The room was dark when Halric woke, a heavy, blue-gray hush pressing against the frost-laced windowpanes. The world outside was muffled—silent in the way only deep snow could make it, every sound dulled, every ray of sunlight smothered beneath a thick, unbroken blanket. For a moment, he lay still, cocooned beneath the quilt, watching the faint, milky glow seep around the edges of the curtains.
Crack… the bed frame creaked quietly as he finally sat up, a shiver running through him as the cold reached out from every corner of the attic. The chill was sharper than before, lingering in the air and biting at his skin the instant he threw back the covers.
He pulled his woolen socks on with numb fingers, breath puffing out in pale clouds as he padded across the wooden floor.
Tap-tap-tap…
Each step sent a little shock of cold up his legs. He made his way to the washstand, squinting as he poured water from the jug into the basin. The liquid glimmered, icy and still, as if daring him to touch it.
Halric stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin, the shadows painting his face with strange angles.
"Why does it always feel colder the morning after a snowfall?" he muttered, running a hand through hair that caught the dim light in silver streaks.
"Should've asked Mrs. Marrin for a fire charm… or a better blanket."
He braced himself, dipped his hands into the basin.
Splash…
The shock of cold was immediate, sharp enough to make him gasp.
"Ancient gates, that's freezing." He splashed his face quickly, the water biting at his cheeks and ears. The chill drove away the last of sleep, but left him feeling raw and exposed.
"If this is what getting old feels like, I need to renegotiate with the universe."
He lingered, palms pressed to the sides of the basin, breathing in the sharp, clean scent of snow that seemed to have seeped even into the wood of the walls.
"Maybe today will be different," he told the reflection quietly.
"Or at least warmer."
Still wrapped in his nightshirt, he shuffled over to the small, rune-etched heater tucked into the corner. With a practiced flick, he pressed his thumb to the activation glyph.
Fwoosh.
A gentle blue flame shimmered to life, spreading warmth through the chill air. He stood close for a minute, letting the heat soak into his bones.
"Luxury is relative," he mused.
"A bath without freezing is worth more than half the city's gold."
Halric filled the tin tub carefully, steam rising in wispy ribbons as the heater did its work. He eased in, sighing as the heat chased away the last of the morning's bite.
Plip… plip…
Water echoed softly against the enamel. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift in the warmth.
"Too quiet this morning," he thought, tracing a finger through the condensation on the rim.
"No bakery sounds, no street vendors yet. Just snow and silence." His mind wandered to the day ahead—the stack of reports, the errands he'd promised to run, the quiet weight of the city's needs.
"If every day started this slow, maybe I'd actually get enough sleep." He smiled to himself, imagining a world where time was as gentle as this bath.
When he finally stepped out, the air felt almost balmy by comparison. He dressed quickly, layering wool over linen, pulling on an old sweater that smelled faintly of lavender and smoke.
"One more day," he said, voice low,
"just keep the gears turning."
He moved about the room, gathering his things with practiced care—ledger, notebook, a stub of charcoal wrapped in cloth, the old silver badge from the Academy.
Rustle… thunk…
Each item found its place in his battered satchel. He double-checked the small pouch of coin, the spare gloves, the folded shopping list tucked into a side pocket.
Standing in the middle of the little attic, Halric took one last look around. The snow outside pressed close against the glass, muting even the faint glow of morning.
"Time to face the cold," he told himself, shouldering the satchel and pausing to press his palm to the heater's glyph, dimming it to a faint, watchful pulse.
Click.
The latch on the door gave way quietly as he made his way out, footsteps muffled by the old rug.
"Let's see what this day wants from me," he thought, and descended into the warmth and bustle he knew would soon fill the bakery below.
When Halric reached the foot of the stairs, he paused, surprised by the hush that lingered in the bakery. The usual morning chorus was missing—the clatter of plates, the laughter of early customers, and the cheerful gossip drifting from crowded tables. Instead, only the faint crackle from the oven and the distant hum of the heater filled the air.
Mrs. Marrin was behind the counter, kneading dough with her sleeves rolled up, her brow furrowed in concentration. A single customer sat by the window, bundled in a thick scarf, staring mournfully at the snow outside.
Halric blinked, glancing around at the empty tables.
"It's awfully quiet down here, Mrs. Marrin. Where'd everyone disappear to? Did I sleep through breakfast rush, or is there a new bakery in town giving out free buns?"
Mrs. Marrin didn't look up, but her lips quirked in amusement.
"Oh, you'd know if there was free food anywhere nearby. No, dear, it's just the snow." She jerked her chin toward the window.
Halric stepped over, squinting past the fogged glass. The world outside was a wall of white—the snow piled high, nearly up to the knees of the lone milkman wading past. Half the storefronts looked buried, their signs just peeking above the drifts.
He let out a low whistle.
"That's… impressive. I knew it was cold, but I didn't realize I'd need snowshoes just to get to the market."
Mrs. Marrin snorted and pointed at a battered shovel propped by the door, its blade caked with snow.
"You can blame that for the quiet. I've only managed to clear half the path out front. The rest will have to wait until I've got two pairs of arms or a miracle."
Halric grinned, stretching his arms above his head.
"Well, you're in luck. I just so happen to be an expert in shoveling—trained by the finest orphanage in Valoria. Besides, I need to warm up before breakfast or I'll freeze solid before my first bite."
He grabbed the shovel and twirled it theatrically.
"If I don't come back, tell Sera she can have my leftover paperwork."
Mrs. Marrin rolled her eyes, though her smile softened.
"If you don't make it back, I'll eat your breakfast myself. And don't think I'll save you any honey buns, either."
Halric pressed a hand to his heart in mock offense.
"You wound me, Mrs. Marrin. Braving the arctic wasteland, and this is the thanks I get?"
