Winter's boots echoed softly on the cold marble floors of the Schnee manor in a sound that carried too much of an unwelcome familiarity. Each step drew her deeper into a home that felt more like a mausoleum than a memory. She moved with the precision of the soldier shze had become, back straight, face calm, but the storm of emotions was harder to march away from.
The sterile and unfeeling halls were the same as she'd left them. Portraits of Schnee ancestors lined the walls while their painted eyes were watching her with the same silent judgment she once felt as a child. Winter's gaze flickered briefly to her grandfather's likeness before she forced it forward. Sentimentality was a weakness, and yet here she was, making her way to the old combat arena and his domain.
She had no illusions about the grandeur others might see in the manor. To her, it was dreary, oppressive, suffocating even. She wondered, not for the first time, how Whitley managed to breathe in it.
Whitley…
Winter's jaw tightened as she glanced back at Whitley. He walked a few paces behind her, hands clasped behind his back and eyes scanning the weapons and armor displayed along the walls. Yet, she could tell his thoughts were miles away even as he studied them.
Her little brother. So barbed-tongued and so distant.
It stirred something uneasy in her to see him trying to mimic Jacques' stride with tthe same practiced saunter as if he stood above the rest of creation. On Whitley, though, it didn't hold the same power. It looked off, far too human compared to the devil he tried to emulate.
He clung to their father's shadow like an armor. She couldn't blame him for it, not when Jacques had been the only one left for him. That thought gnawed at her, as much as she hated to admit it. The man who had been a specter of cruelty in her mind for so long had been more willing to shield and bleed for Whitley than she had.
For all his faults—and they were as countless as the drops in the sea—for all the damage he had caused, and it was as grave as the scars it left behind, Jacques had done something none of the rest of the family were brave enough to do: he stayed. He had, in his own twisted way, stepped into the role of a protector. Whether that made him more human or more monstrous, Winter couldn't say, but it left her feeling smaller all the same.
Even the Devil protects what's his, Winter thought, her lips pressing into a thin line. it also seemed that said Devil does his best work when he thinks no one's watching.
To think that all these years he was hiding all that fearsome miasma of an Aura. Of course, he had an ace up his sleeve. Winter chastised herself for once again underestimating her father.
The echo of their steps continued as they neared their destination: The late Nicholas Schnee's, the Hero of Atlas, training room.
The reason Winter had chosen that arena, and none of the others, wasn't clear even to her. It wasn't because of any grand purpose. Perhaps, it was just an instinctive pull toward a place where she had spent most of her time. Perhaps it was out of respect for her late grandfather, using his space as the stage for her brother's first step in claiming the family's prized heritage.
She held back the soft snort that threatened to escape. So much for sentimentality being a weakness.
There was no set reason. It just felt right.
During the long years Winter had lived inside the Schnee manor, the training room was perhaps the place where she spent the most time—more than her personal chamber. At first, it had been to watch the late Nicholas as he trained, listening to the tales of his adventures, those stories always filled with a kind of warmth she had seemed to find less and less at home.
After he passed, the room became hers. It was where she had learned to push herself, where the weight of family expectations didn't hang over her shoulders like a millstone.
Winter had found a kind of peace in the solitude, a place where her father's criticisms never reached her. The fact that Jacques had never bothered to enter was a relief; she didn't need to hear his disappointment echoing in every corner.
Sometimes, Winter would spend entire days locked up in here. It was a sanctuary where just her, her training, and the memories of Nicholas's stories existed. In here, there was no oppressive father, no neglectful mother, and no too-young siblings who thought her to be much greater than she ever believed herself to be.
It was just her.
And for that, Winter had been grateful.
"We're here," Winter said, her voice breaking the silence and snapping her younger brother from his musings. She stepped aside, allowing him to approach the door.
She doubted Jacques was the type of man to leave her with easy access after she had left.
