only,” Willow chimes, unperturbed by the lack of hospitality. His fulsome smile turns something sharp as he reaches blindly behind him, grabbing her by the arm to all but heave her up the steps. She follows his persistent pulling, staggering in her haste to reach them. Up close, Xaphan is even larger. She’s not even eye-level with his chest, left to huddle in his looming shadow, sunlight’s warmth sapped away.

“Smaller than I thought she would be,” Xaphan says. Frostine swallows. The iron grip Willow has on her forearm releases and shifts, his arm wrapping around her shoulders to pull her into his chest.

“Well, you know what they say about big things and small packages!” Willow retorts with a small frown. “I’ll have you know that I only accept the cream of the crop. And that’s just what you are, right?” his voice slips into a light croon as he shifts the question to her. She blinks up at him with wide eyes. “Say ‘hello’ to your new teacher, Frostine.”

“H…hello,” she murmurs, hands sliding into her pockets. His gaze feels like it’s bearing down on her very soul, keen and ruthless and searching. She doesn’t know what he’s looking for, and doesn’t know if she wants him to find it. Regardless, she can only bear the extended eye-contact for a few moments before she looks back down at his shoes. “I’m Frostine. I look forward to working with you.”

He’s still looking at her. An uncomfortable silence settles between them, before he sighs.

“I am Xaphan. I will be your instructor for the next four months. Come inside and I will show you to your room.”

The metal grip Willow has on her strays down to the small of her back, giving her a firm nudge forward. Heels click against the ground behind them as Belasko moves to follow, but Xaphan turns to block the door, regarding her familiar with a slight frown.

“Your lodgings are in a separate building,” he nods in the direction of a near-identical tower. The corners of Belasko’s mouth twitch, but the plastic smile sticks like burrs to cotton cloth, like icicles grip gutters.

“Of course. Thank you for the hospitality, Lord Xaphan.” he says, casting her an unreadable glance before pivoting on his heel, marching away in long strides. Willow lingers in the doorframe, still smiling.

“Be good for lord Xaphan, alright?” he asks, voice a soft coo, expression indulgent. “I’m sure he has so much to teach you, Frostine.”

“Okay.” Frostine says, because trepidation has robbed her of the ability to process anything else. Is he going to visit? Will she really be staying here for four months? Is he truly leaving her alone with this stranger? The doubts pile and pile as she watches him go, dread settling like a lump of lead in her stomach. It feels almost like a void, like something bitter.

She isn’t able to understand what she’s feeling is abandonment until Xaphan breaks the silence.

“Does he speak to you like that all the time?” The aforementioned stranger asks, not even looking at her while he poses the question. It’s a struggle to keep up with his swift, lengthy strides. The cloak around his shoulders billows with each step, dark plum hair bouncing in the slight breed.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re a child.”

“Oh,” she says, quieter this time. “I guess so.”

Xaphan gives a small, dismissive scoff. He looks down at her out of the corner of his eye, as unimpressed as he’d looked when he first opened the door.

“He won’t speak to you like that when we are done,” he says. “That much, I promise you.”

--- It takes less than a week under Xaphan’s tutelage to understand that he is a man ungoverned by emotion. The sun is low on the horizon. The temperature dips below freezing. More often than not, the harsh climate drives them underground, to a clearing in the Eden that rests underneath the main camp. Artificial sunlight feeds a variety of grasses, plants and flowers. In a clearing barren of all but dirt, she and Xaphan face each other.

There are no words passed between them, only the sound of harsh breathing, of fists against muscle and bone and tissue. Her arms ache in protest as she delivers a sharp elbow to the space between his ear and his jaw, a move that makes him grunt and double backwards. She sees his arm move, ready to maneuver out of his range, but her legs lock and her body is left frozen. His fist balls in the back of her shirt, saving her from a face full of dirt.

“You managed to hit me,” Xaphan observes, flinty gaze appraising. There’s nary a drop of sweat on him, and his breathing remains unlabored. Unbothered.

“Only one,” she murmurs.

“There are men who have managed far less with far more time,” he informs her, leaning down, into her space. Whatever reply she might have made dies on her tongue as he studies her close. “You learn and grow quickly. Stay the course, and you will be far ahead of your peers. We have more than enough time to ensure that.” Rivulets of sable fall around his face like a curtain, artificial sunlight glinting off the silken strands. He’s breathtaking in a harsh, quiet way, voice rumbling between them.

“Okay,” she whispers, unable to do anything but agree with him, eyes wide and hands twitching restlessly at her sides. Though suspicious by nature, she cannot voice the boiling stream of self-doubt and fear that’s mired her since her arrival. For Willow has found her the finest teacher in all the lands, and surely the finest teacher, her trusted host, could not be wrong.

“What exactly are you agreeing with?” he inquires, tilting his head. “Tell me what you hope to glean from our time together.”

“Willow said—” Frostine begins, voice nearly shorting out on a stammer. Their conversations thus far have rarely ventured beyond orders and confirmation, brief corrections in her stance and explanations of basic techniques. She knows that he is Xaphan, that he is strong, and it is a great honor to be his apprentice. He hasn’t asked her many questions, not even her age. She has hardly a clue of how to even hold a conversation with him.

“Your lord’s orders do not and should not constitute the whole of your desires,” he begins with a chastising tone, as though disappointed. Something within her, already beaten and bruised, creaks and slides out of place, sunken down to the darkened depths of herself, of the mausoleum that is her spirit. “You need to have your own ambitions. I’ll give you time to find them, but do not insist on using your lord’s meager commands as an excuse to not think for yourself.”

Her own ambitions? The thought hasn’t once crossed her mind. What is there for her to accomplish? Her bewilderment must show, because his frown deepens. That itself is another barb wedged in between her ribs, wound rubbed raw and salted.

“I understand,” she lies quietly.

“Good. We will meet here tomorrow, at the same time.” He turns around. His locks billow over the broad musculature of his back, his shirt clinging as tight as a second skin. Her gaze follows the curves and dips that create him, counting the contours of his torso. He disappears beyond the smattering of tree trunks, vanishing among the lush greens and browns of the Eden.

