The snow fell and Vayla drowned in it. Their lessons with Father Zakarid increased. It added Frostiff to its days of training where it had only been Weltiff once.

Zakarid proved more dedicated to their lessons than they expected. He seemed to worry for them more than usual. It was not their first winter in the seminary, and they had different garments for winter with a cloak made of animal fur to keep them warm, or at least from freezing to death. Sometimes it seemed as if the priest forgot this as he worried over their health.

Zakarid taught them that when in a group, huddling together was the best way to keep warm. This was something they already knew; a knowledge long since possessed. Divine and Salem often slept on the same bed during the winter, sometimes outside the winter.

Ezril often wondered if warmth was all they did it for. It troubled him because they risked the consequences of getting caught, as the punishments for sharing a bed in the seminary were severe. It was odd to know that Zakarid taught them techniques the seminary frowned upon.

Their second test took place during this period when Vayla was cold and the sky snowed.

They had been in the seminary long enough to hear the older boys give their opinions of the test. There was rarely any detail about it, but one thing was certain and gave away its nature: the older boys called it the winter test. So they were not surprised when Father Talod announced its arrival at the start of winter.

They were taken in groups. Two children from each tower came together to form one group.

Ezril wondered if it was a group test as he followed his group. He feared the chances of a misunderstanding in each group, as his group comprised of him, Unkuti and a few others he didn’t know and had no existing synergy with. Of the others, was Raylin.

Raylin was proof that there had been some truth to Takan's information of the Drikael tower. It was not that none of them had made it back, however, but that only one had made it back.

For the test of winter, the children were required to carry their bow and arrows, their hunting knives, a water pouch, a blanket, and a flint.

Father Jugen led Ezril’s group through the mist. Though, they were not exactly led. Jugen simply walked, and they followed under the assumption that they knew how to navigate the mist. Most did, and Ezril had been able to learn how from Olufemi. Apparently, it was the point of the first test and he’d had a feeling it would be important to learn. The trick was in the feel of the soil. The firmer the soil, the truer the path. As long as one’s feet continued to stand on firm ground, they would always make their way out of the mist.

It hadn’t made much sense to Ezril. Walking in a straight line was supposed to lead to the same outcome. It continued to baffle him until Unkunti had informed him that the mist was not the doing of the seminary. The Umunnas had been a tribe of Tainted, each one of them capable of the use of Vayla’s nin, using and learning it generously. The mist, apparently, was a result of such practices, artificially created through the manipulation of nin. If a person was to simply walk through it, it would dull their senses and lead them nowhere. They would be lost within the mist. An illusion of reality, Unkuti called it.

With no priest to confirm it and a fear that bringing up subjects of nin would bring punishment, Ezril was inclined to take the brother for his word.

When they were free of the mist and the forest, Jugen took them to a village. They did not pass the city gates. They did not come in contact with the city’s civilization. Yet, they were beyond its walls. It baffled Ezril and his brothers. All they had done for too long a time was walk through the forest.

In the village, Jugen hired a tall man with a carriage to take them to a location on a piece of paper he produced from within his cloak.

When the tall man spoke, he spoke with an accent Ezril had never heard before, and Ezril found himself watching the man as they entered the carriage.

The man sat outside, at its front, guiding the horse through the journey.

"He's an Osun," Jugen told them after they had ridden a distance. "They are known for their way with the horse and are mostly employed for long distance or complicated journeys.” He looked at Ezril. “Now discard with such pointless thoughts. You have something more important at hand."

Those were the only words the priest said throughout the ride, and the only words Ezril paid any attention to. Though his mind worried for Darvi and Alric. Darvi had remained eerily quiet ever since the last test, however, Alric was the real issue. Since the announcement of the winter test, he had become shifty, unsure. Often times Ezril would find him gone from his bed in the middle of the night. He spoke less and laughed more as well. In summary, Alric had become different recently. It worried their brothers but worried Darvi most.

And a test to be spent working with a group of children that they were not accustomed to was not one to be embarked on with anything less than a straight mind.

Their carriage rode into a forest after a journey of hours. The forest’s trees were covered in snow and it was a surprise that ice did not hang from their branches.

Here, they stopped.

After a while, Father Jugen looked out of the carriage then instructed Ezril to get down. Thus, it took Ezril but a moment to realize that the winter test was not a group test.

"Survive," Jugen said as he closed the carriage door. It was a single word, yet it carried the weight of Vayla behind it.

The carriage rode away, leaving Ezril to himself, knee deep in snow.

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Ezril wrapped his fur cloak tighter around himself and went to work on building a shelter. Zakarid always pointed out its importance when lost in the forest. A shelter was a basic need, as necessary as food but not as necessary as water.

Ezril found an elevation of snow leading to a high ground and committed the location to memory. He left it, found a long tree branch, and returned. He shoved the branch as deep into the elevated snow as he could until it met resistance. Then he shoved harder. When it didn't budge, he stopped.

Satisfied with the result, he concluded it to be a high ground and not a simple mound of snow.

He then began the tasking work of gathering branches to serve as walls, resting only after he was certain the walls of branches and snow would hold.

After a well-deserved rest, Ezril took to making a fire. He cleared the snow from the shelter, gathered twigs and small branches. He carved out the damp barks with his knife and kept what was left of the now dry twigs in the middle of his camp. Each action was a skill gained from Zakarid’s lessons, each one practiced under repetition, the mother of learning.

That taken care of, he strung his bow, took up his quiver and headed out.

