Harsh whispers from around the dining hall reached Emela's ears.

"Is he still assaulting the temple?" one voice asked.

"I'm not sure. Apparently, quite a few mercenaries have died. Better them than us," another replied.

"Emela!" Drion's tone was demanding, something he'd grown more accustomed to during his time in the trial realm. He had probably gotten more comfortable, with no one to monitor him and tell him to train. Instead, all he got were people stroking his ego and acting like the sun shone out of his butt.

As their eyes met, Emela's chest tightened, her hands clenched, nails biting into her palms. "Yes, brother," she eked out. She was not Drion's equal; her fight with Noelle had been reasonably close, but against him, she'd be no better than a child. After all, a Gravity Forging-Five was nothing to a Gravity Forging-Eight on the cusp of breaking through.

His gaze narrowed, and he raised his head slightly, looking down at her, unintended disgust slipping briefly through his aloof mask. "Someone as weak as you needs a job, I take it." Drion's eyes flickered to the bodyguards he'd left her with. A few of the men nodded.

"She has been lacking some initiative, sir," one of them spoke up. A thin smile almost made it to the man's lips. But it died as the man met Drion's eyes. Her brother was many things, and easygoing was not one of them. That guard would be naked in the snow, dragging monster corpses, if he acted too friendly.

"You have?" Drion's gaze snapped back to Emela. "I've been doing every quest I can, yet here you are, still sporting the same basic sword you purchased on the day of our arrival. It's been four days now, Emela, and yet you've made no progress."

Emela bit her bottom lip, her gaze flickering away as she traced the lines in the table's wood. If only she could sink into those crevices, this would be over.

I would be a lot more productive if you stopped trying to stifle me, you ignorant—

"As I see you are unoccupied," Drion said, "you're going to help me."

Emela's chest tightened once more. Nyx shifted in her seat, her blank face breaking slightly as if she wanted to say something. But that would be beyond foolish. Maids had died before at Drion's hands. And it was unlikely Nyx, being Emela's personal maid, would save her.

"We've almost breached the temple. I want you," his gaze moved to Nyx, "and your maid to help the young folk storm the front lines. Don't worry, I've selected a group of mercenaries to go with you to keep you safe." He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "We can't have anything happening to our prized sister now, can we?"

Drion then raised a hand and combed it through his long, blonde, almost white hair and let out a breath. "You accept, I take it?"

Emela nodded. To refuse would mean more suffering. He asked only to make himself seem more magnanimous to those around them. Even now, many in the Frostkeep dining hall nodded, muttering to their friends, no doubt with amazement that Drion would take such good care of his younger sister.

They were blind fools. He wasn't taking care of her—he most likely thought he was sending her to get seriously injured or killed. He cared not about her life. Emela was stronger than a standard mercenary and, therefore, would probably make a decent sacrifice for the final push.

But I'm no sacrifice, brother. I'm not a pawn you and the family can fiddle around with as you please.

She would not become a sacrifice. She'd survive this and make something of the opportunity that Drion had given her. Because, despite all his prodigious strength, he was shortsighted and stubborn. Instructor Shallowcold had said as much during one of her many lectures.

This trial realm isn't simple, and a frontal assault likely isn't the only thing you should focus on, Drion.

Leaving the dining hall, she followed behind her brother, with Nyx behind her. But as she reached the door, Emela paused. The man whom Amral had smacked earlier still clutched his side, one arm resting on the wood as he held himself up.

Drion had paid him no mind when he came in, and Amral dared not speak, ruining any airs that the future family head was trying to put on. After all, that is how a side branch should act when faced with someone from the main family—'should' being key.

Frowning, Emela slipped her hand into a pouch at her waist. Her fingers brushed against a small bead, and she pulled it out, its red surface gleaming in the dining hall light. A minor healing pill. 15 points that were hardly well spent. It wouldn't do much for his wound, but it would help.

"Here," she said, dropping to a knee and handing it to the boy. "Take it now," she commanded softly. If he didn't, Amral would no doubt snatch it from him as soon as she left. Emela's gaze drifted to the boy in question. He stepped back, though a sneer still flickered at the corners of his lips. He probably wanted to say something, but with Drion here, he wouldn't dare.

"Quickly, Emela," Drion commanded, his tone clipped and harsh. "Do not waste my time."

Getting to her feet, Emela sighed. The man took the pill in his mouth and swallowed with a sharp gulp, colour flushing his face a moment later.

"Thank you," he choked out.

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Emela turned, not saying a word, with Nyx following behind. His thanks to her were unneeded. She'd done nothing, simply giving him a few more moments to find better healing. Perhaps he would need it, but with his current situation, perhaps she'd just made the beating he might suffer later worse.

Stepping out into the frigid air of the abandoned town, Emela resisted the urge to pull her clothes tighter. An instinct more than anything. Her cultivation technique, for what little it had done for her over the years, made her resistant to the cold.

More so than the average person, anyway. It did that for all the Frostkeeps. Which made sense. How could a family like theirs wield ice freely, yet succumb to it? She hadn't noticed at first, thinking the colder parts of the trial realm were just that—slightly colder.

But according to the mercenaries, this area was unbearable. A few of the common folk had even frozen to death further out in the wilds. They probably thought they could handle it, but out here, the cold sneaked up on you fast.

"Sir, they're ready," Palmen, Drion's manservant, said, stepping over. He rarely accompanied Drion like Nyx did for Emela. Independence was Drion's personal characteristic, after all, feeling that he could take on the very world himself.