She’s not sure how long she remains behind, sitting underneath the area’s only willow, knees drawn to her chest. The pale grey canopy softens the sunlight. She hides from it like a child under a blanket, a dark spot below the vibrant foliage. Her skin remains sticky with sweat, clothes clammy where they cling to her. Gross. She wrinkles her nose. Her discomfort wins out over her exhaustion and she pushes herself to her feet.

Perhaps a bath will clear her head.

It doesn’t. The water is warm and the selection of soaps is abundant. There are shampoos, conditioners, scrubs, exfoliants, washes meant for only the body or only the face. She spends two seconds trying to understand the difference between a scrub and a cleanser before giving up. It would take too long to list them all, stacked on stair-like shelves carved into the tiled wall above the tub.

She can’t afford to waste energy on something as frivolous as soap selection, not when there’s so much else to ruminate on. She grabs the ones that have already been used. Xaphan is the only person she shares this bathroom with, and she trusts his judgment. Someone as immaculately groomed as he should have the best taste.

The question he posed seems pointless. What does outside ambition have to do with her training? Is the drive to follow her savior’s orders truly not enough? She scrubs her skin until it’s raw and stinging, face crinkling in equal parts contemplation and irritation. Has he insinuated that her devotion to the cause is lacking in some way?

Her muscles remain locked taut despite the water’s cradling warmth, her tension growing worse with each line of thought. Contemplating the reason he had posed the inquiry was useless, she decides. She needs to supply an adequate answer—one that will satisfy his sudden and unfounded curiosity. Her eyes flutter shut, head lolling back as she begins to review a long list of potential reasons—each one less reasonable than the last.

I want to find my parents—a lie, one he could easily exposewith a few pointed questions at WIllow, who is to visit bi-weekly.

I want revenge—she has no known enemies, besides those which have been designated by her lord and master.

The next several ideas satisfy her even less. The water is beginning to cool around her, hair drying out tangled and stringy. All clear signs that she should take her leave and brainstorm elsewhere. She sighs, drained dry of all energy and inspiration. She has a precious few hours until dawn arrives, surely enough time to craft an ambition with a believable story to back it up.

She raises her leg out of the water to look over her new bruises. They’re all in a shaky line, blotches of ugly blue and green swarming to the space where she’d landed earlier. She rests the crook of her knee over the tub's edge, exposed to the balmy air, limp and languid—and the door opens. Her eyes go wide as Belasko takes a measured step inside, expression equally as surprised. His gaze immediately lands on her mottled leg. She grimaces, the bitter sting of exposure prompting her to pull the limb out of view.

“Heavens above,” Belasko tuts, voice fraught with scolding worry. He comes to her side faster than she can process him being in the room at all, hand wrapping around her ankle to bring her leg closer. He dips onto one knee hair already beginning to fray at the humidity. “What on earth is that brute teaching you?”

“It’s not that bad,” Frostine seethes, arms curling tight around her chest. His sharp, golden gaze follows the coiling movement, expression softening with concern. Bile stews at the bottom of her throat, body beginning to lock up under his intense scrutiny. She’s never asked for his concern—never desired his misplaced mothering. With knitted gloves he wrenches her from her privacy, denying her the chance to simply lick her wounds in peace.

“I’ll bring you to the resident healer once you’ve dried and dressed,” he insists. “Any injuries you already have will only worsen if they’re not looked at.” he says, as if he has any hope of convincing her. The pad of his thumb rubs soft circles over the ball of her ankle. He still hasn’t let go. Why hasn’t he let go?

“...Fine,” she murmurs, and the smile he gives her is achingly tender.

“I’ll bring you dinner afterwards,” he promises, attempting to blandish her with promises of her favorite treats. There’s a sharp and rotten feeling in her empty stomach where the acid brews and churns. She’s ravenous, hunger pangs striking like the rhythmic clashing of the clocktower’s bell. But even that falls to the wayside. She stubbornly looks down at the water’s surface. “Whatever you’d like. No expenses spared.”

Her leg is cold and wet. The heat of his hand feels like a brand against her chilled skin. She doesn’t even feel the hunger, the pain, the tension that’s drawn her entire body into a knotted coil. She’s tensed until he at last releases her. Her leg splashes back into the tub and her lungs gasp for fresh air, panting desperately.

“Master Xaphan has nothing but praise for your efforts and your growth thus far. You should be proud of yourself.” he says, but she’s not listening. The blood roars in her ears even as he makes his way back round the tub and out the door. He says something else, but she doesn’t make out a word. Her knees draw up to her chest, body made small as possible, wedged into the bath’s corner. The water has long lost its warmth and soon the steam will fade, but she shawls herself in the lingering humidity for now, or just a few moments more, while her breathing calms and the howling of her anguished heart drops to a feeble murmur.

She seeks Xaphan out that very night, glades across the wooden floors until she reaches his room, an unassuming door at the end of the fourth floor. The moon spreads its silvery glow through one of the large, rounded windows, striking the wall across.

Xaphan is a creature who rises with the sun and settles with the dark. Surely, a man as stern and rigid as he is will not appreciate being awoken so abruptly. She knocks, anyway. The blunt strike of her fist against the wood feels like the loudest sound mankind has ever known. Hardly a moment passes before it is wrenched open, squealing on its old hinges. Xaphan looms above her, haloed by frosted light as it streams into the hall from his bedroom window.

There are black spots swimming at the corners of her vision. She can feel the rampant thud of her heart, can hear the blood as it roars in her ears and races through her veins. Her jet black hair is spread out in uncoordinated waves, strands half-brushed and wild. She knows that this must break some sort of social convention no one has bothered to explain to her yet, but something claws at the bottom of her throat, body and mind and desire all in sync in this one, serendipitous moment.

“I want to get so strong and no one can ever touch me again,” her voice doesn’t sound like her, but it rips from her throat, guttural and raw. “I want to be so strong that they can’t bear to look at me—strong enough to make them, to make them pay—I, I want to terrify them so they’ll… they’ll…” her voice sputters, last headlights blinking off and on, engine wheezing on its last spoonfuls of fuel.

Xaphan, still and silent as a statue, stares at her with quiet contemplation. Is he weighing the worth of her heart’s desires, the truth which she’s vomited unapologetically unto him?

