Morning dawned cold and clear. Glim sat up and rubbed his eyes. He touched his hair, which still felt soft and strange to him, even after a night’s sleep. He still smelled the weird scent that had been in the bathwater.

Glim touched his lip. It felt smooth and waxy.

Looking at his bedroll, he wondered once again where the merchants slept, if not on the floor. Perhaps they hung upside down from the ceiling like nightwings. Surely not. But nothing else presented itself as a better option.

As was becoming his routine, he ran up the stairs to check on his pea plants. With a bit more disappointment than yesterday, he saw no sign of leaves emerging from the soil.

Aside from a mutual flushing of cheeks between Gyda and himself at breakfast, glancing away from each other in a tacit acknowledgment of awkwardness, the merchant daughters ignored him.

At midmorning when Master Willow answered the door, he looked at Glim strangely.

“You’ve had your hair cut. You smell like iris extract. And you’re wearing lip balm.”

“Those are all true statements, Master,” Glim said wryly.

“It’s an improvement. What happened?”

“I sought positive experiences and found them.”

“I see. It’s about time. How are you feeling now?”

“Good! A little strange, but good.” Master Willow sighed. Glim hastened to clarify. “I feel relaxed. A little uncertain about these odd scents and salves and such. But my hair and skin feel nice. And I’m glad I had the confidence to approach Pyri.”

“Pyri did this?” Master Willow seemed startled.

“No. Gyda.”

“Ahh. I see. Well, in light of your state, I’d say its high time to delve deeper into the manifestations of algidon. You seem refreshed enough to handle it.”

Master Willow led Glim into the garden, deeper than they’d ever gone before. The ground sloped upward, until Glim crested the rise of the path and looked down into a shallow depression in the ground with a pond at the bottom.

“This is perfect. Now then. Watch me.”

Master Willow extended his hand and flung a shard of ice from it.

“You’re familiar with that. It’s the same kind of ice as when you freeze the bucket. Solid. With a tight structure and long crystals.”

“Long… what?”

“Ice is made up of thousands of tiny particles. Millions, really. Have you ever seen a snowflake?”

Glim stared at his tutor as though the man had become addled. “Of course I have.”

“I don’t mean snow, you dolt. I mean a single snowflake.”

“Like the symbol of Wohn-Grab?”

“A real snowflake. A single one.” Master Willow concentrated. A puff of frosty air appeared between his hands. Fat snowflakes drifted down onto the gray stones of the walkway.

“Look here,” he said, pointing at the ground. Glim saw the delicate structure of the snowflakes just before they melted. Like lace. “These branches that form each flake are crystals. They knit together to form ice. In many different ways. Icicles differ from powdery snow, which differs from wet snow, and so on.”

Glim nodded, uncertain of where this conversation was headed.

“You can, and should, influence the structure of ice you form. Hard ice is slick and strong. Powder is soft. Ice sheets cover a wide area. Shards focus on one point. It all depends on the structure of the crystals. How they knit together. For example, here are short crystals, loosely joined.”

Master Willow punched the air, showering Glim with dry, powdery snow. Glim shook himself off and coughed. “Thank you, Master.”

“And here are long crystals, loosely joined.”

He punched the air again. Tiny daggers of ice peppered Glim’s face.

“Ow!”

“Short crystals, tightly joined.”

Master Willow gestured at the ground nearby. A wide, glassy sheet of ice covered the ground.

“And long crystals, tightly joined.”

His tutor made a sweeping motion in the air. A curved swath of ice sliced through the air. A nearby sapling trembled as its top half fell, cleanly cut in half.

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

“Almost as deadly as a sword,” the Mage-at-Arms said smugly. “You must experiment. Try to summon different forms of ice. Once size does not fit all. If you’re attacking, you probably want solid ice. If you’re distracting a crowd, you’ll want a huge billow of powder.”

“How do I choose which to summon?” Glim asked with interest.

“It’s partially in your visualization. How you summon the essentiæ, and from where. A sudden surge versus a wide net. It also has to do with balance, or the lack thereof. How much you draw on aeolia or phyr. We’ll head to the training chamber in a bit to try those out. For now, try focusing the heat around you in different ways. A single point, as you have been. Also try a looser draw. Draw out the same amount of heat, but pull it from a wider area.”

Glim closed his eyes and thought of summer sun on his skin. The familiar tingles swarmed together. But he pushed them apart.

