After a few minutes of walking, Crystal and Sorn returned to the cabin—the very one Sorn had first opened his eyes in. The wind gusted around them, bitter, stinging his cheeks. He turned to Crystal, who had already resumed her knowing grin.

“Alright, what we do next depends on this moment,” she said, her voice warm, but with a sharp edge to it. She gestured toward a few of the nearby bushes, gaunt, twisted things. What leaves clung to their branches were brown and brittle, a sad sight, withering under the cold.

“This cabin was built in the middle of a Raball breeding ground,” she explained. With a quick, fluid motion, she stepped forward and kicked one of the bushes. Suddenly, a handful of small, white creatures shot out from the branches, darting here away but stopping behind the shelter of nearby trees. They were small, the size of a man’s head, each with two black eyes, like ink spots, wide and watchful, staring directly at Sorn.

Crystal, in an effortless motion, darted at one of the creatures. Her legs bandaged from her hips to her knees underneath her skirt, flashed as she moved, silent as snowfall, her blue hair glimmering. Before Sorn could even process the movement, she was holding one of the creatures up by the scruff, its little body hanging limp in her grip.

“This is a Raball,” she said, letting it dangle, “It’s how we prove ourselves.”

Sorn blinked at her, lost. “Prove what?”

“When we turn thirteen, we’re given a choice,” she replied, her voice suddenly hardened. “Either be sent to the outskirts to work with the peasants or remain in the interior to train as a fighter. To do that, we have to bring one of these Raballs back to the Academy. It’s our entrance exam.” Her mouth quirked into a slight grin. “You had some for breakfast, by the way.”

Sorn looked at the creature with a new light, half-pitying it. “And you want me to catch one of these?”

She tilted her head. “It's up to you, but if you can't manage to catch even one, you'll be too weak to help me out with anything.”

She released the creature, and it quickly darted off, scampering under a bush and peeking out to stare at Sorn with wary, beady eyes. Crystal watched it go, folding her arms. “They're curious creatures that refuse to leave their dens They’ll watch you until you leave. Even now, I can see six of them. But they won't make catching them easy for you.”

She yawned then, glancing up at the vast Fortress looming over them. Her face softened as she gazed at it. “I have to leave soon. The Tournament is something I must prepare for, and Keilan—well, he would worry if I missed the Academy.”

Keilan. Sorn had momentarily forgotten his existence. He shrugged. “So, you just want me to catch one?”

“Yes,” she replied curtly. “I’ve noticed you’re slow. There’s no shame in it, but like I said before, I can't work with dead weight. So if you can’t manage even this, interaction with any of my people will prove too dangerous for you.”

She seemed to ponder something then, her gaze lowering. Then she looked at him. “Can I punch you?”

Sorn paused, unsure what to make of the question. She stared at him, her cold blue eyes warm with a strange excitement. Her hair whipped around in the wind as she waited. Sorn found himself nodding before he could stop himself. “Uh, sure. Go ahead.”

Before he could process even his own words, he felt the strike. The blow landed like a hammer to his gut, her knuckles driving into his stomach so hard that his breath left him in one short, horrid wheeze. Stars filled his vision as he clutched his midsection, falling to his knees in the snow. She was already apologizing, kneeling beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry, I may have hit harder than I meant to.”

Sorn managed a bitter gasp. “What… were you… trying to do?”

Crystal looked away, averting his eyes. “You fell from the sky. Any other would be crushed to a pulp, yet here you are, completely unharmed. I wanted to see if there’s something more to you. Something… strange.”

She smiled then, a tight, unreadable smile. “I think there is.”

Sorn only stared back, trying to make sense of her words, but her eyes had already drifted back toward the Fortress. “I’ll return in three days. Stay here, near the hut and retreat to the cave. The others from the Fortress won't come here. But if you happen to explore out and meet them, well, they’ll not all be so kind as me.”

And with that, she was gone, her footsteps as light as her words were heavy. As she vanished from view, a peculiar emptiness filled him. This was his first time experiencing loneliness, he thought, and yet… it didn’t feel entirely foreign.

He turned back to the bushes and to the beady-eyed Raballs who still watched him, the one Crystal had caught peeking out from behind a tree. Sighing, he moved toward it, creeping closer until he thought he was close enough to pounce. Yet each time, the Raball would dart just out of reach, always moving in some infuriating rhythm that mocked his every step. He lunged again, and his face hit the frozen bark of a tree, jarring him back with a sharp pain and a rising frustration.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

He glared at the creature, rubbing his bruised forehead. Looking into the sky, he began to swim in his thoughts. The girl who had given him hospitality was kind. He enjoyed the short time they had spent together. Well, at least until the she punched him. But he barely knew her. And she seemed to be dragging him into something dangerous.

He looked at his own hand, remembering the ice sword Keilan had created and the speed he had seen Crystal take off at. Her words echoed in his head. Being weak didn’t really concern him. He had no reason to be strong. But he didn’t like the idea of dying without answers. Crystal’s desire was to save Keilan. Remembering the cold and rude boy, he couldn’t say he shared the same sentiment.

Not nearly enough to give up his own short life.

Then came a voice, low, rich, and unfamiliar. “Amusing. And painful to watch, frankly.”

Sorn jumped, spinning toward the voice, but no one was there.

“Over here, Outsider. Are you slow?”

Sorn turned again, and there he was, a man of proud bearing with the same snowy skin and ice-pale hair that marked the others of this land. Yet his eyes, a bright, bitter blue, held something sharper—a contempt that bordered on mirth. He wore his smile like a mask, and in his hand, he twirled a slender needle of ice.