“Good,” he says at last, voice low and deep and dark, like her room at night, like the new moon, like secrets kept between her and the dark. “Remember that ambition whenever you suffer a moment of weakness. Let it fuel you.”

“But isn’t it selfish?” Exhaustion and emotion have robbed her of the ability to think before she speaks. Frostine looks up at him with wrung-out desperation, the line between her eyebrows wrinkled and lips pulled into a small frown.

“A selfish motive is as good as any other. You can only rely on yourself, when all is said and done. You may have allies to the cause, yes, but your body is the instrument through which you pursue your ambition,” Xaphan ducks down, a strange fervency ghosting over his expression. His eyes gleam like two lit candle wicks. His lips are still pressed into a line, but his eyebrows are tilted, shadows of his face deeper and darker.

She feels like a field mouse in the grass, like a doe at the bottom of a snowy ridge, ripe and waiting for the wolf. He looks at her with an intensity that steals her breath, makes her lungs heavy as lead in her chest. “Thus, a ‘selfish’ motivation makes perfect sense. Do you understand?”

She, in the part of her brain untouched by her current mania, does understand. She nods shakily, wisps of wild ebony brushing her plaid cheeks.

“Say it, then,” Xaphan orders, the chill returning to his demeanor. He wreathes it around himself like a well-worn jacket, spine straightening, shoulders settling back. The intensity that possessed him melts away like morning dew.

“I understand,” she beys, voice quiet between them. Briefly, she cannot help but wonder what Willow would think.

“Do you really think we would ever do anything to hurt you? After you’ve been so good for us? You have nothing to worry about. Come here, I’ll show you—” she can feel the phantom press of his palm nestled into her side, the warmth of his body soaked through her layers.

And Ambrose—she doesn’t even want to think about Ambrose, who buys her nice things and lets her stay in the small tower at the corner of his grand estate, a suite with multiple floors all to herself. He who braids her hair and reads her stories and plays.

“Very good,” Xaphan cuts through the reverie, a harsh reminder of where she is and what she is here for. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Frostine. Go to sleep.”

He closes the door in her face. It shouldn’t feel like a rejection, but it does. It stings her sharp and bitter.

It’s only rational, she reasons. The march back to her room is quiet and solitary, no one left to see the emotion that bleeds from her in bucketfuls, the discontent which slides down her back and onto the floor like a raging river.

She’s here on Willow's orders. He’s appointed Xaphan to be her teacher. Xaphan’s approval is Willow’s approval. It’s as reasonable a desire to her as it is money or food or shelter to the modern man. It’s necessary to her survival. Her future success hinges on it. Nothing more, nothing less.

She climbs atop her bed and cocoons herself in sheets and blankets. The room is still. A panel of moonlight is hung on the wall. Outside the window, snow has begun to fall. Flakes the size of pennies come down fast. She’ll have to do some shoveling, tomorrow, lest Belasko (who so despises the cold) become stranded in his lodgings across the compound.

Though, giving it a second thought, perhaps that would be for the better.

---

Xaphan has a brother.

He’s eccentric. A man of “the sciences’ who leers at her with unrepentant intrigue, gaze sticking to every dip and curve and point of her body. He asks questions. Questions about her abilities, about how far she can take them—his tongue swipes over the petal pink of his lips whenever he’s particularly satisfied with an answer. Every encounter is as unsettling as the last. Whilst she’s accustomed to others looming in her space and ogling, Frotine finds she prefers his version of it the least. Nearly every conversation they’ve had has been cut short by Belasko, who shepherds her away, never failing to deliver a litany of sensible excuses and plastic platitudes.

She has no plans of interacting with him on purpose, but she cannot help but marvel at how two people so dissimilar can be so closely related.

“Is Zaphrael your brother?” she asks. It’s a crisp afternoon. Though the steep walls of the compound block most of the sunlight, the temperature remains hospitable enough for them to remain outside. Her sweat cools rapidly and chills her weary body to the bone, but she endures if only for the sake of putting on a strong front. They’re taking a break, anyway. She wraps her cloak tight around her body, huddled up against the wall of the closest tower. Xaphan spares her a puzzled look, corners of his lips curling into a slight frown.

“Yes, I told you the day you moved in.”

“Oh. It’s just… you’re so different.”

“And? If you’ve not the courage to ask what you really want to, then save your breath.”

“I was just surprised that two people who look and act so differently could be related, is all!” Frostine exclaims, curling into a little ball. Her eyes narrow against a sudden brisk wind, nestling as far into her shawl as possible. “I don’t have any family. It just confused me. That’s all.”

“Hm,” Is all he offers in reply, cradling his chin in his hand. “Willow did inform me that you are… new to this world.You’re likely oblivious to several truths of life that most take for granted. Very well. Whenever you have a question, no matter how basic, you may ask me.”

Frostine blinked. Her guardians have addressed her lack of worldly knowledge thus far, but most of Ambrose’s explanations are soaked with condescension, and Willow’s periodic absences make her unsure if he would react with the same infantilizing, infuriating tone. She’s made precious few queries to them, and has since learned to not ask anything at all. It’s not worth the humiliation, the crushing sense of inadequacy.

“Most blood-related siblings share similar physical traits, but there are nearly as many that don’t. I take more after our father. Zaphrael takes more after our mother.” Xaphan informs her.

“That makes sense… Do you like having a brother?”

“My brother is intelligent, reliable and clever enough to escape from most dangers without my assistance. He’s useful, even if he isn’t as strong as I,” Xaphan says, tapping his fingers against the table’s wet surface, where the frost has since melted over the marble. He drags each long digit absentmindedly through the puddle, unbothered by the chill. The corners of his lips quirk into the slightest of smiles, eyes crinkling. “So, I suppose I do ‘like’ him.”

“Would you like him even if he wasn’t any of those things? Would you still protect him?”

“No,” Xaphan responds, without a hint of regret or hesitation. “We have no room for weakness. Only the strong and the wise and the useful can thrive here.” He rises from his seat and shakes the water from his hands, droplets splattering back onto the table. “Though, the same could be said for the other realms. All of them remain beholden to social orders which favor the powerful, the clever, and the wealthy.”