She waved him off with a floury hand.
"Get moving, hero. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can eat—and the less chance you have of turning into a frozen statue out there."
"Deal," Halric replied, already heading for the door. He pulled on his scarf, braced himself, and stepped out into the blinding white.
Crunch… crunch…
The snow gave way beneath his boots, each step heavy but oddly satisfying. The cold bit at his cheeks, but the work soon had him sweating, his breath puffing out in great white clouds.
He glanced back through the window to see Mrs. Marrin watching him, a smirk on her face as she pretended to tally up how much breakfast he'd have to earn by shoveling an extra meter.
Halric grinned, hefting another shovelful, and called out—voice muffled by the scarf,
"If you hear a yelp, it's just me discovering the secret tunnel to the bakery next door!"
Mrs. Marrin's laughter was bright, echoing out into the snow.
"Careful out there, Halric! And don't you dare dig your way to the competition—I've got my eye on you!"
With the cold stinging his nose and the snow rising almost to his knees, Halric shoveled on, the world silent but for the rhythm of his work and the warmth of Mrs. Marrin's voice drifting out every now and then. It wasn't the morning he'd expected, but as he cleared the path, he felt a sense of purpose—simple, wholesome, and warmer than the heater upstairs could ever manage.
Halric dug the shovel into the drift with a satisfying sccrrunch, the blade biting through the packed snow. He worked steadily, each heave sending a spray of powder tumbling off the path and into the ever-growing mounds flanking the bakery. The snowfall had finally stopped, leaving the street quiet and crisp, the air clear and sharp enough to sting his nose.
Huff… thump… swish…
He found a rhythm, the cold biting at his cheeks and ears even as his body grew warm beneath his coat.
"Almost done," he muttered, pausing to catch his breath and squinting up at the pale sky.
"Who needs a gym when you've got Valoria's winter?"
He pressed on, clearing a neat path to the bakery door and tossing the last shovelful aside with a triumphant whack. He leaned on the shovel, breathing hard, a few stray flakes clinging to his hair and eyebrows.
"Well, that's one way to work up an appetite." He glanced back at the window to see Mrs. Marrin giving him an approving nod.
Stepping inside, Halric was hit by a wave of warmth and the sweet scent of baking bread. He stamped his boots and shook off the snow, grinning.
"Mission accomplished! I'm officially warmed up, though I think my sweat's already frozen solid. Is there a prize for surviving the Valoria tundra?"
Mrs. Marrin laughed, waving him to his usual table.
"The only prize you're getting is a hot breakfast and maybe a second helping if you can thaw out in time. Sit, sit—before you turn into a snowman and scare the customers."
Halric collapsed into his chair with a dramatic sigh.
Whump.
"I'll take whatever you've got, as long as it's hot and filling. I think my bones are still rattling."
As if on cue, the bell above the door jingled.
Ding-a-ling!
A pair of neighbors shuffled in, stamping snow from their boots and greeting Mrs. Marrin. One gave Halric a friendly nod as he peeled off his scarf.
"Morning, Halric! You the one who cleared out front? Bless you—nearly twisted my ankle on that drift."
Halric grinned, flexing his fingers.
"That's me. Just doing my civic duty—and trying not to freeze solid before breakfast."
Mrs. Marrin slid a steaming mug of tea and a plate of eggs and toast in front of him.
"He's modest. He saved my back, too. Now he gets to eat like a hero."
Halric took a grateful sip, letting the warmth chase away the chill.
"Thanks. Tell me—was there a blizzard last night? I slept through the whole thing, but it looks like half the city got buried."
One of the newcomers chuckled, settling at the next table.
"You must've been sleeping like the dead, Halric. Wind was howling all night! Thought my shutters would come off."
The other nodded, rubbing his hands together.
"Worst snow in years, they say. Even the milkman said he had to dig his cart out."
Mrs. Marrin shook her head, setting out more mugs.
"I was up before dawn, and the drifts were already up to my knees. If this keeps up, we'll be tunneling to the bakery before winter's done."
Halric laughed, breaking off a piece of toast.
"If that happens, I'll start charging admission for the 'Valoria Winter Adventure.' First stop: Mrs. Marrin's famous honey buns."
The table erupted with easy laughter, the warmth of food and conversation pushing back the last of the morning's cold. Outside, the snow gleamed in the weak sunlight, but inside, the bakery glowed with the promise of another ordinary, extraordinary day.
From his seat by the window, Halric watched as a group of bundled-up children tumbled past, shrieking with laughter.
Whap!—a snowball exploded against one boy's shoulder, sending him careening into a drift while the others cheered. Even the grumpy milkman couldn't help but smile as he carefully skirted their battle zone.
Mrs. Marrin caught him looking and chuckled.
"They've been at it since sunrise. I hope their mothers have extra mittens."
Halric grinned, finishing off the last bite of toast.
"At least someone's making the most of all this snow. If I tried that, I'd pull a muscle within five minutes."
One of the neighbors at the next table joined in,
"You'd last two, tops. Kids have magic in their bones, I swear."
Ding-a-ling!
The bakery door swung open again, letting in a rush of cold and another cluster of red-faced children, chattering about who had the best aim.
Halric pushed back his chair, stretching.
Scrape.
"Duty calls—time to see if the office still exists under all that snow."
Mrs. Marrin waved a wooden spoon at him.
"Don't slip or you'll track half the street back in here!"
Halric gave her a mock salute.
"If I do, I'll sweep it up myself. See you at lunch!"
He stepped outside, scarf snug around his neck, breath curling in the air. The world was bright and alive, the hush of snow broken by joyful shouts and the thunk of snowballs hitting home. A pair of teenagers were busy rolling a lopsided snowman, their laughter carrying down the lane.
