> "The north has always been my interest, for most of the strongest warriors originated from the lands of winter. Yet there is never much talk of the north, for while its people are strong they are too few and quiet, content on their own. Their lands are small and their ground hard to till, and even its coasts are strangely forever frozen, where they could not even fish for they are too deep in the sea to catch.
>
> For these reasons no man coveted the land of the north, where even the emperor granted the northern duke utmost freedom, only asking to have strong men for war. The empire asked not for food, for they knew the winter was harsh, and did not question their loyalty, for they knew the northerners never wanted for more.
>
> In my curiosity I traveled for north, passing by the Warmriver Hold, where the frozen coasts did not reach, allowing them to trade over sea. I traversed tall trees of spruce, where wolves howled and shadows held secrets. Finally, I reached Winter’s Pass, a village nestled between two mountain ranges.
>
> To the west lay mountains numbering 13, and the east had mountains of 19, and these they called the Thirteen Sisters and Nineteen Brothers. Beyond these mountains I laid eyes upon the fabled Allwinter Heartlands, huge swathes of land cursed by a never-ending blizzard.
>
> Here my breath took hitch and I could not move, both in fear and awe.
>
> For I realized then that if there was a god, it was mighty and merciless.”
>
> - Explorer Thorus
> The World and its secrets
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“Toes.”
The boy grimaced, and Amelia realized something was wrong. Doesn’t seem like a monster, she studied him, dismissing the arcana she held in her fingertips, just a simple lost northerner boy.
Yet she knew for certainty he wasn’t supposed to be here.
Nobody was. Why?
She questioned him further, “toes?”
A pause, then a shaky nod. He kept shivering, she noticed, then he mentioned toes-
Frostbite.
She summoned gale and let it push her legs as she ran, reaching him in seconds. Most people wouldn’t have been able to react, yet the shivering boy unsheathed his sword in quick instinctive calm, the steel showing halfway through when she stood before him.
“Calm,” she imbued arcana into her whisper, and this would’ve rendered most into a nonreactive state, making their eyes dull and their limbs soft.
Yet he stayed the same, his blue eyes wary and the grasp on his sword rigid, and this made her question the boy’s existence further.
“Enough, fellow northerner,” she spoke honestly instead, staring straight at his eyes, without tricks. “You are frostbitten. Lie down and rest, and let me save you, lest you become maimed for life.”
He stared back, and opened his mouth to speak, yet he shivered once more and clamped his mouth shut in chittering teeth. “Aye,” he finally complied, sheathing his sword “would love to keep my toes.”
Laying down his bag and scabbard, he unclasped his furs and leather braces, then undressed himself to his tunic and breeches and laid down. She kneeled beside him, took stock of his muscled freezing body, and summoned golden light that radiated from her hands. With these hands she grasped the boy's arms and legs, letting the frostbite recede as his skin returned to a healthy pale color.
“Restorative arcana,” he croaked, intense eyes on her, “rare magic, difficult to learn. How?”
She continued his healing, ensuring the boy held no lasting scar. Yet his body already held scars of their own, wounds all over his arms and legs, his muscles chiseled and tight, as if his body was one that was grinded to iron.
“A question for a question then, answer for answer,” she said to him, “is that a deal?”
He nodded.
“I know this magic,” she continued, “for I am talented, and am just that special.”
She smirked at him, and he grimaced. He accepted it, for it was an answer all the same.
“For my question,” she muttered, “from what battles are these wounds?”
He stared absently above. “No battles,” he answered, “mother forbade. So I climbed instead, explored, trained on my own, delivered tools and materials… and even stitched.”
“Stitched?”
He sat up with a groan and stared at her, surprising the girl with his quick recovery. “I assure you,” he said in mocking seriousness, “embroidery is a very dangerous profession.”
She looked at him properly then, his hair a wave of black luster and a jaw of chiseled stone, where his thick bushy eyebrows furrowed as he stared, his eyes colored dark blue in the firelight, their hue almost close to night.