He takes up a stance in the clearing’s center, fists raised. This conversation is over. Uncurling herself from the warm embrace of her jacket, Frostine feels she understands things a little better, now.

---

“How do you take your coffee?” Belasko is standing before Xaphan’s usual seat, an ornate armchair made of dark wood and pink velvet. He’s smiling, but Belasko always is, even if he doesn’t really want to be. Frostine eyes him from her spot on the hardwood floor, knees curled to her chest, wedged between the couch and the coffee table. A few minutes ago, he walked into the room, the left corner of his smile twitched at the sight of Xaphan. He probably doesn’t realize that she noticed, but she did, and his reaction has been carefully noted.

“Black,” Xaphan hardly spares him a glance before refocusing on the board in front of him. Frostine can’t imagine what exactly is demanding so much of his focus. Her portion of black and white squares is in disarray. He’s already snatched her queen and absconded with a bishop, and she needn’t mention all her lost pawns, brave footmen until the very last. They’re lined at his side of the table, glistening black pieces arranged from shortest to tallest.

He moves his rook forward a few spaces, in a move that will doubtlessly take one of her few remaining pawns to threaten her lonesome king. She won’t put up too much of a fight. It would be cruel to keep husband and wife from one another. The pieces look dainty in Xaphan’s hands.

Her brow furrows as she analyzes the board, noting several different paths he could take to breach her throttled front line. His bishop is wholly brazen in its positioning, sat within range of her knight. Naturally, she takes it.

And the rook he moved a few moments ago barrels further down the board to place her king in immediate check. Anxiety thrums through the base strings of her heart, discordant keys thudding in her ears as she reluctantly shifts her king up and away from the threat—but his knight, hungry and still for a majority of the match, kicks its hooves free from the mud to trample her poor king alive, crown and all battered underfoot.

“You’re improving,” Xaphan begins, settling against the back of his chair. “But you play too defensively. If you had moved your bishop to B6, you would have had my king in check. You get anxious when your frontline is breached, and it impacts your ability to visualize future moves and strategies.”

“I get too emotional and it prevents me from focusing,” Frostine repeats, pressing her lips into a thin, flat line. “How can I fix it?” She looks up from the board, meeting his gaze.

“It takes time, practice and patience.” He stands from the couch, rolling his shoulders under the sheer fabric of his top. “The most effective means of locking off emotion begins with dissociation. We’ll start there.”

---

A sudden snowstorm brings with it a flock of frosted bandersnatches. The creatures thud into the gorge under the cover of white, fangs bared and claws unsheathed. Frostine’s knuckles go pale round the handle of the handsaw, slashing it into the side of a nearby beast. It snarls and turns on her, tipped fur stood on end—but she brings her other saw down onto its head, finishing it with a sickening crunch.

A brief thud is all that alerts her to another beast’s presence. She swings with the blade outstretched. The beast’s jaws locking around her weapon. With a grunt, she heaves the monster closer, arm groaning in protest as she pulls all hundred plus pounds of packed muscle towards herself. She sinks her other saw into its burly throat, warm gush of blood soaking the steel. It rears back, releasing her and slips on the ice, onto its side. She spares it no quarter, slicing it from belly to chin as she runs by.

Her boots thud and kick up the piling snow. The bitter wind moans and howls, lashing at her eyes and cheeks, gales sharp enough to make her tear up. Esch lungful of air burns the back of her throat, body wracked but not yet ruined.

The constant movement keeps her warm, keeps the blood pumping. She slices at the haunches of the closest bandersnatch whilst it's distracted by a guard. It buckles and whines, but she’s not granted the opportunity to finish it off before a voice shouts from the southern gate.

“Another pack’s coming!” the guardsman yells from the tower’s top.

“Shut the gate! We’ll sweep them away with an avalanche!” Xaphan orders. He’s close, grand cloak and dark hair billowing in the wind, like some grim vision of death, gore painted on his boots, dark steel of his greatsword drawn.

“We still have men fighting down there!” the guard replies, high pitched and desperate. Frostine’s breathing hard and heavy, covered in cooling sweat, cannot help but wonder if she can handle another wave.

“Do it!” Xaphan snaps, brokering no room for argument.

Snarls and bellows ring out from lower down the path, the sound of innumerable paws upon hard stone thunderous and foreboding. The sound of gears and other assorted parts clanking together echoes through the camp. The heavy gates slam shut. Drifts of snow are slapped into the air in its wake.

For a moment, all is quiet.

And then, so muffled that she nearly doesn’t hear it—there is a rapid, frantic pounding at the other side. It must be the beasts, Frostine insists internally. They must be throwing themselves against it, mindless creatures they are.

The screams start. Loud and indistinct, but unmistakably human cries for help. A shudder ripples up her spine. An instinct, primordial and stronger than anything she has ever felt before, wills her to move. To do something, anything, to help. They surely have enough men to handle another fight—the words linger on the tip of her tongue as she whirls to Xaphan.

But he is already far across the clearing, engaged in discussion with the camp’s head provisions manager, a conversation he would not want interrupted.

She could open it herself, but she can’t disobey a direct order. She can’t jeopardize her place here. It’s not her call to make.

An immense and thunderous sound belts out from somewhere above. Snow above the rock walls of the mountainside rushes downwards. The flurry slides off the invisible barrier above the camp’s interior and piles onto the area outside the gate.

The sounds stop. The world goes cold and quiet. She is left standing in a tower’s great shadow. saw blades dripping fresh blood onto the snow. The wind roars, kicking up and resettling dustings of the fresh white. Snowflakes cling to her hair and her eyelashes.

She focuses on that feeling, the sharp bite of the cold, on the tranquil white of the marble, on the gleaming metal of the gate. She doesn’t know how long she will remain there.

Eventually, somehow, sometime later, she’s brought inside. Her soaked coat has been pulled from her person and her clothes replaced with comfortable sleepwear. She might have taken a bath. She distantly remembers the smell of roses, the warm water twined around her brittle body—the long, large hands that softly rinsed the blood and sweat and grime from her skin.

