In a field of barren snow stood a boy in the center of four stumps like a lone statue: fifteen, black hair splayed to either side by habit or wind, wrapped in the wool and leather of the common Briarstone guard outfit. Snow pressed soft and white against his boots; his breath blooms and vanishes in quick, pale puffs.

In his right hand, he held a common spear, its haft rubbed smooth by hours of practice. Each stump, of which served as four corners of a square area, harbored a little column of fire, bright and stubborn against the snow.

For a moment, a cold breath slipped across the field, stealing heat and making the flames bow and sway. The stumps sputter as the breeze passes, ash dispersed like tiny ghosts.

However, the boy does not flinch. He does not shift his weight until the wind has gone by. When the air is still again, he opened his eyes—hard, focused, a gaze that could carve through rock—and tightened his grip on the spear.

Then the training began: simple at first—pivot, step, thrust, retreat—each action practiced, measured. Eventually, the motions smooth into one another until the sequence is no longer a set of discrete exercises, but a single, flowing motion.

He moved as if guided by an inner metronome: right foot slides, spear slices in a clean arc; a twist, the haft snaps down; an effortless sidestep, and the spear's point drilling in the space in front of him. His hips, shoulders and feet all speak the same language; the cold stings less when the body is fully engaged.

As his focus deepened, the fire around him answered. At first, they only leaned with the drafts his passing creates, but then the tongues of flame begin to shift with uncanny timing: a swirl of embers tracing the arc of a thrust, a flare that blooms in the exact second his spear snaps upward.

Where his footwork lead, the flames leaned to follow; when he spins, ringlets of heat curl outward, mirroring the spear's sweep. The contrast was simply amazing—the blue of the sky and the white of the snow against the living orange that seemed less an object and more an audience that moved with the boy.

A slow, spreading warmth unfurled from the boy's chest, threading outward until it hummed beneath his skin. He recognized its warmth, its rhythm. It was in tune to his own heartbeat, yet he could feel it was something older and steadier. He closed his eyes to follow it inward.

The training became less about limbs and practiced motions, and more about listening. His body moved on pure habit while his mind sank into an orange glow that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat within his own mind.

In that inner space, the orange veil breathed in time with him, a dim band that swelled and thinned like a tide. The more he let his attention rest there, the more solid the color became, the more the warmth bled into his fingers and toes. It was not heat as in pain, but a living pressure, a presence that filled and electrified him from the inside out.

Outside, his practiced motions sharpened. Muscle-memory took full control and his spear sang through the air with harder snaps and cleaner thrusts.

The fires on the stumps no longer behaved like passive flames; they leaned, curled, and flared in perfect counterpoint to his footwork, as if they too were learning the rhythm. What had been obstacle became instrument—the little columns of heat answering each shift as if they understood the cadence of his intent.

The boy's practice was no longer solely a human exercise—the fire, too, is engaged, and for a heartbeat, the whole square felt alive: spear, feet, flame in a single, breathing choreography.

Finally, when the orange veil flared bright, creating a halo of orange in the boy's mind, the warmth hit his extremities in a rush as he opened his now bright orange eyes. He thrusted his spear into the air with something akin to a warcry, the stump-fires leaping upward into narrow pillars that traced his path.

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In an instant, the four pillars swirled around each other then joined midair, creating a living lance of heat that climbed toward the sky.

Seeing this, the boy's strained face sharpened, ignoring the strain he felt. He planted his foot and gathered for the finishing strike; the lance of fire responded, a roaring column poised to obey. Taking his second step, he prepared to slam his spear down, intending to command the fire to scorch the surrounding area, finishing his training.

But, his second step slipped—weight misjudged on the packed snow—and momentum betrayed him. The spear flew from his grip as he tumbled. The four pillars of fire unraveled in a flicker; the lance of fire collapsing and the stump-fires sinking back to ordinary embers.

The boy caught himself, rolling to his knees and catching his breath as the orange in his eyes dimmed back to ordinary black. Frustration carved into his features as he raised his left fist and smashed it into the frozen ground. "DAMMIT!" he shouted, the sound sharp in the cold, and the punch left a ringing ache in his entire arm.

The boy's breath came in ragged, steaming pants. Sweat dragged little dark lines down his temple and splattered cold onto the snow. His left arm trembled where the punch had left it aching, and for a long second he just knelt there, head bowed, trying to scrape the sting from his teeth.

Then, a voice—bright and teasing—drifted out of the air behind him. "My my, Miuson, that's not like you to shout like that~"

"That voice!" The boy thought as he scrambled up and turned so fast, he nearly toppled over. It was Kaede; Chief Okun's daughter stood framed by the gray-blue sky, a ribbon of hair whipping loose at her temple, and an impish grin lighting her face.

Miuson squared his shoulders on instinct. He brought his feet together, shoved his left hand behind his back and the right in the rigid salute he'd been drilled to give, offering a formal, calm greeting. "Princess Kaede." His voice was steady, but the stiffness of his stance made his frustration visible all the same.

Kaede's grin melted into a little pout of mock-offense. She folded her arms and tilted her head, dramatic. The change read like a challenge, and Miuson's mind worked as he searched for both what he did wrong and the right reply.

The next moment, the realization that she was out of the village alone slammed into him. "Milady, what are you doing out here by yourself?" He blurted, stepping forward. "It's dangerous! Why would you wander out the village without—!" He stopped, realizing he'd sounded more flustered than authoritative.

Kaede snorted, exasperated and amused at once. "Jeez." She blew out a little breath as if that settled the matter. Her eyes slid downward to his concealed hand. Suddenly mischievous again, she held out her hand. "Let me see it," she demanded.

Miuson's composure frayed. "W-What?" He stammered, gaze flicking to hers and then away, heat creeping up his neck. His pulse kicked, and his palm clenched reflexively against the small of his back.

Kaede laughed, delighted, and closed the distance without waiting for permission. Despite a noticeable height difference, she leaned in so their faces were inches apart—still innocent, but intensely personal. She planted one foot against the frozen ground and rose up on tiptoes as if climbing to peer more closely. She then placed both hands on Miuson's chest for balance.

For a heartbeat she balanced there, a lean of confident mischief, and she teased, voice soft and taunting: "You're not going to disobey your princess, are you, rookie?"

Miuson's cheeks flared scarlet as he fumbled the words, taking an uneasy step back. Kaede moved with him like a shadow—close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her. Her grin wavered between teasing and fond, and for a moment, Miuson simply froze beneath her gaze.

He sighed and, defeated, slipped the gloved hand from behind his back. The glove was simple leather with the fingertips left bare, showing small red trails originating from inside the glow, staining his skin and nails.

"Jeez…" Kaede breathed, less mockery than a small, sharp intake of worry. She took his hand in both of hers and peeled the glove off, revealing knuckles bruised and split—skin raw where bone met skin from that bone-deep punch into the frozen ground. The sight softened the teasing in her features and left a streak of real concern.

Miuson scratched the back of his head, eyes landing on anything but Kaede. "It doesn't hurt that much," he mumbled, "it'll heal on its own. D-Don't worry about it..."

Kaede's mouth crooked into something stern. "You always say that," she said, the amusement gone from her voice, "you know I hate it when you lie to me, Miu." There was a tremor of annoyance there, but threaded through it was something warmer—an impatient care that had nothing to do with formality, but familiarity.

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Next: (Chapter 77) Miuson & Kaede

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