As Halric passed the greengrocer's, he waved at the owner—she leaned on her broom, grinning.
"No deliveries today, Halric! Lost my cart somewhere beneath all this."
He laughed, sidestepping a stray snowball.
"If you find it, let me know—I could use a ride!"
Most of the shops were shuttered, their signs frosted over, but as Halric neared Master Torlan's smithy, he noticed the snow on the cobbles was nearly gone. The doors stood open, heat pouring out into the street and sending up little wisps of steam.
Torlan himself stood in the doorway, arms folded.
"Morning, Halric! Looks like you survived the blizzard."
Halric grinned.
"Barely. I see you've invented a new way to keep your doorstep clear. Maybe you can bottle some of that heat for the rest of us."
Torlan barked a laugh.
"You shovel my snow, I'll give you a handful for free. Fair trade?"
Halric shook his head, smiling as he continued on.
"Tempting offer, but I think I've hit my quota for the day."
Crunch, crunch…
His boots carried him through the stillness, the city transformed and shining. Everywhere, the first snow had brought a little magic, and Halric felt it settle in his chest—a quiet, hopeful warmth that lasted all the way to the office door.
The sky was a patchwork of heavy clouds, but the sunlight managed to break through in bright, chilly beams. Even so, the air bit at Halric's cheeks as he walked, making him tuck his scarf a little tighter.
He turned into the city plaza, boots crunching over the packed snow. For a moment, the world seemed almost peaceful—until suddenly, a shadow loomed over him. The sunlight vanished.
Whump!
A gigantic snowball—easily half his size—came hurtling from nowhere and slammed into his side, sending him stumbling with a yelp.
"GARRON!" Halric shouted, brushing snow from his coat and hair, face twisted in outrage.
"Are you trying to kill me? Or are you just jealous of my shoveling skills?"
Thud, crunch, ha-ha-ha! Garron stood a few paces away, grinning like a mischievous child, hands already scooping up more snow.
"Relax, Halric! You call that a snowball fight? That was just a warm-up. You looked like you needed to cool off!"
Halric glared, dodging as Garron packed another snowball.
"If I end up in the healer's ward, I'm blaming you in my report!"
Just then, Sera strode across the plaza, arms full of paperwork. She didn't see the second snowball coming until it sailed over Halric's shoulder and smacked her, fwump, right on the arm.
She stopped dead, glasses askew, lips pressed into a thin, dangerous line.
Garron pointed at Halric with a straight face.
"He did it! I saw him—dead-eye aim, right at you, Sera!"
Halric sputtered.
"What?! I wasn't—Garron, you snow-brained troll, you're the one—!"
"Oh, sure!" Garron shot back, already rolling another snowball.
"Blame the Metron, classic Halric move. Next thing you'll say I started the blizzard too!"
"You nearly flattened me!" Halric protested, voice rising.
"If I wanted to attack Sera, I wouldn't use a snowball the size of a cartwheel!"
Garron grinned, eyes gleaming.
"Admit it, you're just jealous of my technique. Yours wouldn't even dent a rookie's armor!"
Halric scooped a handful of snow, packing it tight.
"Why don't you stand still and let me demonstrate, genius?"
Sera watched, her glare icy enough to freeze the whole plaza.
"Are you two finished acting like children, or do I have to hex you both where you stand?"
Halric and Garron fell silent, caught mid-snowball, exchanging looks of mock innocence.
She jabbed a finger toward the town hall.
"Office. Now. And if either of you so much as mention snow before lunch, I'll have you shoveling every street in Valoria."
Halric sighed, tossing his snowball harmlessly aside.
"Yes, Vice Metron," he muttered, shooting Garron a sidelong glare.
Garron shrugged, brushing snow off his sleeves.
"Worth it."
Clomp, clomp, clomp—the three of them marched off across the plaza, Sera leading the way, her silence promising retribution if either of them stepped out of line again.
Clomp, clomp, clomp—Garron and Halric trudged behind Sera, still flicking snow from their sleeves and muttering under their breath.
Garron leaned in, voice low but theatrical.
"You know, Halric, if you actually aimed your snowballs, maybe Sera would believe you're not guilty."
Halric shot him a glare.
"Says the man who throws snow like he's launching siege weapons. One of these days you're going to take out a window. Or a small child."
Garron grinned, unfazed.
"Better than your 'gentle flurries.' You throw like you're afraid of offending the snow."
Halric huffed,
"At least I don't need a battering ram just to have some fun. You ever try finesse?"
Sera, walking ahead, pinched the bridge of her nose but kept moving. As they reached the town hall's heavy doors, she pushed them open with a little more force than necessary.
Creak—thud!
The warmth and scent of polished wood greeted them.
At the reception desk, Lira looked up from behind her fortress of ledgers, quill poised mid-air. She arched an eyebrow, taking in the snow-dusted pair trailing behind Sera.
"Morning. Looks like a blizzard swept through the plaza. Or did you two decide to wrestle a snowman?"
Sera shook her head, lips twitching with reluctant amusement.
"Just the usual—these two couldn't make it to the office without starting a war. Garron's snowball nearly flattened Halric, and then they tried to drag me into it."
Lira smirked.
"Ah, so Tuesday, then?"
Halric tried to look innocent.
"In my defense, I was a victim of circumstance. And gravity. And Garron's complete lack of self-control."
Garron snorted.
"Victim? You're the one who started packing snow like you were baking muffins! My grandmother could throw better."
"Yeah? At least your grandmother doesn't aim for people's heads!" Halric retorted, jabbing Garron's arm with a finger.
Sera snapped her fingers, her voice sharp as a cracked whip.
"Enough! Both of you—office. Now. I want you at your desks before one more snowflake hits the floor."