Someone had held her hand, asked her to raise one leg after the other so he could slide on a new pair of pants. Now, as she sleepily rouses from that conscious daze, there’s the heavy weight of a blanket tucked around her shoulders. A healthy flame crackles in the fireplace across the room. The couch is plush and the pillows are lovingly embroidered with flowers and animals. She likes the one with the boar the most. Its big head is surrounded by red tulips.

Someone is settled next to her, pressed right up against her side. The weight of their arm is comforting. She sinks into their warmth like a bath, face pressed against pure cotton cloth. The scent of lilac and earl grey wreaths around them like perfume. Her eyes are shut, face sunk into their side in an effort to blot out the rest of the world. Even the gentle firelight exposes too much, right now. The front of her head throbs. She wants to be alone and adrift in the dark. It’s for the best.

The ominous feeling at the back of her mind, crammed into the far recesses of her thoughts, insists that something unpleasant has occurred. She’s better not recalling it. It’s safer here, warm and safe and far away from the light.

A door opens and shuts loudly. A pair of heavy footfalls thuds inside the room, coming closer. The arm round her shoulder tightens its grip.

A gust of wind follows the newcomer in. It’s a mere chilled breeze by the time it reaches her, fended off by the fireplace and her companion both, but she still shivers. She's shot back into her own body by the cold. All five senses swarmed back to her at once. She lifts her weary head, eyes wide as the memories come flooding back, one after another.

“Did… did those people make it back inside?” she finally asks, with much less strength than she would have liked. Her voice is a thin, wet rasp.

“Yes, of course,” Belasko—it's Belasko next to her, says hastily. His palm rubs light circles over her shoulder. “They all returned safely, Frostine. You needn’t worry.”

“Don’t lie to her,” Xaphan’s voice cuts through like sharpened steel, distinctly and uncharacteristically irritated. His dark eyes have narrowed, corners of his lips pulled into a tight frown. He tosses his snow-wet cloak over the spindly rack near the door and crosses the room in a few long strides. The dancing firelight gives his hair a warm sheen, sable strands glistening. He stands before her, almost close enough to touch. “The brave men who went on afternoon patrol did not survive. They were buried with the beasts,” he turned his frosty glower to Belasko. “Do not take their sacrifice away from them.”

“Because of the order you gave,” Frostine murmurs, too exhausted to color it with condemnation or questioning. She doesn’t need to, for Xaphan reads her with sudden, startling ease.

“Several of the beasts had already damaged the doors. If they made their way inside, they could have damaged our labs, and the materials stored within those labs are more important than the individual lives of anyone here. They contain the keys to the future we are striving to build.” Xaphan looks back to her, quieter now, but brokering no room for argument. “Every soldier here understands that, and they are prepared to die for it.”

Her jaw aches where it’s clenched. For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound in the room is the homely crackling of the hearth.

“No leader enjoys losing their men. No reasonable living being would take joy in such loss. Sometimes, sacrifice is a necessary evil to protect what is most important to oneself. If not to better the world, then to see your ambitions through.” Frostine stares past him, into the open mouth of the fireplace. The flames whittle into embers, and the embers fizzle into cinders. Ravenously, the fire feeds on the logs and strips of kindling, casting it’s sunset glow onto the plush pile throw rug and polished wood beneath it.

Willow appointed Xaphan as her instructor. Willow would not entrust such an important task to someone who doesn’t know his craft. And Xaphan’s craft is war. There exists no version of events in which Xaphan is incorrect. The loss of life is unfortunate, but the coveted, precious materials within the camp are safe and protected. Those materials, if she understands correctly, will lead to a better and brighter future. It’s a simple line of deductions made over the course of around a minute.

Frostine thinks it over once more, just to be sure, yet still reaches the same outcome. If Xaphan deems the sacrifice necessary, then surely the sacrifice was indeed necessary.

---

Xaphan’s knee feels like the prongs of a devil’s fork as he hits her in the side. She chokes on her own spit, feels the familiar burn of bile as it threatens to creep up her throat. The breath’s been knocked out of her. Doubling back, she swallows, allowing him to gain ground and toss another punch.

Evading his strike, her sweaty hand clasps at his forearm, using it as purchase to launch herself up the length of his body. The thick meat of her thighs slams around his throat like a vice, and she swings the breadth of herself in an effort to topple him. He sways and staggers, delivers a swift smack to her outer thigh on pure instinct. Flinging herself so quickly onto him would ideally assist in the arduous task of getting him on the ground, but he regains his footing in less than a moment.

Frostine wobbles atop of him, adjusting so she’s perched neatly on his shoulders. One of her hands snaps at the top of his head in a bid to get a better grip, fingers curling into his hair. The normally silken strands have been frizzled and fluffed, pressed sticky against her thighs and his cheeks.

“You didn’t fall over,” Frostine says, curling her spine. The heft of her chest smooshes into the back of his head, but at least she isn’t half dangling off of him. Her shorts have ridden up, and she’s left to grapple with the sudden feeling of skin against skin. All at once, she’s hauntingly aware of the position’s implied intimacy.

There’s a strange light in Xaphan’s eyes, his pupils blown wide. The graceful arc of his nose brushes against her skin as he cranes his neck to give her an unreadable look. Her pulse jumps, rabbit heartbeat rattling in the rowhouse of her ribs.

“No. I’m too large for that to have worked. The correct course of action would have been to choke me or grab one of my arms to strain or break it.” Xaphan helpfully informs her. His lips brush against her with each low murmur, dangerously close to the crux of her inner thighs. She swallows. “You’re the first to get this far, however, and that should be commended.”

“It still wasn’t enough,” Frostine says, swinging a leg off his shoulder to drop down. “And did you have to hit me there? That was cheap.”

Her feet never hit the ground. Xaphan’s hands, palms wide, catch her at the sides. The sudden pressure against the side he struck makes her short out a reedy gasp. The pain digs into her tender flesh and spurs her into panic. The air pumps in and out of her lungs at a rapid and unwise rate as her adrenaline comes flooding back. She feels like she’s been knocked underwater, senses addled and reaction time too slow to be meaningful. Her legs kick out, but it’s a futile effort. The tips of her toes just barely reach his lower torso, not even grazing him.

