The trek back to the capital was, by all accounts, a masterclass in psychological warfare.
Kazriel didn't use his gravity magic to traverse the deep snow anymore. Oh no. That would have been "inefficient." Instead, he spent the better part of the journey critiquing Amien's ability to pull a sled piled high with three crates of "essential supplies"—which consisted entirely of Aria's favorite snacks, a few bottles of vintage wine, and a set of professional-grade tailoring supplies Kazriel had specially ordered via messenger falcon the second they left the cave.
"Left foot, Amien! You're dragging your left heel," Kazriel shouted from the comfortable, wind-shielded bubble Aria had crafted for them. He was currently reclined on a floating slab of obsidian, sipping tea that was somehow still piping hot despite the blizzard. "A rockstar who can't keep a rhythm while pulling luggage? This is why your charts dropped in the third quarter of your previous life, isn't it?"
Amien was panting, his lungs burning with the sub-zero air, his dragon scales struggling to keep his internal temperature above 'hypothermic popsicle.' "I... I was a vocalist... not a pack mule..." he wheezed, his boots sinking two feet deep into a fresh drift.
"And now you're a mule who needs to work on his vocal range," Aria added, not looking up from her book. She reached out a finger, flicking a tiny, concentrated gust of wind that knocked Amien's balance just enough to make him face-plant into a snowbank. "Oops. My hand slipped. Try to keep up, darling, we're on a schedule."
"You two are literal demons," Amien mumbled into the snow, shivering as he stood back up.
"Demons have standards," Kazriel corrected, floating effortlessly past him. "We, however, have a very specific vision for your 'career transition.' Once we reach the Duchy, you have a private audience with the royal tailor. I believe we discussed the color palette? We decided on a vibrant, neon yellow. Very... pickle-esque."
Amien stopped walking. He looked at the vast, desolate mountain pass, then at the two power-crazed nobles who were effectively holding his dignity hostage.
"If I unlock the second stage of the Dragon Awakening, can I skip the suit?"
Kazriel paused his tea mid-sip, his eyes narrowing. "Amien, if you unlock the second stage, I'll let you choose the fabric. But the suit stays. Do you think I'm doing this because I'm bored? This is about character building. You bullied a genius. Now, the genius is going to mold you into something... palatable."
"I think I preferred the bandit encampment," Amien sighed, grabbing the ropes of the sled again.
"The bandits were honest," Aria laughed, her voice like wind chimes in the cold. "They only wanted to kill us. We, on the other hand, want to refine you. It's much, much worse."
As they crested the final ridge, the lights of the capital began to twinkle in the distance like a cruel, warm promise of comfort that Amien was definitely not going to be receiving. Kazriel stood up on his floating slab, looking down at his exhausted disciple with a grin that could only be described as diabolical.
"Smile, Amien," Kazriel chirped. "Only fifty miles left. And I've decided to add an extra hour of 'singing practice' to your nightly routine. I believe the anthem of the Duchy requires a very high falsetto. Let's see if you've still got it."