Blue eyes.
“What House are you from?”
“No House,” he grunted as he stood, equipping his clothes and bag, where was he going? “Just a village boy,” he walked towards the rock pedestal and extended his arms to grab the scroll-
The scroll.
An ice shard formed in her fingers, and the projectile flew straight toward his hand, aiming to injure it. I could heal it later, if I have to. Yet surprisingly steel met ice, and he stood there unfazed, his sword once again halfway through the sheath.
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Frowning, she summoned wind and pushed him away. He could not stop the pushing gale and flew backwards. She brought forth a strong breeze to accompany her steps and reached for the scroll. She noticed, to her dismay, that the boy stood immediately after falling down, and reached for the scroll too.
Both had hands on their relic at the same time, and fearing that they may damage the scroll, they stayed still.
They opted to speak, but spoke at the same time.
“How do you know of this relic?”
Surprise etched their faces, but the girl calmed first and spoke again,
“What is the scroll called, then?”
He grunted, “Wisdom’s Tapestry.”
“How do you know its name?”
“How do you know?”
“Enough,” she said, exasperated, “question for question, answer for answer, same deal, yes?”
Another grunt, “fine.”
She nodded slowly. Supposedly, it was her turn to answer, “a scroll of great value, I learned of it from my family library” she lied, “if you know of this, then please can you give it to me? It will greatly boost my arcana arts, and arcana is superior to most.”
“No,” he said without hesitation, “sword is supreme. Hence, better it be mine. Why not give it to me, then?”
She furrowed her brows in frustration, “No, sword is not ultimately supreme, as most know,” It is even barbaric, you idiot, “I saved you, boy, do you not owe me?”
“I’m older by some winters,” he unnecessarily said, “I owe you, yes. Hence ask for me, princess, if you wish me to slay even a god. Yet for now this scroll is mine.”
“It is not,” she grated, and narrowed her eyes, “and you know me to be your princess? You are indeed of north.”
“Had not yet asked a question.”
“Enough of that,” she growled in finality, “I am your princess, you are to follow me, retainer, for the sake of the nort-”
The boy scoffed, chose that moment of distraction, and forcefully took the scroll and ran.
The girl stood there stupefied at his blatant rebellion, staring at her open hand that held no scroll. She looked towards the running boy. He is truly barbaric then, one that is a coward, she saw him run towards a dark tunnel, rendering his eyes useless, and even foolish.
Sighing, she beckoned her firelight orb, Igni, and the red fiery ball followed the running boy, granting light in the dark tunnels. Being granted vision, he was able to run faster.
Doesn't matter, I will catch him soon enough.
Controlled bursts of air sprouted from her feet and back, letting her fly freely in the wind. She stepped on invisible steps, and in seconds she propelled herself just beside the running boy. He saw her and grimaced, and she smirked at him in response.
Have to be careful, she reminded herself, no offensive arcana lest the scroll gets damaged, only sly tricks.
She brought forth winter’s cold, and paved his path with slippery ice. As lithe as he was, he still slipped on his frantic run, and with a measured smack of wind at his hand, he let go of the scroll.
She did not give mind to the boy’s scream as he fell, and let a controlled caress of air carry the scroll to her hands. She read the Wisdom's Tapestry as she flew, and frowned.
Still nothing.
Yet the boy's recovery surprised her once more. He balanced himself quickly, and with a shout of defiance, he tackled her.
They tumbled down the cavern tunnels, her firelight orb Igni faithfully following them. Hair and clothing were tousled as they continued to roll down, fighting ownership of the scroll.
She weaved elements to protect her body while trying to overpower the boy. He, on the other hand, brute forced everything, enduring all through dense muscle and strength.
At one point both held a hand to the relic, and with an untimely burst of strength in the struggle, they pulled.
There was screeching of paper as the scroll was split, and both tumbled away from each other, their struggle landing them near a precipice just outside the peak of Mount Nurtkar.
She trembled as she stood, tendrils of exhaustion creeping in, and gazed around her.