Despite her floundering, he adjusts his grip, holding her by the arms and hauling her closer. What is this supposed to be? Another demonstrative lesson? A warning of some kind? Half of his grip shifts, fingers sprawling beneath her thigh. Even amongst her confusion, she instinctively shifts the way he directs her, legs folding around his waist. One of his forearms braces her underside, cradling the entirety of her to his strong chest with a single arm.

The spontaneous, casual show of strength sends a frission of heat down her spine.

“There are no ‘dirty’ or ‘cheap’ moves,” Xaphan continues with a slight, easy smile. They’re mere centimeters apart. “In a real fight, the enemy will attempt to destroy you by any means necessary. You must retaliate in kind.” He pauses a moment, reaching down to push a strand of rogue hair out of her face. She finds herself struck silent still, reeling at the closeness, the ease with which he does it. “Men are creatures of instinct. When pushed to the brink of death, abstract concepts such as honor and pride lose their meaning. Do what you must. Don’t bother with chivalry.”

“And are celestials like that too?” she says, words streaming out of her mouth mindlessly. He blinks—this close, she can make out each dark eyelash—before he smiles. It’s the most tender and open he’s ever given, bottoms of his eyes crinkling with a strange sort of fondness.

“More than any mortal could ever hope to be,” he tells her, and then begins to walk. She jostles slightly with each long stride, left to cling to his shoulder as he heads for the lift. He still hasn’t put her down.

“I…I can walk,” she rasps (she’s not sure she can).

“Not right now. You’re exhausted,” Xaphan tuts. “An underlooked and important part of training is knowing when to stop, Frostine.”

She shuts her mouth and nods. After a few moments, the tension seeps out of her body, aided by the balmy warmth he radiates post-workout. He’s sweaty, but they both are, and huddling close eases the chill of the air on her wet skin.

---

Only after a month does Xaphan begin to hone her magical abilities. The Moon is one of the only arcana capable of mimicry, but not every iteration excels as she does. It’s near midday and the sun is already coasting low on the horizon. She can make out more constellations at Xaphan’s height. She looks at him with his own face and wonders if he knows how fortunate he is.

“This is good,” he informs her, hand cupping his chin thoughtfully. “Previous records of the Moon magia make it clear that precious few have the skills you do.”

Good.

The compliment, as meager as it is, gives her some mote of satisfaction.

“Perhaps your aptitude for mimicry bolstered the growth of your martial skill—it’s accelerated muscle memory, really. All you require is a living example. Interesting.” Xaphan tilts his head. “Is that on purpose?” he inquires, motioning to her chin, and only then does she realize that she’s mirrored his movement. She shakes her head, dropping her hand back to her side.

“How curious,” he hums, gently grasping her (his) chin between forefinger and thumb. He tilts her this way and that by the jaw, intense in his contemplation as he examines every inch of her facsimile’s face. His gaze carries its own weight, makes her heart thud in her chest and sing so strangely in her ears. “How wonderful.”

Wonderful, he calls her.

The world grows around her as she reverts forms, stuck at her normal height. She feels even more like a crumb, now that she’s seen through his tall eyes. but the brief pang of envy doesn’t last.

“We adjourn here, for today,” Xaphan orders, soft baritone of his voice deep enough to drown in. She wants to wrap herself up in it, swaddled and sheltered from whatever wretched responsibilities come knocking. He says something else that she doesn’t quite catch, before he turns to leave.

A bolt of panic so sudden and unbidden that it frightens her, forces her body into action. She takes a hasty step forward, hands curling into the back of her cloak. It feels like a blip in time, like a momentary blackout of her consciousness. Her eyes circle wide, face pale as a sheet when he turns to regard her with a single raised brow. What does she say? What even brought her here in the first place?

“Are—Can I come?” is what spills out. “It’s just—I haven’t seen most of the other facilities and I would like to… if you don’t mind.” She’s still mortified as Xaphan thinks for a long, long moment.

“Yes, you can. I would like it if you took an interest in our great work.” Xaphan says, speaking with a levity she has seldom heard from him before. Her shoulders slump with relief.

“Thank you, my lord.” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“Call me Xaphan,” he urges as he grabs her hand. “I am not your lord. You needn’t bother with the formalities.” The sudden touch nearly jolts her out of her own skin. Their palms press together, his fingers easily curling around her much smaller hand. There’s something just so normal about it, so simple, so easy and nice. He urges her up against his side as they exit the building, wrapping his cloak around her shoulders to shield her from the sheer sharp winds. Tucked into him, she takes in the world through new eyes.

---

Another month goes by. The days grow shorter and shorter, the sun settling to sleep after four measly hours. The lack of light doesn’t bother her. The moon’s cool embrace is a familiar coat, a silvery shroud that keeps her awake and aware through every lesson and sparring session. She’s stronger now. That much is certain, muscles grown taught beneath a veneer of pale fat. Her abdomen isn’t a flat plane, her arms aren’t chords of steel. She doesn’t resemble the toned and tanned models from Ambrose’s athleisure catalogs.

“Everybody is different,” Xaphan informs her when she brings it up, cleaning a fresh stain of crimson off the coffee table. “Your results are all that matters, and your body is better insulated for the weather here.”

And is that all? Is that the extent of his opinion? Frostine tilts her head to the side, watching his broad back and shifting shoulder as he rolls the wet cloth over the table’s low surface. In a way very foreign to her, she cannot help but wonder what other opinions he may harbor, in ways beyond her martial prowess.

“You have something else to say,” Xaphan says, pruning the tangled stems of her internal monologue. He doesn’t turn to look at her, reading her with an ease Belasko is no longer capable of.

Should she ask him? She floats the question for a mere moment before ruling it out. To assume he feels anything for her would be an act of sheer arrogance. She’s an obligation first and foremost, a fleeting fleck on the nigh endless weave of his eternal lifespan.

“What happened to the table?” she asks instead.

“A simple dispute between a subordinate and I,” Xaphan informs her. “He discovered something he disagreed with and raised his voice at me. I responded in kind.”

“Oh,” Frostine blinked, “Did you kill him?”

“I did,” he says simply, “Had his only infraction been taking up an inappropriate tone, he would have only lost a finger. But he witnessed something he was not supposed to see. If I let him live, he easily could have given our secrets over to the enemy.”