Ezril traversed the snow for a good distance, searching out prey. For hours he found none. His stomach rumbled, signaling its need for food as the sun descended. Ezril feared he would spend the night hungry, and unfed. Torn between spending the night hungry and risking the cold for a chance of food, he worried at a decision.

The chill of the night in the season of winter made his decision easier.

Ezril turned around and headed for his shelter, motivated by the stories he had heard of people found frozen in the snow after failing to find shelter before the sun went down.

On his way back he spotted two birds on a tree branch. He slowed his pace at the sight of them. He unslung his bow, nocked an arrow, and he took aim.

Will I be lucky again? he thought, considering what he would do for food for the remaining days of the test. These were the first birds he’d seen all day. The chances of coming across others again were too slim.

Fear made Ezril’s hands shake and he slowly lowered his aim. He needed to calm himself if he wished to make the shot. He took deep and quiet breaths until his hands shook less, his anxiety left him. In his calm, an idea came to mind like a tempestuous wind and he agreed with it. What he sought to attempt was spurred not only by greed, but a sense of curiosity, of adventure.

During one of their free time on the day of Frostiff, he had witnessed Priestess Ellenel and Father Ulrich having a game of target practice. It seemed a competition of sorts and Father Ulrich had been in the lead. The match was set. Each had one more shot to make, and Ulrich led by a single mark. If he missed and Ellenel made hers it would tie the score, if not, the priest was the uncontested winner.

Ellenel, holding her bow in a different manner from which she had taught Ezril and his brothers, had nocked three arrows. She’d released them and all three had hit their marks. It had roused a friendly argument between her and Ulrich on who’d won. Ulrich had claimed she’d cheated and she had claimed they each had a turn to use not an arrow. But Ezril had taken only one thing from it. If he could pull of the same move with two arrows, he could have two birds.

Steeling his resolve, he held his bow in imitation of Sister Ellenel, wielding it horizontally. He nocked two arrows, took aim and grinned. He’d never done this before but he had his confidence. Priestess Ellenel had always said he was the best with the bow amongst his brothers, after all.

There's a first time for everything, he thought.

It was either hubris or confidence. Then again, there was always the slight possibility that it was nothing but stupidity.

Ezril aimed his arrows right. He calculated the distance to the birds, the direction of the wind, its force, and the position of the birds. Satisfied, he pulled the bowstring back and released it.

The arrows flew.

Each of them cut through the wind, like hot knives through viscid oil. They grew wider apart as they covered the distance. One of the birds snapped its head to the side in the way only birds can. Its gaze settle on the arrows. It didn’t move. It seemed confused.

The arrows met their targets within the span of a breath. The first passed the bird, skewing embarrassingly wide. The second missed the other by a hair’s breadth. It continued its path skywards, unhindered.

The first bird squawked in panic and took to the sky immediately. Ezril ignored it and moved quickly. His feet dipped into the snow before the panic of hunger halted him.

The second bird took to the sky, wings fluttering in haste.

He had missed.

The thought of a hungry night sent a different panic through his mind. His hand reached for his quiver. They trembled. Panic gave him no time to attend them. Hunger punished his mind, and his body with it.

Ezril repositioned his bow, nocked another arrow with a frenzy. He turned his aim skyward and released the arrow into the air. His aim trembled with the shot.

He missed, like a drunk threading a needle. His shaking fingers drew another arrow, sloppy. A few arrows fell from his quiver to embrace the snow. He ignored them, drew back the single one he held, and let the arrow fly.

The first bird was gone now. The second was a dot in the sky and his arrow went with it. Ezril reached a hopeless hand for his quiver and found another another. The action was merely reflexive, too many days drawing and releasing in quick succession.

He nocked the arrow and let it fly without aim.

The second bird, nothing but a blip in the dying light of the sky, jerked as Ezril’s arrow pierced it. It dropped like a falling rock, fell from the sky, and hit the snow.

Ezril’s eyes widened in happiness and he ran.

He waded through the snow, eyes forward. Losing track of where the bird had fallen was not an option. His feet hit a few things he did not know. It sent pain through him and he ignored it. It was pain he was willing to accept. He had never starved before and did not want to experience it. If he failed today, however, there was no guarantee he would succeed tomorrow.

It took him a while to find the bird buried in the snow. The fletching of his arrow poked above the snow like a beacon, the only mark of the bird’s demise, and Ezril thanked it. He snatched it from the snow and bolted for his shelter, bird in hand.

Father Zakarid often told them running built body heat, and drove the cold away. Ezril’s sprint did no such thing. The cold continued to seep into his bones with each step.

Luckily for him, he did not have to brave the cold for much longer. It was only a matter of time before he made it back to his shelter.

With a few sparks from his flint, Ezril made himself a fire. He plucked the bird. Keeping some of the feathers aside for kindling, he noticed one of his first arrows had nicked its wing. It was most likely the only reason it had not gone far too quickly in its escape.

He spitted the bird, set it over the flame, and watched it roast. When it was done, Ezril forced himself to save some for the morning as he ate. What remained, he wrapped in a piece of cloth, then retired for the night. He used his blanket as a covering to the entrance of his shelter, and his cloak as a blanket.

The next morning, Ezril took his time setting traps and gathering more wood for a fire. He made his traps from anything he could find. By the middle of the day he was done with them and satisfied himself with a well-deserved first meal of meat left over from the bird.

After, he rose with knowledge of his dwindled number of arrows and went hunting. He surmised to craft new ones when he had the time. To find those discarded in his panic would be useless.

Evening fell and Ezril found no luck with his hunt. His traps proved empty, and he retired with only a flame to keep him company through the night.

The remnants of the bird he’d caught last night did not last long enough.