He stepped ahead with that same standoffish attitude, the kind Winter knew she should disapprove of, but she couldn't help the small tug of affection it brought. It was endearing, almost adorable, in its defiance.
She carefully suppressed any sign of it, knowing all too well that showing any softness would only make him mad. She still remembered how embarrassed he had been when she hugged him earlier, and she wasn't about to make the same mistake again.
The scanner beeped, and Winter heard the familiar hum of machinery as it engaged, unlocking the door with a soft whir. Before stepping inside, however, Whitley glanced back at her, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Just so you're aware, the servants haven't finished fixing it yet."
Confused by her brother's words, Winter merely glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. A silent question played in her gaze.
Whitley didn't offer any further explanation, simply stepping aside to allow her entrance. He gestured for her to go in first, the gesture almost curt, but Winter didn't press him for more.
The specialist said nothing, silently deciding she had no choice but to play along.
As Winter passed through the wide-open door, her eyes immediately took in the surroundings. Her breath caught, and her eyes widened slightly at what lay before her.
The eldest Schnee child knew the layout of the room like the back of her hand. But calling it a mere room was an understatement. It was, by far, the largest space in the manor. Situated underground, it sprawled like a massive cavern.
The distance between each facing wall stretched over a mile, offering ample space for any combat training, no matter the scale.
The room was equipped with everything a huntsman could possibly need, no matter their training regiment or fighting style. Weights, combat androids, and a dizzying array of weapons lined the walls—everything from traditional swords and knives to dust-powered weaponry, even if their models would be considered a bit outdated today.
There were grenades, rifles, machine guns, and even some types of cannons. Walls and pillars, some oddly shaped, littered the space. These obstacles were positioned to simulate the kind of terrain huntsmen often faced in real battles. The late Head of the house had insisted they were essential for a realistic training experience.
This room, for all intents and purposes, was a battle junkie's wet dream for the lack of better phrasing. And yet, despite its grandeur, it had remained for all purposes unchanged from its inception to the last time Winter had closed the door behind her nearly five years ago.
But now...
As Winter gazed upon the current state of the training room, disbelief settled over her. Her first thought was that she had somehow wandered into the wrong room, but she quickly pushed that idea aside. There was no way she, of all people, could make such a mistake.
This was definitely the training room, but it no longer looked the same.
What the hell happened here?
'This was the place.' She realized a fraction of a second later. This was where the White Fang scum had been confronted by Jacques.
The entire place was in ruins. The obstacles were nearly all destroyed. The combat androids, which once stood as a proud testament to the Schnee family's resources, were now stacked in one corner, a massive pile of twisted and broken parts. Not a single one was in one piece, let alone usable.
The ground was covered in countless bullets and slugs, scattered among weapons that were either broken or empty. The floor was more shattered than intact, and blackened, with all sorts of spent and detonated dust scattered across the area. The smell of burnt flesh and spent dust lingered heavily in the air. But aside from the soot, there were no signs of any bodies.
Had they been blasted to ash? A possibility, given the explosion, seemed powerful enough to blow apart the farthest wall and reduce what appeared to be an Armored Giant unit to a cooling pool of steel.
But then again, they could have simply been removed quickly.
Winter turned to look at Whitley.
As if reading her mind, Whitley spoke with an expression that nearly broke her heart. "The official statement of the Schnee household: There was no attack. There were no terrorists. The Schnee Manor was never infiltrated."
Just as she had expected. Jacques—and Ironwood—likely wanted to keep it all under wraps.
Craters of varying sizes marked the room. Some were flat, as though caused by something very heavy stomping down, while others were jagged like something had dug into the earth. Entire boulders had been ripped from the ground and thrown around carelessly.
But the most consistent sign was the massive pattern in the ground. Concave tracks with horizontal lines ran across the floor. The destruction was evident on nearly every surface, except for the ceiling as if a massive drill had been let loose in the room. Or said drill was chasing something or someone.