He stands and strides past her. The kitchen tap squeaks as it's turned on, water spraying into the wide basin. Frostine visualizes pale red and pink washing over white marble.

“Does it bother you?” Xaphan asks, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes.

“No. You didn’t have another choice, right?” Frostine walks to his side. Her spine arches as she lifts herself onto her toes, just barely reaching the cabinet’s polished silver handle. From the bottom shelf, she pulls down a bottle of stain remover, handing it over.

“That’s right,” Xaphan says, uncorking the bottle, working the bright blue liquid into the fabric. His wrings it out, muscles of his forearms flexing with each squeeze, skin shiny with soap and water. Frostine leans her elbows and back against the cold countertop to watch. There’s something oddly tranquil about watching him complete such a mundane task. “When you have something precious, you need to protect it.”

---

The dreams visit her unbidden, miasma shrouding over the space of her unconsciousness like mists over the hills, the wet schlick of a mudslide. Had she been a normal human, she never would have put any stock into them, never questioned their potential meaning, but she is surrounded by magicks of all kinds. The aether crackles in the air, celestial energy caked over her skin and clothes like haze on a humid day. It’s made more bearable by the way her body swallows it, yawning void of her being digesting it with little concern.

Perhaps this relentless consumption fuels the violent visions that terrorize her at night. The nightmare is nigh incoherent. A tall, thick man with a mane of blonde hair cleaves through a crowd of armored soldiers. Spare beams of sun gleam off the head of his axe. In a flash of gold, it arcs through the air and onto heads and torsos as he blazes a path up a grassy slope, towards a set of marble stairs carved into the jagged cliffside. The wind roars and lashes, currents of levin cracking and splitting through the air.

She follows him, hidden by the dense treeline. She shelters behind spindly pines and thorny shrubs, steps light as the winter’s first snow, picking over branches and ducking behind scathes of grey-brown foliage. He’s a grand vision, sparks dancing off of platemail, axe cleaving through veins and tendons. They tumble like a line of toy soldiers, crumple like a house of cards. Their strength is pale to the might of Thor—

The name erupts into her stream of thought like a springtime flood. It physically winds her, a hot iron, a mad stroke of pain that erupts across her palms and fingers. The awful sensation seizes her from the vision, just as barbs of rancid shadow flare from the ground, kicking up clouds of dirt. The brutal circle of points stab through his armor of metal and hide, stringlets of divine gold spurting from ripped skin and snapped bone. A scream of animal horror blows through the open valley, wind tearing brittle branches and scattering pine needles across the dirt and straw.

The sound ricochets through the valley and pulses through her eardrums, scoops her very soul from the feeble confines of her skin—

Her eyes shoot open to the dark of her room, lips stretched around an agonized howl. Her heart thrums in her ears and pounds in her chest like the thrumming of a horse’s hooves against a beaten track. Beats of pain shudder through every valve and chamber of her heart. Shaking, she clambers out of bed. Pale moonlight slips in through the parted curtains and touches the cold floor. Like a familiar coat, the cold embraces her, prickles her skin and soothes her overly warm skin, slicked with sweat.

She grabs her plush comforter and wraps it around her shoulders, bewfore stumbling out of her room and into the thin, rounded corridor. Silvery light illuminates the path before her, let in through the wide windows. She casts a look outside and onto the clearing below, where uniformed guards tread along their patrol routes, plowing paths through the foot thick snow, kicking up plumes of crystalline white.

Eventually, she comes to a halt in front of a heavy, mahogany door. She lingers awkwardly in front of it, blearily blinking the sleep from her eyes, dispelling the lingering daze of sleep. Belatedly, she realizes whose room she’s standing in front of.

Xaphan’s. She raises a trembling hand, but the door swings open before she can so much as brush her knuckles against the wood.

Xaphan’s eyes shimmer in the dark, a quirk to his brow as he regards her hunched, wide-eyed form.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, immediately.

“I had a nightmare,” she tells him. Phantom fear clings to her, whimpers and cries and wonders if he will find her childish or weak for allowing what does not exist to terrify her. Perhaps she should have made up another excuse, telling him she was on an aimless late night walk. But she can’t lie to Xaphan. She’s tried a grand total of twice, both attempts during the first week of her stay. She can’t even remember what she fibbed about. It’s not worth remembering. “Sorry to bother you.”

“You aren’t,” Xaphan corrects. She can’t make out his expression because she doesn’t want to, wary of the displeasure she may find there. Afraid, despite his assurances. He wouldn’t lie to her, she reasons, but an irrational, lingering prevents her from believing him. “Come in.”

It’s a large and well-furnished space. The four-poster bed is covered in a single blanket. Two pillows sit neatly by the metal headboard. A tall dresser is set next to a nightstand where a stick of incense burns, hazy smoke coiling into the cold night air. A wooden rack cradles a selection of glaives and claymores, neatly sequestered in a corner opposite the bed. A stick of incense burns atop a small, low, circular table.

“Tell me about your nightmare,” Xaphan beseeches, quietly shutting the door. The lock clicks shut. Frostine pretends she doesn’t hear it.

“It wasn’t anything scary,” Frostine sighs, watching him settle on the edge of the mattress. “I saw a man die—”

“And you’ll see many more.” he replies, resting his palms flat on the bed behind him, leaning his weight onto the strong chorded muscle of his arms.

“I know. It just felt… like I knew him. Maybe that’s why it upset me.” Her arms cross below her chest, shoulders hunched, posture coiled in a tight knot. “I’ve never felt that before.”

His eyelids dip, expression placid and gaze lazy as it roams her up and down. “How curious.” Her head tilts in silent question, and the corners of his lips curl into a smile. “The way your mind can provoke emotions within you that you’ve never felt while awake.”

She has nothing to say to that. Should she apologize for bothering him at such a late hour and leave? Yes. Absolutely. Yet, the cold talons of that vivid vision retain a vice grip on her psyche, so much that she cannot bring herself to move. The very idea of being alone again, caged with her restless thoughts and wily unconsciousness, is one she cannot bear to entertain.