Garron muttered,
"She's scarier than a mana surge."
Halric whispered back,
"Shh, she'll hear you. She always hears."
Sera raised an eyebrow, not even turning around.
"And I'll hear you both explain to the council why you're late—again."
Garron and Halric exchanged a look, then shuffled off toward the stairs, still grumbling.
Step, step, creak… as they started their ascent.
Garron nudged Halric, voice pitched for Lira's benefit.
"Bet you five coins she'll make us mop the hall next."
Halric replied, deadpan,
"Only if you don't break the mop like last time, genius."
Lira called after them,
"Try not to set the office on fire, boys! I just got the insurance forms in order."
Garron shot back,
"No promises! Blame Halric if you see smoke."
Halric rolled his eyes,
"Blame me and I'll tell Sera you were the one who put salt in her tea last week."
Garron gasped,
"You swore you'd never mention that!"
Their voices faded up the stairwell, still bickering like overgrown schoolboys.
Meanwhile, Sera leaned on the desk, letting out a long-suffering sigh.
"Some days I wonder why I didn't just open a flower shop."
Lira handed her a stack of fresh papers with a sly grin.
"Because then you'd only have to deal with bees, not buffoons."
Sera almost smiled.
"Honestly, I'd take my chances with the bees."
Behind them, a muffled crash echoed from above.
Lira shook her head.
"And there they go. I'd better file a repair request."
Sera just nodded, gathering her composure.
"At least it's never boring."
The morning at Valoria's city hall, as ever, was off to a lively start.
Sera gave Lira a weary wave.
"Later, Lira. Wish me luck—I'll need it," she said, grabbing her satchel and heading toward the stairs.
Lira just grinned, calling after her,
"Luck won't help, but earplugs might!"
As Sera climbed, the bickering of Garron and Halric grew louder, echoing down the stairwell.
"You missed by a mile, snowbrain!"
"At least my aim's better than your handwriting, old man!"
"That wasn't a signature, that was a cry for help!"
"Keep talking and I'll start aiming for your coffee!"
Sera reached the office just in time to see a paper ball bounce off Garron's head, ricochet off Halric's shoulder, and land neatly in the wastebasket. Garron pumped his fist in triumph.
"Ha! Three points!"
Halric shot back,
"Only counts if you call the shot, genius!"
Garron grabbed another sheet.
"Oh, I'll call it—right between your—"
Sera cleared her throat, arms folded and one eyebrow raised. The room froze mid-battle.
"Gentlemen," she said, voice dangerously calm,
"if I see one more paper ball fly, I'm putting both of you on snow-shoveling duty. For the whole week."
A beat of silence. Then, in perfect unison, Garron and Halric dropped their makeshift ammo and slid into their chairs, suddenly model employees.
Sera nodded, satisfied, and sat at her desk. For a moment, blessed quiet reigned.
Outside the office, Lira could be heard muttering,
"And they say town hall work is boring…"
After a few moments of rare quiet, Sera cleared her throat, drawing both men's attention.
"All right, since you two are so full of energy this morning, I have just the jobs for you," she said, tapping her pen on a fresh stack of papers.
"Garron, you're overseeing rookie training today. Help them adapt to the snow and make sure they learn how to use the indoor training ground here at city hall. No more 'accidental' snowball fights in the archive wing."
Garron gave a wry salute, already grinning.
"You got it, Vice Metron. I'll have those rookies running laps until their boots melt."
Sera ignored him and turned to Halric.
"Halric, I want you to look into the problems we've been having with the new rookies. There's a rumor going around that they're not getting along—some sort of feud or rivalry. Find out what's going on, talk to them, and see if you can't smooth things over. I expect a report from both of you on my desk by tomorrow morning."
Halric straightened, giving a mock bow.
"Investigation and mediation, my specialties. I'll see what I can do to keep them from tearing each other's scarves off."
Garron shot him a sideways smirk.
"Race you, Halric. Bet I'll whip my lot into shape before you even figure out which end of the rookie is up."
Halric grinned back.
"Winner gets first pick at Mrs. Marrin's honey buns tomorrow?"
"You're on," Garron said, holding out a gloved hand.
Halric shook it, both men rising from their chairs with renewed purpose—and a hint of mischief.
Sera just rolled her eyes.
"If you two put half as much effort into your actual work as you do into your bets, this city would run itself."
"Then you'd be out of a job, Vice Metron," Garron called over his shoulder as he headed for the door.
Halric winked at Sera.
"Don't worry, we'll leave you some paperwork." And with that, the two set off, each determined to outdo the other—one in the training yard, the other in the rookie barracks, both certain of sweet victory (and sweeter pastries) to come.
## === ##
Garron clomped down the corridor, the steady thud of his boots echoing off the stone walls as he made his way to the training yard. The cold was sharper here, seeping in around the doors and windows, but Garron didn't mind—he'd grown up in Valoria's winters, and the crisp bite in the air only woke him up further.
He pushed open the heavy door to the yard.
Creak…
The morning light spilled inside, glinting off the white-dusted flagstones. The yard was ringed by a low wall, drifts of snow pressed up against it, and the breath of every person hung in the air like little ghosts.
A dozen rookies stood huddled near the center, shifting from foot to foot, some rubbing their arms, others gazing nervously at the snow. Their uniforms looked stiff, the fabric still too new, and more than one helmet was slightly askew. Garron took a moment to watch them, remembering his own first winter training—how the cold seemed to get into your bones, how every slip felt like the end of the world.
He clapped his hands together, the sharp crack cutting through the chatter.
"All right! Listen up!" His voice carried, rough but not unkind, a note of warmth beneath the command.
The rookies snapped to attention, or at least tried to—one nearly losing his balance and having to steady himself with a sheepish grin.