Sorn took a single sharp breath, Crystal's prior warning fresh in his mind. “Who are you?”

The man swept into a bow. “I am Toren, heir to the Dancing Blade. I'm sure the importance of this name is lost on an Outsider like you. Respect,” he added with a condescending smile, “is something I would expect even from someone like you.”

Sorn bristled. “What do you want?”

Toren’s smirk didn’t waver. “Your apology, for a start. You, a mere nobody, dared spend time alone with my betrothed. Crystal is mine. She has been mine since we were seven. Did you forget to uphold respect for you to so much as glance in her direction, much less spend time alone with her?”

Sorn was truthfully confused as to what he did wrong. But he didn't like the sharp needle the stranger was now pointing at him. “I… apologize?”

Toren chuckled, letting the ice needle trace a line in the snow. “Very good. You have overcame my concerns with you as an individual. Now, as a fighter of status, I find myself with graver concerns. A boy falls from the sky a week before the Prophecy, two weeks before the Sacrifice.” His eyes narrowed. “What part of this do you find coincidental, Outsider?”

Sorn stood firm, locking eyes with the man before him. The silence between them taut before Sorn broke it, a questioning suddenly racing to his mind. “Didn’t you say you were following us?” Sorn’s voice was steady, though his heart thundered in his chest.

Toren’s lip curled in a shadow of a smile. “Yes, I did say that.”

“Then, did you hear anything we talked about?”

For a moment, a flicker of annoyance flashed across Toren’s face. “No, I did not. Crystal is a sharp one. Fitting for my future bride. But her vigilance demands distance if even one as talented as I wishes to remain unseen.”

Sorn’s eyes darted past Toren, seeking some unseen ally among the trees, some refuge. He found only the twisted branches, clawing at the slate sky. “Then why confront me now, only once she’s gone?”

“You ask too many questions, boy. In the name of the Dancing Blade, by the oaths I swore to the Order, I offer you two paths. Fight for your freedom, or come with me quietly before the Council. Whatever choice you make, I shall honor it.”

“And what will the Council do with me?” Sorn asked, though he already felt the answer like a cold dagger pressing at the base of his neck.

“That decision depends on their choice.”

A smirk twitched at the corner of Sorn’s mouth. The chaotic events that had brought him here had begun to render him weary. “A certain someone told me that such an occasion wouldn’t end well for me.”

The shift in Toren’s expression was subtle—a muscle tensed along his jaw. “That someone speaks when they shouldn’t.”

The woods held their breath as the two measured each other, the wind humming a low, mournful tune through the boughs. The moments ticked by until Toren’s patience frayed. He tapped his boot against the frost-crusted earth. “Well, have you chosen?”

Sorn’s hand found a branch, rough and splintered. He drew a breath, then flung it with all the strength he could muster. Without waiting to see the result, he bolted, snow crunching beneath his feet like the clamor of shattered glass.

Toren’s laugh was a dry bark. “Bold. Foolish, but bold.”

Before Sorn could make ten paces, a shadow swept past him. Toren’s weapon struck his side. Luckily, Toren had used the blunt side rather than choosing to outright stab him. It was an impact that sent him sprawling, ribs aflame with pain. Snow kissed his face, and he choked. Toren moved with an unnatural, inexplicable elegance. The needle in his hand twirled with practiced ease as he advanced.

Sorn tried to rise, gasping as Toren’s shadow loomed over him. He lashed out with a desperate kick, but Toren sidestepped, a motion almost mocking in its simplicity. Toren grabbed Sorn, his first twisting in the Outsider's collar, wrenching him up and slamming him against the trunk of a tree. The bark bit into Sorn's back but the defiance in his eyes remained.

“I would prefer not to harm you, Outsider,” Toren’s voice softened, but it held a deadly edge. “You are... intriguing. Spare me the trouble. Yield, and you may yet see the sun rise again.”

The fight seemed to drain from Sorn’s limbs. He sagged for a moment, the thought of surrender whispering in his ear. Yet something inside him resisted, a spark that flared into a stubborn flame. This was not where he would meet his end.

Do you wish for victory?

The voice was not his own, yet it resonated from deep within him.

I can grant you the means. But you must claim victory for yourself.

Toren’s was talking, but the words missed Sorn's ears, as the voice in his head held dominance. A sudden strange light coiled around Sorn’s limbs, emerald wisps that flickered and pulsed around his body. He felt a strange unknown power rush through him, turning the world into a blur of motion. In this moment, only a single word could describe his innermost feeling.

Unstoppable.

Snow exploded beneath him as he leapt, the distance between them gone in an instant. Toren’s eyes widened, a look of surprise gracing his face. He twisted away just as Sorn’s fist grazed his cheek, barely avoiding the attack. Toren’s needle of ice then flashed upward, slicing through the green tendrils and carving a jagged path across Sorn’s body, from hip to shoulder. The blood erupted, as Toren moved again to avoid it, letting it all paint the white snow.

Sorn crumpled, the light around him snuffed out like a dying ember. He laid there unmoving, as Toren stood over him, his expression unreadable. He clapped his hands twice. From behind a nearby tree, a stocky boy stepped forward, hair sticking out in clumps resembled uneven bangs. He too bore a similar needle, but his gaze was uncertain as it flitted between Toren and Sorn.

Toren’s voice cut through the silence. “Heal him, Neville. Then we will bring him to the Council. They will be the one's to pass judgment.”