Palmen instead carried out miscellaneous tasks that Drion deemed unsuitable for Brom to carry out.

Why does he seek to treat everyone like a slave? Maybe I was fooling myself thinking I could even stay on the fringes of the family. Hell, even if I escaped, he'd probably hunt me down out of spite more than seeing me as a stain on the family name.

"Good," Drion said, eyeing the man briefly. He raised a hand and moved aside some hair that had been covering Palmen's cheek. A shallow cut marked the skin. Drion raised a brow, then moved his hand away. Something had hurt Palmen, but how? He was strong—Gravity Forging-Seven by Emela's estimate, one realm behind Drion. So whatever had scratched him was tough.

Drion turned to her. "Come along, sister. Noelle is still waiting for us by the battlefield."

Emela's heart dropped. Of course, she was there. In the trial realm, Emela had avoided her sister as much as possible. But now she was going to meet her again. And the girl would no doubt make her life miserable.

A few more people stepped out of buildings around the abandoned town and joined them. They then marched towards the temple. Drion was at the head, with her behind him, with Nyx and Palmen at either of their sides. She had to stand behind Drion. To put anyone else there would sully the hierarchy of the family.

Appearances were everything, after all.

A little under an hour later, they stood on a hill overlooking a frozen lake that stretched out before them. A layer of snow covered it, packed tight by the footsteps of the people who had come before—people who still fought down there even now.

Hairless wolf-like creatures with white skin dotted the landscape. Their long tails whipped through the air, the tips jagged with spikes.

One man charged across the ice and leapt, bringing his sword down.

But before he could get close, the creature's tail snapped forward, punching straight through his gut and coming out the other side.

The beast then whipped its tail to the side, and the man thumped onto the ice, sliding away in a trail of blood.

"Healing," a voice screamed. But no amount of pills could fix a wound like that. The man had to be dead.

Emela's fists tightened. Her brother wanted her to fight those. This little campaign of his had lasted for two days now, all to enter that stupid temple. The extensive structure sat on a small mountain on the other side of the lake, its many towers arching into the sky.

It didn't look much like a temple. If anything, it looked like some strange workshop that formation engineers lived in back in Middlec. But Drion claimed it was a temple. But a temple to what?

"As you can see, Sir," Palmen said, "we've made more progress than the last time." The manservant held his hands behind his back, his short black hair whipping in the icy wind. His steely blue eyes watched the battlefield like a hawk.

He, much like Drion, probably didn't care about the loss of life. If anything, he reinforced Drion's belief that people were there to be used. Even him.

The man turned away from the battlefield. Several of the mercenaries cringed as his gaze drifted over them. It was one thing to curry favour with Drion, but if Palmen didn't like them, they'd be in a much worse situation.

Emela frowned. Bodies continued to drop on the ice.

Ice wolves lunged at those who'd yet to fall, working together to bring people to the ice, then skewer them with their tails. It was brutal.

This was progress? Across the lake, closer to the mountain, the bodies of several mercenaries, perhaps entire teams, lay stiff. The white wolves were thickest there—several tens of them, clawing at the remaining mercenaries and tearing them apart. Frostkeep bodies lay among them.

"I see," Drion said, wind whipping about his hair. He crossed his arms and continued to survey the battlefield. "How long until the men are ready for the final push?"

"Not long, Sir," Palmen said. He turned back to the battlefield and watched a fight between a monster and a mercenary.

This one was a young girl. Clearly cut with a knife, her short black hair whipped behind her as she danced around the beast's attacks. She had some skills. Most needed to team up to have a fighting chance against these wolves, yet she stood alone.

Drion glanced at Emela. "You'll be joining them at the head. You are to pick up none of the resources. Anything that looks valuable is to be left. Am I understood?" he said. Eyes shifting from her to Nyx, who stood a step behind her.

What he said to Nyx was law, while to Emela it was more of a warning; only one of them would be truly punished if she disobeyed, after all. And it wouldn't be Emela.

Nodding, Emela's fists tightened further. Not only was he risking her life, but he wouldn't even reward her for the effort. Typical.

You always were a selfish brat, but one day it will bite you in the butt.

The group then moved down the slope, making their way towards another group of Frostkeeps that stood at the lake's edge.

The icy wind whipped about, blowing up small tornadoes of snow. The group they were heading towards was unbothered, many of them gesturing towards the battlefield across the lake as if it were a performance.

"Drion, you're back," said a voice close to the front.

Noelle—her face as bloated and annoying as ever—pushed through the group, Matilda a step behind her. "We've been waiting for you," she said. Behind her, her twin braids bounced in the wind.

The smile that had been growing on Noelle's face faded as soon as she laid eyes on Emela. "Sister," she said, voice flat, trying to disguise her disgust.

Emela nodded. That was more respect than she'd shown in their normal meetings. Drion was here after all, and the girl would not disgrace herself in front of the future Patriarch.

"And I see things are going well," Drion said.

"They are," Noelle nodded. She rested her hand on her mana armament. Still too fine a thing for someone like her. She then raised her chin and gestured toward the temple. "The final push should be ready soon, and once there, you should be able to enter the temple and claim your prize."

"Have we found out anything else about it?"

"No, brother, unfortunately, we have not," Noelle said, her face falling a little. She'd probably missed another chance to gain some favour with Drion, though it didn't really matter. From the look in his eyes, Drion didn't particularly care. After all, everyone was but a pawn for him to use, even Noelle, no matter how close she thought she was getting to him.

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