The training grounds of Forgemire were not the manicured lawns of the Motherland; they were a scorched plateau of basalt overlooking the Great Crucible. Here, the air was a thick slurry of heat and sulfur, vibrating with the incessant thud-thud of the kingdom's industrial heart.
Kael stood at the center of the ring, his shirt discarded, skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat and the faint, orange reflection of the lava pits below. He didn't look like a Sovereign; he looked like the forge-fire itself.
Mikaela stood opposite him. The transition from the frozen spires of Kaldaria to the furnace of Forgemire had been brutal. Her breath came in shallow hitches, and her silver hair was plastered to her forehead. The cold she naturally radiated was being devoured by the atmosphere, leaving her feeling exposed and raw.
"Again," Kael commanded. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of mercy.
Mikaela lunged. She didn't use a blade; she used her palms, channeling a surge of frost-mana to create a localized vacuum of cold. Kael didn't dodge. He caught her wrists.
The contact was a physical shock. The temperature difference between them was so extreme it caused the air to crackle like a whip. Mikaela gasped as Kael's heat surged into her veins, a terrifyingly vast, golden energy that felt like molten lead.
"You're thinking like a soldier, Mikaela," Kael hissed, pulling her closer until their chests were inches apart. "You're trying to survive the heat. Don't survive it. Use the friction. If your ice doesn't melt, it can't become steam. If it can't become steam, you have no pressure."
Mikaela looked up into his brown eyes.
For a split second, the cold ambition of her "coup" faltered. She saw the exhaustion behind his gaze—the weight of the ninety-nine lives Neith had mentioned, the blood of the five hundred, and the crushing loneliness of the iron ring on his finger.
She twisted her grip, not to break away, but to slide her hand up his forearm. "And you?" she whispered, her voice strained.
"You're fighting like a man who wants to be burned. You're pouring out your mana because you're afraid to let it sit still."
Kael's eyes widened slightly. His grip on her wrists softened, just for a heartbeat. In that silence, the roar of the foundries seemed to fade. There was a strange, magnetic pull between them—a spark of recognition between two people who had both been forged into weapons against their will.
Kael's thumb brushed against the pulse-point of her wrist. It wasn't a tactical move. It was a brief, human acknowledgement of the girl behind the frost.
The moment was shattered as Kael abruptly shoved her back, his face hardening once more.
"Don't look for a soul in me, Mikaela. I told you, I'm the serpent's end. Nothing more.
"I'm not looking for a soul," Mikaela snapped, recovering her footing, her deep blue eyes burning with a new fire. "I'm looking for a weakness."
She summoned a jagged shard of ice, not aiming for his chest, but for the ground at his feet. As it shattered, she used the mist to obscure her movement, appearing behind him. She struck his shoulder, a precise, frozen blow meant to numb his casting arm.
Kael spun, laughing—a sound that was more of a growl. He caught her waist, swinging her around and pinning her back against a cooling pillar of basalt. The heat radiating from his body began to turn the frost on her clothes into mist, shrouding them both in a private, steaming world.
They were breathless, hearts hammering in a chaotic rhythm against each other.
Kael's hand hovered near her face, his fingers twitching. For a moment, it seemed he might reach out to brush the silver hair from her eyes.
"You're getting faster," he muttered, his gaze dropping to her lips before snapping back to her eyes.
"And you're getting warmer," she countered, a small, genuine smile breaking through her icy mask.
From the high balcony above, Neith watched them, her small silhouette framed by the orange glow of the city. She saw the way their mana began to braid together—the gold of the Emperor and the blue of the Tundra.
"Love and friction," Neith whispered to herself, her ancient eyes filled with a terrifying pity. "Creatrix said death keeps life going. He forgot to mention that it's the heart that makes the dying hurt."