The imaginary motion reminded Glim of something. He repeated the sensation, pushing the sparkles aside. They responded. Almost like… almost like what?

It clicked in his mind. Algidon, aeolia, and phyr. Guard, the bind, and the attack. An ice shard like a thrust. And the motion he’d just made. What would that be?

Glim opened his eyes, but at first could see nothing. Merely a swirl of white. The snow cleared. He saw the pathway, and Master Willow, covered in heaps of white powder.

“Very good. We’ll need to work on control, but you definitely have the right idea. Now let’s go hone your focus within the essentiæl pillars.”

By that evening, after a long day of trying different patterns in his mind and watching the silver columns of the training chamber flutter with varying magnitudes of light in response, Glim had gotten the hang of it. Much to Master Willow’s dismay. The envy in the man’s eyes did more for Glim’s resolve than any booklore or lecture ever could.

“Restore yourself now,” his tutor told him as Glim left the tower. “No sense risking drain.”

Rather than ask himself a bunch of silly questions, Glim broke into a run and headed straight for the guard’s quarters. He rushed into the armory and grabbed a training sword.

Garrick raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What’s got into you, lad?”

“Do you have a few minutes to spare?” Glim asked. He heard the eagerness in his own voice. The edge.

Garrick heard it too, and narrowed his eyes.

“Ye have the battle fever upon you, is that it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Hold still, then.” Garrick strapped thick felt and leather to Glim’s body, shoulders, and arms. He dunked a helmet onto Glim’s head and tightened the chin strap.

Garrick geared himself up and went to the training ground. “Alright, my boy,” he said with a grin. “Full speed, then. Let’s see if you can land a hit.”

The day had taxed Glim’s mind to its limits. He felt restless. Unbalanced. His muscles itched for the release of fatigue, to match his overworked mind. Glim felt an overwhelming need to feel solid swords striking. He craved the clack of blade against blade. Something real to replace the world of the imaginary.

He leapt at Garrick with tight, vicious thrusts, driving the man back with the ferocity of his onslaught. His blade bit deep, knocking Garrick’s guard aside, and thudding heavily against the armorer’s breastplate.

Garrick whistled. “Well done!”

Glim smiled and backed away.

“Again!” he said, and came out swinging.

————— ~~~ *** ~~~ —————

That night, Glim sank into his bedroll. His arms, legs, and stomach burned. His shoulders ached. His mind fell like pudding. Each thought like a poke that made the entire mass quiver. Exhausted in mind and body alike, he lay in bed.

Exhausted. But not drained.

By all rights he should be enveloped in sleep’s embrace by now, yet he could not settle. Some third part of him demanded attention. Neither mind, nor body, both of which he’d driven beyond the point of usefulness. Subdued as they were, they’d given rise to some ignored facet of himself which now clamored for attention.

“What now,” he groaned, begging for sleep.

The restlessness grew bolder, and Glim knew he would not sleep. He sighed and walked onto the rampart. Moonlight bathed the ice-capped mountains, undulating like frozen waves.

As if it were years ago, he thought about the various guises of ice he’d summoned. Recalled the satisfying swap of his sword against hard leather. A big day.

In fact, that very thing impeded his rest. A vague disquiet. He had, in fact, had a very big day. He’d expanded his command of essentiæ and sword alike. It seemed implausible. Like one should prevent the other.

The cost concerned him. Ease rarely came easy.

The wind tossed his nightshirt around like autumn leaves, revealing his thighs. He batted the fabric down as it giggled.

“Cut that out.”

Shouldn’t you be at rest, mister mage man? Burly blade boy?

Glim sighed. “What do you want?”

Merely to bask in the immensity of your presence.

“If you want to give me a present you’ll go away.”

It’s making me dizzy observing you. Even the air itself has limits.

“Impressed, eh? Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?”

Drain isn’t the only thing a plyer should fear.

Glim suddenly felt cold.

What’s the matter? No pithy comeback, Glim the Overconfident?

He said nothing.

You’re poor sport tonight. And you smell like sweaty flowers.

Glim watched the moonlight on the peaks and shivered.

Cat got your tongue? Maybe there’s a cat around here somewhere. I’ll go fetch it. Loosen you up some. One-sided conversations bore me.

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

About what?

“I’m not sure.”

At long last, you are making some sense.