The white haze of the Allwinter Heartlands greeted her view.
She stood on the edge, one that jutted outside the northern peak of Mount Nurtkar. She knew she stood on the northern side of the mountain, for all she saw was a never-ending blizzard of ice and snow, a harsh winter that embraced and never let go. It was deathly cold, where even as her hovering faithful Igni provided warmth, her teeth still chattered.
Here the raging winter smothered a once grand civilization, gone in history without retaliation.
“You idiot!” An idiot shouted, making her turn to the boy. He scratched the back of his head as if it had hit ground. Shaking the hand that held his split scroll, he continued, “how am I able to gain double experience with half a Wisdom’s Tapestry? You’ve failed my run!”
She scoffed, irritation bubbling with her exhaustion. “It doesn’t even work, dimwit,” she said to the dimwit, “tried viewing it, touching it, tried everything to it. No buff to my status whatsoever. A bug, maybe.”
“A bug? Impossible,” he scoffed back, “have you tried singing to it?”
She looked at him as if he was a brainless mongrel, which he was, and waved him off. “Enough of that,” she said, “there are other relics, better than this one, and next time,” she dabbed a finger at his chest, “they are mine.”
He looked down at her finger in disgust, as if dirtying his already dirty clothes. “Yours? Wasted on you, arcana user. Better it be mine.”
She narrowed her eyes, “It’s arcanist. Why the hate with arcana? Don’t tell me your run is focused only on the sword?”
He nodded sagely, “it is.”
“Inefficient!” She all but howled, “you are countered by long-range missiles, weakened by magical debuffs! If you improve the sword so much you’ll leave your brain to rot!”
“More training!” He howled back, dismissing her argument, “and more training! All of that I’ll deal with. What of you, arcana user?” He still said, scrunching his mouth as if he tasted bile, “you’ll be so fragile in the early game that an average level militiaman can beat you in close range! You-”
He stopped himself, wide-eyed as if in realization.
She plowed on, “That’s where strategy comes in! Tactics, and even cheeses, using arcana allows you to be diverse, like setting elemental traps, wearing customized enchanted gear, and-”
She stopped herself then, in sudden realization.
They stared at each other for a time, gobsmacked, and said at the same time what they thought:
“You’ve played World of Alferion?”
He sputtered, “those are gaming terms. Wait, you’ve played this as a game before? Are you-”
“Reincarnated,” she continued, “I reincarnated into this game and now I’m-”
“Cold hells I thought I was the only one.”
“-I’m this Amelia character, and each day I was-”
A chorus of screams and howls echoed inside the caves of Mount Nurtkar, and both turned abruptly to the noise. There was the clattering of cave walls and the thundering of feet as if a horde was about to amass inside the mountain.
The boy audibly gulped, and held the pommel of his sword in a pale grip, “mountain dwellers. Finally coming out.”
“Of course they would,” she smiled bitterly, “we made so much noise it’d be wrong if they didn’t.”
He frowned and looked at her, “didn’t find any while exploring the cave.”
“Performed an active arcana that made a faint continuous ringing noise, silent to us, but to them it’s a headache-inducing sound that’ll force them to hide deeper,” then she shrugged, “though I suppose we’ve been so noisy they’d rather have us dead and be eaten and endure the noise.”
He kept looking at her.
She raised an eyebrow, and mockingly made a rainbow with her hands, “magic.”
Instead of the hurt pride she expected, he smiled and chuckled, and she chuckled in turn, growing into a laugh. She laughed hard and loud, free and easy, partly in joy, and mostly in relief. Relief in knowing there was someone she could discuss about this world in comparison with the game. Relief that there was someone where she didn’t have to act like an heiress and speak formal, and can simply be herself.
Mostly, she laughed in relief because she realized she wasn’t alone.
She wasn’t alone.
She laughed till even a tear dripped down her cheek, and her laughter let out the pain she didn’t even know she held.
I’m not alone. Not anymore.