The Frost Wolf's growl ripped through the frozen air again — deeper this time, enraged, wounded, wild.
Arcanis stepped forward with his shoulders low, breath steady despite the ice carving fine lines along his arm. The world around them trembled beneath the weight of the beast's hunger.
Behind him, Sylas let out a low groan, blood darkening the earth beneath his side.
That sound —
that small, pained breath —
ignited something cold and merciless inside Arcanis.
The Frost Wolf lowered itself, frost pooling beneath its paws. Its breath curled into the night like pale smoke.
Arcanis raised his guard.
---
The wolf lunged — a white blur slicing through the darkness.
Arcanis didn't retreat.
He stepped into the attack.
Ice exploded from the ground as claws tore toward him — but Arcanis dropped low, sliding across frozen soil. The chill bit at his skin, but it dissolved behind the focus in his veins.
His hand closed around the broken wooden beam Sylas had swung earlier.
He moved—
A twist.
A pivot.
A strike carved not by training but by instinct, desperation, and a deeper vein of instinct that felt ancient and entirely his.
CRACK—!
The beam slammed up beneath the wolf's jaw, snapping its head back. Frostflakes scattered like shattered stars.
Before the beast recovered, Arcanis surged upward, driving his knee into its throat with every ounce of strength left inside him.
The wolf choked. Stumbled.
Arcanis did not hesitate.
He swung the beam again —
and again —
and again —
until the beast's blue eyes dulled and its body collapsed into the frost-covered grass.
Silence fell so sharply it felt like the world had been cut open.
A cold breeze swept through, scattering thin trails of snow from the wolf's fur.
Arcanis exhaled, breath shaking slightly.
He had won.
But it did not feel like victory.
Not with Sylas lying wounded behind him.
The wolf hit the ground, and the night grew thin with silence. Steam rose from its white pelt; frost clung to the ground where its paws had frozen the soil. Arcanis stood with the broken beam in his hands, breathing slow. His cloak hung in tatters, sleeves crusted in blood and dirt. He felt the cold through everything — and for the first time, it felt earned.
Sylas staggered, the beam slipping from numb fingers. He didn't fall only because Arcanis caught him, setting the boy's weight onto his shoulder with controlled care. Blood seeped down Sylas's ribs; his face was flushed with pain and something sharper — adrenaline, stubbornness, resolve.
---
A soft chime echoed in Arcanis's mind — warm, golden, utterly out of place in the frozen night.
> [LEVEL UP!]
Arcanis Vael Aravell — Level 1 → Level 3
And then—
Arcanis blinked.
I think he leveled up to....?
He turned immediately to Sylas.
"Can you walk?" Arcanis asked, voice steady.
Sylas blinked, jaw tight.
"I can. If you carry me, that counts as walking."
Arcanis didn't waste time.
He adjusted his grip, lifting Sylas with careful firmness, and headed toward Merrin's cottage. The village was silent; lanterns were low; doors were shut. The thin white path under his feet felt colder now, sharper.
Merrin opened the door before they reached it — eyes widening, hands already reaching for cloth and salves. He muttered a curse the moment he saw Sylas's side and ordered Arcanis toward the bed.
Arcanis set Sylas down, stripping away the damp outer layer with quick, precise motions.
"Bandages," Merrin said.
Arcanis found them instantly.
He began cleaning the wound — efficient, focused. His hands were steady, movements exact, the touch of a man who didn't tremble when someone needed him.
Sylas hissed once when the compress touched skin, but he didn't make another sound.
When Arcanis finished wrapping the last layer, he sat back slightly and met the boy's eyes.
"You fought well," Arcanis said quietly.
Sylas let out a breath — half laugh, half ache.
"I almost died."
"You didn't," Arcanis replied calmly. "So either you're lucky… or terrible at estimating danger. We'll fix the second."
Sylas's gaze sharpened, meeting his with the quiet honesty of someone who wasn't running from consequence.
Arcanis stood.
Another chime slid through his awareness.
> [Inspect — Partially Unlocked]
Reason: Mana threshold met.
Function: View status of equal or lower-level targets.
Arcanis froze.
So that's why I couldn't inspect anyone before…
My mana was too low.
He exhaled softly.
"…That makes sense."
Sylas blinked.
"What…?"
"Nothing," Arcanis murmured, already focusing.
The world narrowed to a ribbon of pale gold light.
---
⭐ [STATUS — SYLAS]
Name: Sylas
Race: Human
Age: 16
Level: 2
Potential: SSS
Affinities: Unknown (Locked)
Mana Capacity: Low (Dormant)
Physique: Bladeborn Frame (Unawakened)
Talent: ★ Swordborn Instinct
Mental Resilience: High
Combat Instinct: Exceptional
Emotional State: Pain / Determined / Trust Forming
Arcanis absorbed the information quietly.
On paper, Sylas seemed small.
In truth, he had stepped into death without hesitation.
That wasn't potential.
That was character.
Arcanis tightened the last fold of the bandage.
"You'll ride with me," he said.
Sylas blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"You'll stay and recover. Then meet me at the eastern ford in two days. A cart travels into the outer forest. Bring what you need; leave what you don't."
Sylas stared at him, trying to understand.
"…Why would you take me?"
Arcanis met his eyes without flinching.
"You ran at something that could have killed you to stop it from killing me. That makes you useful."
A soft breath.
"Useful men don't get left behind."
There was no softness in his tone — but there was truth. Consequence. Choice.
Sylas studied him like the words were a blade being offered. Then he smiled — not broadly, but with the quiet resolve of someone accepting a path.
Merrin set a bowl of broth beside them.
"You staying?" he asked Arcanis.
"I'll stay until he can stand on his own."
Merrin nodded and slipped out, leaving the room warm and dim and filled with the quiet breath of recovery.
Sylas sipped the broth slowly.
"You don't look like a court noble," he murmured.
Arcanis glanced at him.
"I'm a man who learned to carry expectations. It's not pretty. Just efficient."
Sylas considered him.
"You're cold in winter," he said softly. "You get used to it."
"You get used to what you must," Arcanis replied.
"Otherwise you become a tale for someone else's fire."
They ate in silence — not awkward, but shaping. A silence where agreements formed.
"Two days," Arcanis said when Sylas lowered the empty bowl.
"Eastern ford before dawn. If you're not there, we leave."
Sylas's jaw tightened.
"I'll be there."
"Good. Train your breathing. Your footwork. Learn to read shoulders, not eyes. Move like the body you'll have ten years from now."
Sylas raised a brow.
"Is that an order?"
"Yes," Arcanis said calmly. "Orders are a courtesy to the living."
Sylas let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.
"I don't plan to die. I plan to learn."
Arcanis nodded once.
Then he stepped outside.
The village was waking — smoke drifting from chimneys, cold air softening, frost melting under early footsteps.
He inhaled.
A boy had chosen death and survived.
A path had opened.
And Arcanis felt the weight of leadership settle into his chest — not heavy, but grounding.
The wolf's prints faded beneath the tread of morning life.
Arcanis walked forward with the same quiet intent he always carried:
To shape the world until it matched the men strong enough to hold it.