Winter moved closer, studying the tracks more carefully. She spotted three other sets. One in the center, no larger than a man's foot, and the other two, nearly identical, claw marks—like that of a wolf. 'Wolf Faunus,' she thought, recognizing the pattern. Not far from the marks, she noticed a small piece of what seemed to be wood. But when she inspected it closer, she realized it wasn't wood at all—it was bone. And nearby, a tuft of fur. 'A Stag Faunus.'
Those bastards...
She stared ahead, her eyes narrowing as she followed the tracks. They led to a wall, where they disappeared into a large hole that opened into the Dust storage chamber on the other side.
That's what caused the explosion, she realized.
It was becoming clear that this wasn't a simple one-on-one fight. Her father had likely had to fend off more than one assassin. The level of destruction suggested that at least over two dozen huntsmen had been involved. Otherwise, Jacques wouldn't have used the Androids.
That many huntsmen had infiltrated without being seen.
It could have been a Maiden, something whispered in the back of her mind. She shook her head at the thought. That was impossible. Even if it explained the suddenness, stealth of infiltration, and the level of destruction.
Turning back to Whitley, Winter asked again, her voice more insistent this time, "What happened here?"
He didn't answer right away, but when he did, Whitley's voice seemed almost distant as he spoke. His hands clenched into fists, and his knuckles turned white with tension. "I was in my room. Just doing... Economics, whatever," The words came out with a bitterness that almost felt too normal for this situation.
"Then, suddenly, alarms blared throughout the manor. Father's voice echoed over the intercom, ordering the guards and the staff to form a perimeter. He told them not to let anyone enter, and to focus on protecting Wi-mother and me. The guards dragged me into a bunker on the other side of the house."
Winter listened carefully, her mind processing each word. Whitley had never shown much fear, but there was a slight crack in his voice as he remembered the events. To make her little brother so shaken. Winter tried not to let the seething rage bubbling beneath her skin show on her face. Unforgivable.
"I knew something was wrong," he continued with seeping anger. "Father... he actively avoided this place. But the guards wouldn't let me out. They didn't care. They kept saying I couldn't leave. Father had been pretty adamant that he'd ruin the life of anyone who dared approach. If they didn't die first."
Winter felt a chill at his words. To go so far to even threaten the staff? That was not Jacque's usual style. However, such an extreme reaction made sense now. Jacques had clearly known something was coming, and the threats and the guards' strict orders to keep them contained' was an unsaid and implicit order for the staff to know what to expect.
Maybe...by making sure there were no other witnesses other than him, Jacques could have the servants and guards claim ignorance if questioned. The house staff could easily falsify reports, avoiding any alarms or detection by security systems or lie detectors, whether mechanical or human.
A suspicion she had been trying to ignore was now growing stronger, but she couldn't deny it. Another name had been added to her list.
"And then…" Whitley continued and his eyes tried to blink the wetness away. "For over an hour, we just sat there. Gunfire and explosions echoed through the manor. Then, Father's voice came again, saying it was clear. It was over."
Her little brother's face twisted with the effort of holding it all together, and Winter stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. He didn't brush her off, which spoke volumes about how hard this was for him. "It's okay," she said softly
"I rushed to him," he said, his voice faltering. "Found him walking out of the room… covered in blood. His expression was… like nothing I'd ever seen. It was pure murder. He looked like he'd been through hell, but he didn't care. He was bleeding everywhere and..injured, but he just kept walking. It was like he didn't even notice."
Whitley's breath hitched, and Winter's stomach twisted, feeling the pain he was trying to suppress. "When he saw me…" his voice broke. "He just patted my head and told me not to worry about it." Whitley gently touched his hair in memory."And then he collapsed. He was bleeding everywhere. And... I thought…"
She didn't push him. She simply waited, her arms went around him, and she hugged him again, offering him the quiet support he needed.
