’Father?’
Edna and Medusa thought the word at the same time.
Their faces did not shift, but their hearts did. The word hung in the air heavier than snow.
Edna’s lashes lowered briefly.
’So, he truly was from the Winter region.’
She had suspected something, after all he had silver hair, it was very rare for someone in the Empire.
Yet the revelation did not change the coil in her chest.
’He still belongs to me.’
Medusa’s violet eyes, sharp as cut amethyst, flickered to Azel’s face.
She was wondering whether she would have to collect his family’s blessings in case she wanted to become their daughter in law.
Azariah, the Patriarch, turned away from his son as if regaining composure.
He looked at his guard.
"Before we go to the palace," he said, his voice calm but firm, "I have somewhere to take you."
His eyes slid back to Azel. "It is called the Winter Grave."
The guard’s eyes widened, alarm flashing in them.
His lips parted as though to protest, but he swallowed it down.
To question the Patriarch was death.
He fell silent, bowing instead.
Inside Azel’s head, a familiar voice stirred.
[I suddenly don’t want you to stay here for too long.]
It was Nyala, sharp and uneasy.
’Eh? What’s the worst that could happen?’ Azel thought, half joking.
But the moment the words left him, he winced internally.
’Damn. I just jinxed it.’
They began to move.
The cold wind had started to return, but Azel paid little mind.
His eyes lingered on the fleets docked nearby — sleek ships of pale metal and reinforced wood, covered in layers of frost that did not melt.
Seeing them from close by. There were far more larger than he initially thought.
Even Medusa, sharp and composed, betrayed a flicker of awe.
The hulls were massive, each ship the size of a fortress.
"If I may ask," Edna spoke finally, her voice polite but firm, "what are these fleets for?"
Azariah glanced at her, his tone even. "Just in case of war. Should the Empire or any of the other nations try something foolish, we can move swiftly and decimate them."
Azel had to admit, the man wasn’t exaggerating.
The Winter Region wasn’t the strongest for nothing.
Soon they left the port, stepping into deeper snow where the wind howled freely.
Azariah exhaled, spreading his arms. "Èzeèm."
The ancient word vibrated in the air, the sound older than language.
The snow itself stirred, wrapping around their bodies like sentient silk.
In the next breath, they vanished — carried by the will of Winter itself.
When they reappeared, the world had changed.
The air here was sharper, colder, and impossibly dense.
Azel felt it immediately — the way his aura stirred more freely, the way the cold itself seemed to empower him.
He was entering the Battle state again.
Edna adjusted her coat and took hold of little Lillia, who blinked at the endless expanse of white.
Medusa, stoic, tightened her cloak but said nothing.
Both women couldn’t feel the cold, but there was a weight that pressed against their very souls.
Only the Winter natives walked here as though they were born of the storm.
"This," Azariah said, his breath misting in the air, "is the Winter Grave. It is where our goddess shed her mortal shell and became divine. If you succumb to the cold here, your soul will freeze for eternity."
His gaze swept the white plains, the endless storm. "Only the Patriarch may open the way. Here, the goddess’s authority is highest."
In Azel’s vision, text flickered.
[You have received an invitation from the ’Goddess of Ice.’]
[Will you accept?]
[Y / N]
"The goddess wishes to see you," Azariah said, turning toward him with a trace of envy. "I am jealous, my son. But be respectful before her."
Inside his mind, Nyala’s voice lashed out.
[I DON’T LIKE THIS!]
Her tone was sharp, furious.
[That whore... that frozen bitch... that treacherous hag!]
’Nyala,’ Azel thought, grimacing. ’Don’t you think that’s enough—’
[Enough?] Her voice turned venomous. [If she lays a finger on you, I’ll rip her to pieces. Don’t trust her. Don’t trust a word.]
It was the first time he had actually heard her like this.
Azel sighed inwardly and tapped [Y].
The world dissolved.
...
He stood alone in a frozen expanse.
The ground beneath him was snow, pure and endless.
The air bit into his skin, empowering him yet whispering promises of slow death.
Skeletons littered the ground, half-buried in white, their forms frozen in silence.
There was no blood — only the white sheet of snow.
Then a voice rang out.
"Welcome, boy."
Azel looked forward.
A woman stood there, unlike any other.
She was beautiful — so much so that the word itself felt small, similar to how he felt when he wanted to describe Nyala.
Yet her beauty was not soft; it was sharp, predatory, dangerous.
She wore little strips of beast fur wrapped around her breasts, waist, and hips, baring flawless skin to the killing cold.
Silver hair tumbled wild down her back, and faint whisker-like marks lined her cheeks.
In her hands she carried two weapons — bone blades, edges honed sharp by divinity itself.
Her smile curved.
"So you’re Nyala’s chosen one." She tapped her weapons against the frozen ground, and a shockwave rippled outward. "I shall test you."
The land responded.
With a groan like cracking ice, weapons erupted from the snow around him — spears, swords, axes, all carved from bones of beasts.
Azel’s hand twitched.
’Nyala?’
But the woman spoke before he could hear an answer.
"Don’t bother calling her. I’ve severed the connection. For now, you stand before me alone." Her eyes glinted, sharp with mockery. "What will you do, boy? Hide behind a woman’s skirt? Or will you prove that Winter’s sons are still men who lead, not cower?"
The insult tightened his jaw.
Slowly, deliberately, Azel reached down and gripped the hilt of a bone sword.
The cold bit his skin, but aura flared in response, burning against it.
The goddess’s smile deepened. "Yes... I like that look in your eyes. Then let your trial begin."