Garron strode in front of them, arms folded.
"Welcome to winter training, Valoria style. If you thought the hardest part was getting out of bed this morning, let me assure you, the city's snow has higher standards than that." He paused, letting the rookies chuckle, a little of the tension melting away.
He continued, pacing slowly, his boots crunching on the thin layer of ice.
"You'll face two enemies out here—one is the cold, which'll freeze your fingers before you even draw your sword, and the other is the snow, which'll trip you up and laugh as you fall. But if you can learn to work together, to watch each other's backs and share what you know, you'll find those enemies aren't so scary after all."
He stopped, looking each rookie in the eye, his tone softening just a little.
"Out in the field, it won't matter who's the fastest or the strongest. What matters is that you don't let each other fall behind. That's how we keep Valoria safe—and ourselves in one piece."
There was a respectful silence, broken only by the distant caw of a crow overhead.
Garron nodded, satisfied, and gestured toward the far end of the yard, where the snow had been left untouched.
"First, you're going to learn how to move in this stuff. It'll feel like your boots are filled with bricks, and I promise, you'll all be soaked before we're done. But that's how you build endurance—so when you're out there on a real call, you don't freeze up, literally or otherwise."
He clapped his hands again.
Crack!
"Pair up! You'll run the perimeter—two laps, no shortcuts. Help your partner if they slip, and don't let me catch you slacking. After that, we'll work on sword drills and shield formations—indoors, if the snow picks up again. Ready?"
A few rookies groaned quietly, but most squared their shoulders. One, a tall girl with a braid nearly as long as her arm, grinned at her partner.
"Race you to the far wall, slowpoke."
Garron grinned, stepping back as the rookies shuffled into pairs.
"That's the spirit. On my mark—three, two, one… go!"
Thud, thud, thud—boots pounded the snow, laughter and shouts rising above the morning hush as the rookies set off around the yard. Garron watched them, arms folded against the cold, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Not bad," he murmured, watching as one rookie slipped and another pulled him up, both laughing by the time they found their feet.
"Not bad at all."
The training yard came alive with the sounds of winter—crunching snow, ragged breaths, the occasional clatter of shields—and, beneath it all, the steady, reassuring presence of a veteran who remembered what it was to be new, and cold, and determined to prove himself.
The training yard now echoed with the noise and energy of the rookies, all of whom were CQC (close-quarters combat) Guardian trainees. Their focus was on swordplay, shields, body movement, and teamwork in the thick of danger—every drill underscored by the crunch of boots in snow and the clang of practice blades. Garron watched them run, spar, and stumble, knowing that each bruise and slip would one day make them better protectors of Valoria.
Meanwhile, the mage-type Guardian trainees were notably absent from the yard. Instead, they had been assigned to the warmth of the town hall library, where their winter training was less physical and more cerebral. There, under the watchful eye of Master Archivist Lethra, they practiced mnemonic spells, runic theory, and magical control—page by page, rune by rune, the air filled with the faint glow of warding circles and the quiet whisper of turning parchment.
Garron had mixed feelings about the split.
"You'd think a little snow would do the mages some good," he muttered to himself, watching a rookie slip, recover, and charge on.
"But I suppose someone's got to keep the library from freezing over."
He clapped his hands together again, signaling the next part of training. The yard was alive with effort and camaraderie, every movement a step closer to becoming real Guardians of the city.
After a few more laps and tumbles, Garron raised his voice above the clamor.
"All right, that's enough frostbite for one morning!" he called out, clapping his hands for emphasis.
Crack!
The rookies slowed, some panting, cheeks flushed red from cold and exertion, others shaking snow out of their boots or brushing it from their hair.
Garron gestured toward the side door leading into the town hall.
"Form up! We're heading inside to the training hall. Don't drag your feet—just because it's warmer in there doesn't mean I'll go easy on you!"
A few relieved grins broke out among the group as they shuffled into line, boots squelching on half-melted slush.
"Thank the gates," one rookie muttered, earning a nudge from their partner.
As Garron led the way, the rookies followed, the sound of their footsteps—thump, thump, thump—echoing down the stone corridor. The warmth of the hall hit them almost at once, mingling with the faint scent of old wood and training oil.
Garron stopped just inside, turning to face the squad.
"We'll work on partner drills and reaction training. The snow's not your enemy in here, but each other will be—at least for the next hour. Questions?"
A few heads shook. The rest just tried to catch their breath, ready for whatever lesson their gruff mentor had in store.
Garron grinned.
"Good. Let's see if you can sweat as hard as you shiver."
The rookies formed into pairs along the mats, the air filled with the scrape of boots and the clack of wooden weapons. Amid the shifting groups, two young F-rank Guardians stood out—a sharp contrast in both color and temperament.
One was a boy with dark blue hair, cropped short and already damp with sweat, his grip tight on a practice spear. His name was Lio Fenwick, and he moved with the restless energy of someone who always had something to prove.
His partner was a red-haired girl, her braid swinging like a banner as she adjusted her stance. She held a wooden sword and battered shield with easy confidence. Her name was Mira Ashwell, and the glint in her eyes matched the edge in her voice.
As Garron called for partner drills, Lio jabbed his spear toward the marked circle, a cocky grin on his face.
"Try to keep up this time, Mira. I'd hate to win before you even draw your sword."
Mira rolled her eyes, slamming her shield into position.
"Big talk from someone who tripped over his own feet last round. Spear's not much use when you're flat on your back."
Lio snorted, circling her.
"At least I don't hide behind a dinner plate. You sure you're not training to be a waitress?"
Mira feinted left, then swept her sword up with a flourish.
"Keep talking, Lio. Maybe if you distract me enough, you'll finally land a hit."