“You don’t want to leave,” Xaphan, who always knows what she needs, says. A wisp of sympathy colors his tone. He regards her with idle contemplation, as he often does. He regards her like a puzzle to be solved, a formulae to be deciphered. He lays his ink and quill over her parchment pages everyday, but never seems to crack the code. He straights out the messy notes left in the margins and builds back block by block. His own work seems to puzzle him, at times.

He pats the space next to him.

“Sleep here, tonight,” he murmurs, and turns to pull the blanket corners back.

“Is that an order?” Frostine’s voice wobbles. He pauses, plush fabric grasped in his massive hand.

“It’s an invitation,” he informs her, sliding underneath the covers with surprising dexterity for a man of his size. “And a possible solution. You might sleep easier if you’re next to someone else.”

“Oh,” the tension in her spine unwinds. Her clenched jaw relaxes. This is an innocuous offer. There’s nothing to fear here. Not with Xaphan.

Still, she cannot shake the implication of how close they are about to be. Sharing a bed, even chastely implies a deep trust, belies potential intimacy.

“Okay,” she agreed anyway. She feels lost, more out of place than usual as she climbs atop his mattress—is firmer than she would like. She feels like she’s playing make believe, like she’s stepping into shoes too big for her, like she’s gotten into mother’s makeup for the first time.

The blanket is heavy and warm as Xaphan tugs it back over them, a comforting weight. What happens now? She chances a skittish glance, but his eyes have already closed. He’s going back to sleep. Nothing else because that is what he offered, what he said was going to happen.

Frostine does not sleep that night. Xaphan, who can somehow tell, orders her to take the rest of the day off. She trains anyway, too restless.

When the moon rises high, she returns to him. Under the cloak of night, the veil of silver, he wordlessly beckons her inside. The sheets are soft and cool as winter’s first snow. Not nearly as cold, because the broad line of his body is its own hearth—and with the rhythmic crackle of his heartbeat does she finally rest, rouse and be reborn.

---

The sun’s rays no longer reach the hollow’s bottom. For a few, precious hours in the midday, it barely traces the mountaintops, bathing the snow and stone in gold. The camp remains dusky and cool, a new heating system implemented that allows the denizens of their faction to walk around in a few less layers. The metal gate at the front and back ends of the camp remain, aided by a new, unseen barrier. While Frostine is content to bid the daytime a temporary farewell. Belasko seems unseated and unnerved. Even before he says anything, she can see the discontent in the stiff line of his shoulders. He’s making dinner tonight, having insisted she visit if only to give him a progress report.

His accommodations are different from her own, all dark wood and red velvet, with a sleek kitchen tucked into the corner. She can see her reflection in his mahogany coffee table, and can feel the weight of each brass doorknob twisted. Draperies of gold and black and crimson cover the long-paned windows, depicting cats and weasels twined around spider lilies.

“Your room is bigger than mine,” Frostine observes from the couch.

“Our rooms mold themselves to fit our tastes,” Belasko spares her a curious look over his shoulder. “It’s an enchantment. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of seeing yours, yet. Whatever could it look like?”

Frostine frowns, confounded again by magic and its seemingly endless capabilities.

“It looks pretty normal,” she says, “There’s a bed, and some drawers. And a window. Nothing special about it.”

She can’t help but wonder what that says about her. Nothing special. Pretty plain, “And a radiator,” she tacks on.

“How interesting,” Belasko says, contemplative. It’s genuine, she thinks, because the left corner of his lip ticks downwards whenever he gets stumped. There’s a carton of oatmilk next to the mugs he’s pouring coffee into. Frostine idly reads the label.

“I’ll take mine black,” Frostine says, looking back to the chessboard. Out of her periphery, she can see him swivel to look at her, maybe surprised, but she pays him no other mind. All of her focus is spent on attempting to recreate her latest game of chess. Revisisting each turn should allow her to more clearly see the flaws in her strategy, make her better next time. Alas, no matter how hard she concentrates, she can’t quite visualize it with the precision she needs.

“As you wish,” he says. She doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s smiling. Doesn’t even have to turn her head because he’s already swept out of the kitchen and gently placed the tray before her. She acknowledges it with a grunt. “I’ll have to visit your room, sometime. You say it’s plain, but—”

“Don’t.” Frostine cuts him off, unfeeling and absentminded. Her pointer finger rubs against her lower lip, deep in thought as she shifts one of white’s bishops, the piece quavering in her trembling hold as she hovers it above the board.

“Don’t?” Belasko repeats.

“Don’t come to my room. I don’t want anyone else in there.” Frostine makes sure to remain curt and leave no room for argument. She fiddles with one of the knights, running a finger over its sculpted mane. She’s sure that this conversation will make it back to Willow, eventually, but even he cannot deny that Belasko is her familiar. He is supposed to be helping her, listening to her.

“Afraid I’ll find something embarasing?” he prods gently, teasing, testing.

Her jaw locks, teeth grinding together. “No. My room is mine. I don’t have to share it if I don’t want to.”

“Nothing to be helped about that, then,” he sighs, sinking into the plush seat beside her. “Why don’t we talk about your training? The sooner I get this report in, the sooner you can leave.” His voice is clipped, and she can tell he’s barely masking his displeasure. Perhaps at being rejected, perhaps at her adamant refusal to engage with him. His disapproval doesn’t sting the same way it used to. She keeps her answers succinct, grateful that the line of questions sticks strictly to her blossoming abilities. Queries concerned with the progress of her power are always easier to answer. The pursuit of gaining strength is all she has ever known.

Her emotions are what troubles her—the persistent worry and woe that accompanies all mortals as they plod aimlessly through life. Her ability to smother that open, human flame has improved over the time spent here. But it is not perfect. It is not enough.

It has to be perfect.

Fifteen minutes sees her out the door, a thermos filled with hot coffee in hand. Belasko had insisted, the only act of charity she would ever appreciate from him. Despite all she has done and all she will do, wasting food and drink still feels jarringly wrong. It’s a strange hill to die on. Maybe a holdover from whatever or whoever she had been before Willow found her. She doesn’t want to think about it, she decides as she opens the door to her room, stepping inside. The wall-length mirror that was tucked into the corner is gone, replaced by a small, wooden weapon’s rack.

#oz write #arcana magia

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