The morning after the corrupted stag, Ryn gathered them in the training yard.
"No more games," he said, voice like winter stone. "Today, you learn the Frostveil Way."
He drew his sword. Not to fight—but to demonstrate.
What followed was not a duel. It was a dance.
Ryn moved with impossible grace—each step silent, each strike precise, each retreat deliberate. His blade carved arcs of frost in the air, leaving trails of ice that lingered long after he passed.
"The Frostveil Way is not about strength," Frosthael whispered in Kaelan's mind. "It is about balance. Flow. Patience."
Darok whistled. "He moves like wind over snow."
"He moves like death," Kaelan corrected.
Ryn stopped. "You will learn this form. Every motion. Every breath. Until it is part of your bones."
He tossed Kaelan a wooden sword. "You first."
For hours, Kaelan mimicked the movements—step, turn, strike, retreat. Again. Again. Again.
His arms burned. His legs trembled. But he did not stop.
On the hundredth repetition, something shifted.
His body remembered what his mind had not yet learned.
He flowed.
Ryn nodded, just once. "Good."
Then he turned to Darok. "You are not Frostveil. You do not need their way. But you must find your own."
Darok grinned. "I already have."
He dropped into a crouch—low, silent, coiled like a desert viper. Then vanished into the tree line.
Kaelan blinked. "Where'd he go?"
A whisper behind him: "Right here."
Kaelan spun—too slow.
Darok's wooden dagger tapped his neck.
Ryn crossed his arms. "Barbarian stealth. Born of sand and survival. It is your gift. Hone it."
That afternoon, Frosthael led Kaelan to the ruins of the old dragon temple.
"Close your eyes," the dragon said.
Kaelan obeyed.
"Now… breathe with me."
Slowly, Kaelan matched the dragon's rhythm—inhale for four counts, hold for seven, exhale for eight.
The world faded.
Then—light.
He stood on a mountain of glass, sky burning crimson. Below, the Ice Wall stretched endlessly, glowing with blue energy.
But at its base… cracks.
Black veins spreading like rot.
"This is not now," Frosthael said. "But it could be. If the Heart of Frost weakens."
Kaelan reached out—but the vision shattered.
He gasped, back in the ruins.
"Dream-walking is dangerous," Frosthael warned. "But necessary. You must learn to see what others cannot."
Three days later, while tracking wolves near the western cliffs, Darok found it.
A raven.
Frozen mid-flight, wings outstretched, eyes wide with terror. Its veins pulsed black beneath icy feathers.
"This is getting closer," Darok muttered.
Kaelan knelt. "It's not natural decay. It's… infection."
They brought it to Ryn.
He examined it, then burned it without a word.
That night, by the fire, Ryn spoke quietly. "Whatever this is, it's drawn to power. To life. And Valryke Isle… is full of both."
Kaelan looked at Frosthael, perched on his shoulder. "Can it hurt him?"
"Not yet," Frosthael said. "But if the corruption spreads to the Heart of Frost… even I may fall."
Silence fell.
Then Darok broke it. "So we stop it."
"How?" Kaelan asked.
"We find its source. And burn it."
Ryn shook his head. "You are children. This is not your war."
"But it's coming to us," Kaelan said softly. "And when it does… we'll be ready."
The next week, training intensified.
Kaelan practiced the Frostveil forms until his muscles screamed. He learned to strike without sound, to move without shadow, to read an opponent's intent before they moved.
Darok trained in silence—scaling cliffs, hiding in snowdrifts, striking from blind spots. He could vanish in plain sight, reappear behind you, and leave no trace.
One evening, they sparred.
Kaelan flowed like ice over stone. Darok struck like lightning from storm clouds.
They fought for an hour—neither gaining ground, neither yielding.
Finally, exhausted, they collapsed in the snow, laughing.
"You're getting faster," Darok panted.
"You're getting quieter," Kaelan replied.
Ryn watched from the porch, arms crossed. "You two… are becoming something new. Not Frostveil. Not barbarian. Something… stronger."
That night, Kaelan stood on the cliffs with Frosthael.
"You fear the vision," the dragon said.
"I fear failing them," Kaelan admitted. "Darok. My mother's legacy. Even my father… in his own broken way."
"Then don't fail."
"How?"
"By being better than those who came before you. By choosing mercy when vengeance is easier. By standing when others would run."
Below, Darok sat by the fire, sharpening his knife—his movements calm, certain, unbroken.
Kaelan touched the frostwolf locket.
He wasn't just surviving anymore.
He was becoming.
And when the storm came—
—he would not just stand.
He would lead.