Their sparring drew glances and a few smirks from the other rookies. Garron watched from the sidelines, one eyebrow raised in amusement as the rivalry played out in every clash of spear against shield and every quip that flew across the mats.
Thwack! Lio's spear struck the rim of Mira's shield, and she countered with a swift jab of her own, their movements sharp and competitive—a dance fueled by pride and the unmistakable urge to outdo the other.
"Come on, Mira. Don't hold back now," Lio taunted, breath misting in the warm air.
"Don't worry, I never do," she shot back, parrying another thrust with a grin.
The sound of their duel—clack, thud, scrape—echoed through the hall, the tension between them sparking hotter than the training room's hearth.
The sound of sparring faded as Garron raised his hand.
"That's enough for now. Everyone, take a seat."
The rookies dropped to the floor in a loose semicircle, some still catching their breath, others quietly comparing bruises or grinning at their close calls. The training hall felt warmer now, filled with the lingering energy of their drills.
Garron waited until all eyes were on him, then crouched down to their level, his voice steady and earnest.
"Listen up. There's more to being a Guardian than swinging a sword or blocking a strike. Today, I'm going to teach you one of my own techniques—a breathing method that's saved my hide more times than I can count."
He paused, meeting each rookie's gaze in turn.
"At the Academy, you all started with a general breathing pattern. It works, but it's just the beginning. Sooner or later, every Guardian finds—or creates—a technique that suits them best. For me, that was a martial art focused on breath and body. For others, it might be a focus on their weapon, or even a rhythm learned from music or dance."
Garron flexed his hands, the memory of gauntlets heavy on his knuckles.
"Now, don't get me wrong—learning other techniques is just as important as finding your own. Borrow what works, adapt what doesn't. That's how you grow."
He gestured toward the wall that separated the hall from the library.
"The mage-type Guardians, the ones in there working on runes and spells? They're doing the same thing you are, just in a different way. Where we use breathing and movement to draw mana into our bodies to strengthen ourselves—focus on the inside—they use study, words, and ritual to shape mana outside themselves. Both are mana arts, just different in usage."
The rookies listened, rapt, some nodding as the distinction finally clicked.
Garron took a deep breath, demonstrating as he spoke.
"My technique is called Iron Gale Breathing. It's designed to support my fighting style—with gauntlets. The breath comes in short, powerful bursts, like a smith's bellows. Each inhale draws mana into the body, focusing it in the arms and core. Each exhale releases tension, keeping the muscles loose but ready to strike. It's not flashy, but it means I can hit hard, move fast, and take a punch without losing my wind."
He closed his eyes for a moment, hands resting on his knees.
"Watch. In through the nose—quick, sharp. Hold for just a second. Out through the mouth—slow, steady. Feel how the power settles, how the tension leaves your shoulders. Try it with me."
The rookies mimicked him, the hall filling with the quiet hiss of breath in and out, the steadying rhythm a stark contrast to the earlier chaos.
Garron opened his eyes, nodding.
"That's it. Practice this, and you'll find power you didn't know you had. But don't stop there—experiment, learn from each other, and maybe one day, you'll have a technique to call your own."
His words lingered in the warm air, a promise and a challenge all at once.
Garron's sharp gaze swept over the group, and he paused as he noticed Lio and Mira. Both rookies sat cross-legged, steam rising in gentle wisps from their shoulders and hair—evidence that their bodies were adjusting rapidly to the breathing technique he'd just taught. Where moments ago they were flushed and catching their breath, now their eyes were clearer, postures straighter, and a faint aura of warmth surrounded them in the cool hall.
He smiled, pride evident in his voice.
"Looks like we've got a couple of naturals in our midst. Lio, Mira—good work. That's exactly what you're aiming for: let the mana do the heavy lifting, and you'll outlast anyone in a Valoria winter."
The rest of the rookies glanced over, some with envy, others with newfound determination.
Garron clapped his hands, energy returning to his tone.
"All right, let's put that talent to the test. Lio, Mira—on your feet. The two of you versus me." He grinned, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders.
"You can use the mana breathing technique I just showed you. I'll stick to pure technique—no mana boost."
A ripple of excitement buzzed through the rookies as Lio and Mira rose, sharing a glance that was equal parts rivalry and anticipation.
"We get to use the breathing?" Lio double-checked, gripping his spear with renewed enthusiasm.
"That's right," Garron confirmed.
"Show me what you've got—but remember, it's not about winning. It's about using what you've learned and working together. Ready?"
Mira lifted her shield, eyes alight.
"Ready, instructor."
Garron dropped into a relaxed stance, hands open and steady, his presence calm but unyielding.
"Then come at me. Let's see how far talent—and teamwork—can take you."
The hall quieted, every rookie leaning forward, eager to watch the clash between their best and their mentor. The only sound was the soft tap-tap of Lio's spear on the mat and the faint hiss of Mira's breath as she steadied herself, the steam rising once more—a sure sign that what happened next would be a lesson they'd never forget.
The hall was silent for a moment, the air charged with anticipation. Then one of the rookies piped up, voice ringing out,
"Fight!"
Lio sprang forward, his wooden spear held low, movements smooth and deliberate. His eyes never left Garron as he advanced, every step measured, the butt of the spear tap-tapping against the mat in time with his steady, controlled breaths.
"Mira, left!" he called, and she was already moving—shield raised, sword poised, a wild grin on her face.
Thud!
Mira's boots hit the mat as she circled, never quite still, her energy barely contained.
"Come on, old man!" she crowed, banging her shield with the flat of her sword. Bam! Bam!
"Don't let Lio do all the work!"
Garron shifted his weight, leather gauntlets flexing, a calm smile playing on his lips.