"I thought he was going to die right there," Whitley murmured into her shoulder. His fists were still clenched at his sides, and his body was taut with barely contained tension. "I thought… he was already gone. He just collapsed there in front of me. And then—" He stopped, swallowing hard, trying to push the memory away. "And then he just… passed out."
Winter tightened her hug for a moment before breaking, and facing him."But he didn't," she said softly. "He's still here. And so are you."
Whitley let out a shaky breath, stepping back and rubbing his eyes quickly, as though embarrassed by his outburst. "Yeah. He survived. Of course, he did," he muttered, his voice regaining its usual sharpness, though it wavered at the edges. "Father doesn't just… die."
Winter nodded, choosing not to push further.
Whitley stared at his feet, his voice quieter now. "It's… frustrating. Knowing that because of me… I could do nothing."
Winter stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. "The only thing you can do is get stronger," she said gently, pulling him into a one-armed hug. To her relief, this time, he didn't shrug her off. "That's why I'm here: to help you."
He sniffled but nodded. "Yeah…"
"Come on," Winter said, guiding him out of the room. "Let's head to your room. It's clear we won't be using this space for a while."
It didn't take long for them to reach his room. Through it all, Winter buried the simmering rage at what those White Fang bastards had put her brother through. The unrelenting desire to hunt them down and string every last one of them up until they gave her what she wanted gnawed at her, but she forced herself to focus.
She couldn't help but notice, though, that Whitley seemed just a little less antagonistic toward her. It wasn't much, but it was there. Of course, she said nothing, knowing full well that any comment would likely ruin the fragile progress they'd made.
Once inside his room, his personal sanctuary, Winter spent the next few hours walking him through the basics. She covered the necessary details about Aura, explaining its significance, and Semblance, outlining how it would eventually manifest. From there, she went over the exercises he would need to practice to prepare for the next steps.
It spoke volumes of her little brother's resilience that Winter hadn't noticed the passing of time until evening. They were interrupted when the door creaked open, and Jacques' head peeked through.
He saw them and smiled a genuine smile, free of his usual hostility or mockery. It had been years since Winter had seen such an expression on his face. "Ah! There you are," Jacques said, stepping fully into the room. "I've been looking all over for you."
"Father," Whitley exclaimed, standing up and rushing to greet him. Jacques laughed, ruffling his son's hair with uncharacteristic warmth.
Winter stayed where she was, silently watching the two of them. Something about the scene unsettled her in a way she couldn't quite explain.
Winter ignored the nagging pathetic little girl voice in her mind and focused on Jacques. To her surprise, the bandages on his limbs were gone, and his posture was unnaturally still, almost composed.
What truly caught her attention, though, was his Aura. It still carried that unsettling, disgusting feeling, but it seemed tempered now. The tendrils had shrunk and were clinging closer to him than before. Was the earlier chaotic thrashing related to injuries?
Her thoughts were interrupted by Jacques' laughter. She turned, her eyes widening as something leaped from his shadow—a ball of some sort. Storage Semblance? Teleportation? It would explain the missing bodies earlier— and landed in his hand with ease.
"So," Jacques said with the same grin, "ready for the away game, boy?"
Whitley nodded enthusiastically, catching Winter completely off guard.
She watched in confusion as the two made their way out of the room. Just as she started processing, Jacques' head popped back in "You coming?" he asked with a raised brow.
Hesitantly, Winter followed.
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An hour later, Winter found herself lying barefoot on the ground, her teeth clenched as she fought the urge to hurl a vase at Jacques' head as he laughed like a madman, running with the ball toward her makeshift 'goal'.
The only reason she held back was the sight of her little brother, laughing like a carefree child for once.
Still, she rose to her feet and ran after Jacques. If this is what he wants to play...
And wasn't that a whole affair? Winter was playing with the man she spent her life hating.
She'd show the bastard what a "Propah Brexit tackle" - whatever that even meant- looked like!