CHAPTER 36

The cold continued its relentless assault as we moved deeper into the northern lands. Each day, the snow thickened underfoot, and the wind howled more fiercely than before. Even the seasoned travelers, who had spoken so casually about the dangers of the north, now wore faces tight with caution. We pressed on, our breath clouding the air, each of us keeping our weapons within arm’s reach after the encounter with the frost wolves.

The Aetheric Flow was different here, and I could feel it. It pulsed beneath the surface of the frozen landscape, cold and foreign, yet familiar in the way it responded to the world around it. Every gust of wind carried with it a faint disturbance, an echo of the magic coursing through the land. It was strange to me—how even the elements could be influenced by the flow of magic, twisted into something more dangerous.

After the battle with the wolves, I had begun experimenting, trying to tap into that magic. It wasn’t easy. Despite my ability to learn and master magic quickly, this was different. Ice magic, as I had begun to call it, wasn’t just about manipulating the Aetheric Flow. It was about understanding the cold itself, feeling the energy that lay dormant in the snow and ice, and bending it to my will.

Even with my natural talents, this magic resisted me. It wasn’t like the combat spells I had learned before—it was subtle, unpredictable. Every time I thought I had grasped it, the magic would slip through my fingers like water. It was frustrating, but I knew I couldn’t rush the process.

We traveled for days, stopping only briefly to rest and warm ourselves by small fires. The guards kept a watchful eye on the horizon, and I, too, remained alert, knowing that the Frozen Wastes held more than just frost wolves. The further north we went, the fewer travelers we encountered. This region was less forgiving, and those who ventured here did so with caution or desperation.

One evening, as the sun began to set behind the distant peaks of the Silver Mountains, we came across a small campsite—an old man and a few younger travelers sitting around a fire. The man wore the robes of a mage, though his staff was weathered and his face lined with age. His companions, a pair of adventurers, looked battle-worn, their armor scratched and dented.

I approached cautiously, though the old man’s eyes were already on me before I spoke. He watched me with the sharp gaze of someone who had seen much of the world.

“Another traveler heading north,” he said, his voice carrying a strange mixture of amusement and weariness. “I see the wastes are drawing more people than usual this year.”

I nodded, taking a seat near the fire. “It seems that way. People are talking about the Frost Wraith. Do you know anything about it?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he leaned forward, his fingers tracing the worn wood of his staff. “More than most. I’ve traveled through these wastes many times, though it’s not a journey I would recommend for the faint of heart.”

His companions shifted slightly, their expressions darkening at the mention of the Frost Wraith. One of the younger adventurers, a woman with a scar running down her cheek, spoke up. “We’ve seen signs of it,” she said, her voice low. “The cold... it’s worse in certain areas. Like the air itself is frozen. And the tracks—it doesn’t move like any beast I’ve ever seen.”

I listened intently, storing the information away for later. It seemed that everyone who ventured into the wastes had their own story to tell, their own encounter with the dangers of the north. But it was the old mage’s words that stuck with me.

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“You can feel it, can’t you?” he asked, his eyes boring into mine. “The magic in the air. The cold isn’t natural—it’s laced with something more.”

I nodded, not bothering to hide the truth. “I’ve felt it. The Aetheric Flow is... different here.”

The old man smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s because the Frozen Wastes were never meant to be a place for mortals. The magic here is ancient, older than most realize. The Frost Wraith is just one part of that. But there are other forces at work here, things that have been waiting for centuries.”

I frowned, considering his words. The Frozen Wastes had always been a place of danger, but what he was describing sounded far worse. Something deeper, more malevolent, was at play.

As the night wore on, the conversation shifted, and I listened as the travelers spoke of other lands—places I had never been but had heard of during my time with Alric.

The Northern Kingdoms, where magic was strictly regulated, their people proud but cautious in their dealings with the Aetheric Flow. The Western Empire, where magic was used as a weapon, their armies trained in both physical combat and the manipulation of magic. And the Eastern Isles, a distant land where the flow of magic was said to be different entirely, shaped by the sea and the winds.

These were places I had only heard of in passing, but hearing the stories from those who had traveled there made the world feel larger, more expansive. I realized then how little I truly knew of the continent—and how much more there was to learn.

The next morning, we parted ways with the travelers, their group heading west while we continued north. I could feel the weight of the journey pressing down on me, but I pushed it aside, focusing instead on the Aetheric Flow. The further we traveled, the more intense the disturbances became. The cold was biting now, more than just the natural chill of winter. It was laced with magic, and the Frost Wraith was at the heart of it.

As we trudged through the snow, I found myself experimenting with the ice magic again. This time, I approached it differently—more slowly, more carefully. I let the Aetheric Flow guide me, not trying to control the magic outright, but instead letting it come to me.

I extended my hand, feeling the cold pulse around me. For a moment, nothing happened, but then I felt a shift. The air around my fingers grew colder, the snow beneath my feet swirling gently as the magic responded to my will. It was faint, but it was progress.

I clenched my fist, the swirl of snow fading as I released the magic. I still had a long way to go, but I was beginning to understand. Ice magic wasn’t about force—it was about control, about letting the cold flow through the Aetheric Flow and guiding it where I wanted it to go.

We continued our journey for several more days, the landscape growing more desolate with each passing mile. The snow was deeper now, and the wind howled with a fury that made it hard to hear anything but its relentless wail. The traders and guards I traveled with kept a wary eye on the horizon, their faces grim.

We had seen no sign of the Frost Wraith, but its presence was felt in every gust of wind, every swirl of snow. The further we went, the more I could feel it pressing down on the land, warping the Aetheric Flow in ways that made the cold almost unbearable.

One night, as I sat by the fire, I pulled out a magic messenger scroll and began writing a report to Alric. The scroll glowed faintly in the firelight as I wrote, detailing everything I had learned so far—the encounters with the frost wolves, the growing disturbances in the Aetheric Flow, and the slow progress I was making with ice magic.

“Alric,” I wrote, “The journey north is more difficult than I anticipated. The cold isn’t natural, and the further I go, the more I can feel the magic in the air. The Frost Wraith is still ahead of me, but I’m learning. The ice magic is coming to me slowly, and I’ve begun to understand how it works. I’ll keep pushing forward.”

The parchment folded into a small bird and flew off into the night, disappearing into the darkness as I watched it go. I knew it would reach Alric within a day or two, but for now, I was alone in the Frozen Wastes, with only the cold and the faint pulse of the Aetheric Flow to keep me company.