"Watch your stance, Mira. If you lead with your shoulder, you'll telegraph your charge." He sidestepped Lio's first probing thrust, the wooden spear swishing past his ribs, and caught the shaft with a quick slap of his palm.
Thwack!
Lio adjusted instantly, twisting his wrists and retreating a step, not letting the momentum break his focus. He and Mira exchanged a quick glance—silent communication honed by rivalry and practice.
Mira lunged, shield first, aiming to drive Garron back.
Clang! The shield met gauntlet, the impact vibrating up both their arms. Garron grunted, parrying the blow with a twist, his feet sliding across the mat with practiced ease.
"Better. But don't forget your right—"
Before he finished, Mira's sword slashed in—a wild, horizontal arc.
Whoosh! Garron ducked, feeling the air stir above his head, and responded with a gentle tap to her knee with his gauntlet.
Pat!
"Balance, Mira! Don't overextend," he said, voice calm but firm.
Lio darted in from behind, spear spinning for a low sweep.
Swish—thud!
Garron hopped over the attack, landing light on his feet.
"Good coordination, Lio. Next time, feint first."
Mira barked a laugh.
"You hear that, Lio? You're predictable! Maybe try spinning in circles—oh, wait, you already do that in drills!"
Garron chuckled, even as he parried a flurry of Mira's blows, each strike met with a solid smack of wood on leather. She was relentless, pressing him with a barrage of attacks, her taunts flowing as fast as her sword.
"Come on, Captain! Is that all you've got? I thought you said you'd make us sweat!"
Clack! Clack! Clack!
Sword and shield hammered against his defenses.
Garron waited for her to overcommit, then stepped inside her guard, deflecting her shield with his forearm.
"Don't let your mouth get ahead of your feet, Mira," he teased, slipping past her and rolling his shoulder to catch Lio's next thrust. The spear thudded against his gauntlet, and Garron twisted, forcing Lio to disengage.
Lio's breathing was steady, face focused. He feinted left, then jabbed right, his spear moving in tight, economical arcs. Mira, sensing the opening, swept in from behind, shield up, sword ready to strike.
Bam!
Garron blocked Lio's spear, the impact echoing through the hall.
Thwack!
Mira's shield hit his back, but Garron rolled with it, dropping low and sweeping his leg toward Mira's ankles.
Swish—thump!
She hopped back, laughing.
"Nice try! You'll have to be faster than that!" she crowed, spinning around to block Lio's next advance.
The fight became a blur—Lio and Mira moving as a unit, their styles clashing and complementing each other. Lio's spear darted in and out, probing and retreating, while Mira hammered away with her shield and sword, her voice a constant stream of jibes.
Garron moved with effortless control, parrying, blocking, correcting.
"Good angle, Lio! Mira, don't let your shield drop. Use your breath—let the mana flow, not just your muscles."
Clack! Clack! Swish! Thud!
The rookies watching from the sidelines barely dared to breathe, eyes wide as they followed every exchange. Sweat beaded on Lio's brow, but his grip never wavered. Mira's braid whipped through the air as she ducked and spun, her laughter filling the hall even as she fought.
Finally, after a flurry of attacks, Garron stepped back, raising his hands.
"Enough!" he called, voice carrying over the sound of panting breaths and the echo of wooden weapons.
Lio and Mira froze mid-step, both flushed, chests heaving—but grinning with fierce pride.
Garron's eyes sparkled.
"That's the kind of teamwork and spirit I want to see. Well done, both of you. And the rest of you—take notes. This is what growth looks like."
The hall filled with the noise of applause, the rookies inspired by the show—and by the knowledge that, with enough sweat and laughter, they might one day match their mentors.
The hall buzzed with energy in the wake of the sparring match. Garron clapped his hands to get everyone's attention.
"All right, rookies—training's done for this morning. Let's tidy up the room before you go. Mats away, gear in the racks, no slacking unless you want extra laps tomorrow!"
Shuffle, thump, scrape—the trainees moved quickly, rolling up mats and stacking shields and swords, the echoes of their efforts bouncing off the high ceiling.
Garron made his way over to Lio and Mira, who were still catching their breath, flushed with the thrill of the fight. He gestured to the battered wooden weapons in their hands—Lio's spear had a splintered tip, and Mira's sword bore a long crack down its length.
"Those two won't survive another round," Garron said with a wry smile.
"Go ahead and toss them in the discard bin. You've earned some new ones."
Lio turned the spear in his hands, a little sheepish.
"Guess we got carried away, huh?"
Mira grinned, twirling her cracked sword.
"Or maybe someone just doesn't know his own strength."
As they walked toward the bin, Garron fell into step beside them, his tone turning curious.
"How long have the two of you been training, anyway? You're not fresh out of the academy, are you?"
Lio shook his head, tossing the spear into the bin with a clatter.
"We both graduated last spring. After that, I went back to my hometown for a bit—helped out on patrols, picked up what I could from the old-timers."
Mira dropped her sword and shield with a matching clunk.
"Same here. I went home, did some odd jobs, kept my sword sharp. But it turns out you don't get much better just beating up training dummies all summer."
Lio nodded.
"So we both set out to travel. Figured we'd learn more on the road. Met up again here in Valoria around mid-fall. Haven't even been a full year since we left the academy."
Garron nodded, clearly impressed.
"Not even a year, and you're already sparring like that? Keep it up, both of you. Real skill comes from experience—and from not being afraid to break a few wooden swords along the way."
Mira grinned, nudging Lio with her elbow.
"Hear that? We're on the right track, so long as we don't run out of weapons."
Lio laughed, and together they turned back to help the others finish tidying up, the camaraderie and pride from their progress warming them more than any hearth.
As the last of the mats were stacked and the echoes of the fight faded, Garron leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and regarded Lio and Mira with a curious tilt to his head.
"All right, you two," he said, voice lower and thoughtful,
"I have to ask—why'd you choose Valoria? With your skills, you could have tried for a posting in a silver-tier city—better pay, bigger gates, more recognition. What brought you to a bronze city like this?"
Lio and Mira exchanged a glance, something unspoken passing between them. It was Mira who answered first, her tone suddenly shy.
"Honestly? We came because of Halric."
Garron raised an eyebrow.
"Halric, huh? What about him?"
Both rookies looked surprised—almost incredulous. Lio nearly dropped the spear he was setting on the rack.
"Wait, you don't know about Halric? You're not joking?"
Garron shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"I know he's the city's paperwork king and can shovel snow like nobody's business, but I never heard the academy stories."
Mira's eyes grew wide. She leaned forward, voice dropping to a reverent hush.
"You really don't know? Halric's a legend—especially for the non-combat types. He graduated academy in just one year. One. And not from combat class, either. He was non-combat—admin track."
Lio nodded, picking up the tale, the awe clear in his voice.
"He only got to graduate because he led a team on a real gate raid. Not just any raid, either. He picked the five lowest-ranking combat students—barely passed their own entrance tests. Then he recruited blacksmith and alchemist students to make their gear and potions, all rookies, all overlooked. He spent weeks drilling them, making sure their equipment was perfect, even ran logistics like a commander."
Mira jumped in,
"He even got permission to go into the gate himself. That's unheard of for admin students! He led the raid, coordinated every move, and made sure everyone knew exactly what to do. They cleared an E-rank gate faster than anyone else that year—with the weakest combat team in their class."
Lio's eyes shone.
"And they all made it out. Not a scratch. It was a new record for E-rank gates—and the academy still uses his plan in their manuals. Because of that, Halric graduated top ten overall, and he was the only non-combat student to do it. The blacksmith, the alchemist, and one of the fighters all graduated in the top ten, too—thanks to him."
Mira gave a small, proud shrug.
"So yeah. We could have gone anywhere, maybe even gotten better assignments. But we wanted to see if the stories were true—and learn from the guy who turned the academy upside down, just by caring about the people nobody else did."
Garron let out a long, low whistle, genuinely impressed.
"That's… more than I expected. I had no idea our quiet Halric had that kind of history."
Lio grinned, shaking his head.
"Most folks don't. Guess he's just good at doing the work and letting the stories fade. But for us? He's the reason we thought Valoria might be special."
Mira nudged Lio, looking back at Garron with a challenging smile.
"Bet you're glad you asked now, huh?"
Garron chuckled, still a little stunned.
"Yeah. I am. Remind me not to underestimate our 'paperwork king' again."
Lio laughed, the sound echoing through the empty training hall.
"Don't worry, sir. None of us do."
Garron was still processing the stories about Halric when Lio and Mira, clearly energized by their tale, exchanged a knowing look. With matching grins, they both spoke at the same time, their voices ringing with pride and a hint of mischief:
"The Young Commander."
The title seemed to hang in the air, echoing off the training hall's old stone walls. Garron blinked, taken aback. He'd heard tales of legendary commanders in Elythria—heroes whose leadership changed the fate of cities—but to hear that same title associated with the quiet, unassuming Halric of Valoria caught him off guard.
"That's what we called him at the academy," Mira said, her eyes shining.
"The same title as the legends. He earned it, even before he graduated."
Lio nodded, face serious for a moment.
"Not many get called 'Commander' before they even see a battlefield. But Halric… he just had that way about him."
The moment stretched, a mix of awe and camaraderie, before the two rookies snapped back into their usual rivalry. Mira elbowed Lio, breaking the spell.
"Come on, slowpoke! Last one to the pub's buying dinner!"
With a laugh, they dashed out of the hall, their boots pounding down the corridor. Garron watched them go, a small smile lingering on his lips, their voices already fading as they burst into the snowy evening.
"Remember, the boys will win the bet this spring!" Lio's voice echoed, teasing and triumphant.
Mira shot back, her words half-lost in the clamor,
"You wish! You boys better get ready to wash our clothes for a full week!"
Their laughter trailed off into the night, leaving Garron alone in the hall, shaking his head in amusement—and just a little wonder at the legends walking quietly among them.
Their laughter trailed off into the night, leaving Garron alone in the hall, shaking his head in amusement—and just a little wonder at the legends walking quietly among them.
He gathered his coat and stepped out into the crisp evening, boots crunching softly on the snowy street as he made his way back toward the city office. The city lights glimmered against the frost, and Garron found his mind restless, circling around the story he'd just heard.
"The Young Commander," he muttered under his breath, still half awestruck. Who would have guessed?
As he reached the steps of the office, the door swung open and Sera, the ever-efficient clerk, breezed out with a bundle of ledgers. She barely slowed, giving Garron a sharp look.
"You still owe me that report, Garron. I want it on my desk before noon tomorrow. No excuses." She didn't wait for a reply, vanishing down the street in a flurry of paperwork and winter scarf.
Garron opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. He glanced up, hoping to catch Lira for a quick word—maybe to share the wild story about Halric—but she spotted him first and simply put a finger to her lips, shaking her head with a stern
"not now" look before disappearing into the records room.
Left with nothing but his thoughts and an armful of unfinished work, Garron trudged upstairs to his cramped office. He slammed his reports down, muttering curses under his breath.
"Can't even tell anyone about it," he grumbled, frustration prickling at him as he uncapped his pen and started scribbling out numbers and names.
The city quieted outside, the warmth of the hall and the laughter of the rookies already fading into memory. All that remained was the steady scratch of pen on paper and the echo of a legend newly uncovered—one Garron knew he'd carry with him, whether or not he ever got to share it.