The training grounds were quiet at this hour.
Only the wind moved across the stone courtyard, brushing against the ground and scattering a faint blue mist of lingering Thrum.
I exhaled slowly and let it surface.
Blue mist seeped from my palms, thin at first, then thickening as I drew more from within. It curled like breath in winter, folding over itself as I compressed it.
The air grew colder, the mist condensed, tightened, and finally hardened.
Ice formed.
I shaped more of it, drawing out clumps of condensed Thrum and pressing them together.
A torso. Shoulders. Arms. Legs.
The figure grew piece by piece beneath my focus, ragged, but the silhouette was forming.
For a moment, it stood there.
A man sculpted from blue ice.
Then a thin crack traced across its chest.
Another followed.
The entire structure fractured at once and burst apart into blue mist, dissolving back into the air as if it had never existed.
Silence returned.
I glanced at my partner.
Solaris stood a short distance away, hands clasped behind her back, posture immaculate. Her long aquamarine hair shimmered under the ceiling light as though light itself paid tribute to her presence.
Even in simple training attire, she carried herself like a sovereign inspecting her domain.
"Well?" I asked. "How did I do?"
She circled the spot where the sculpture had crumbled, heels clicking lightly against tiles.
"Faulty."
I winced.
"The transmutation itself is acceptable," she continued, voice smooth and composed.
"Your compression ratio improved. Your structural layering was cleaner than yesterday."
I looked up.
She met my eyes.
"You, however, remain inefficient."
"…Right. Of course I am."
"You hesitate at the moment of completion," she said.
"You doubt the stability of what you create. That doubt fractures the construct before the Thrum itself does."
Yeah, yeah.
"I apologize, Miss Perfect."
She lifted her chin slightly.
"I am perfect. Now do it again."
I exhaled and drew thrum once more.
Blue energy spilled from my palms, colder this time. I compressed it carefully, slower at the joints, reinforcing the chest. Ice layered over ice. The humanoid form took shape again.
Solaris spoke while I worked.
"She did not come again."
I kept my eyes on the forming shoulder. "She's been busy. Busy with her new friends...."
"If wasting time qualifies as productivity," Solaris replied coolly, "then the entertainment district would be the most economically optimized sector in the kingdom."
The corner of my mouth twitched.
The ice cracked.
The entire figure dissolved instantly back into mist.
I turned toward her. "What the hell, Princess? I didn't know you were secretly a jester."
"I do not jest," she said calmly.
"Of course you do."
She stepped closer, examining the fading mist.
"You are distracted."
"No thanks to you?"
"You are."
I rubbed the back of my neck.
She studied me for a long moment, blue eyes sharp.
"Your Thrum capacity," she said, "is obscene."
"…Excuse me?"
"It is excessive. Borderline irrational. You expend more raw output forming a simple construct than most students possess in total reserve."
I shrugged. "As I said, that's the only part of me I'm proud of."
Her gaze sharpened.
"Atrocious."
"Hey."
"If you think so lowly of yourself," she continued, tone even and regal,
"then you impose a limiter that does not exist. A bottomless well is meaningless if its owner insists on drawing water with a cracked cup."
I blinked.
"Your capacity is only valuable because you are enduring my guidance without collapse."
"Five days. Continuous strain. Repeated failure. Pain tolerance beyond reasonable expectation."
She folded her arms.
"You could never compare to my perfect self. That would be unrealistic."
"Naturally." I snarkily remarked.
"However," she added, "your effort is adequate."
I opened my mouth.
"Shut up."
"Yes maam!"
"Being adequate is not disgraceful, Matthew,"
"Even being poor at something is not fatal. Every mastery begins in mediocrity."
Her voice softened just slightly.
"Take what is adequate and refine it. Refine it until it becomes good. Refine good into excellent. Refine excellence into something worthy of admiration."
She looked away.
"And perhaps, someday, you may approach something resembling perfection."
A warmth spread quietly in my chest.
Troublesome princess.
I turned back to the training ground and let the blue mist gather again in my palms.
"Some one of a kind shabby princess you are," I muttered.
"Not shabby," she corrected without missing a beat.
"I am perfect."
I exhaled and focused.
The mist thickened, denser than before. I compressed it slowly, carefully reinforcing each layer instead of rushing to the finish. Torso first. Then the spine. Shoulders balanced. Arms are weighted properly. Legs rooted.
This time, with Miss Princess at my side, I did not doubt the final moment.
The humanoid ice sculpture stood.
No cracks or fractures.
It held.
Solaris circled it once, examining the symmetry, the thickness of the joints, the distribution of compressed Thrum.
"Who did you imagine this after?" she asked.
I imagined the first Abarent we will soon face at the ball tomorrow, but I can't necessarily say that to her.
"Our future nightmare."
She paused and was confused, but she examined the ice sculpture closely nonetheless.
It was a man with short, layered hair cut into a rough bob that tapered into a thin rat tail at the back.
He wore formal clothing on top, consisting of a collared shirt and a fitted vest shaped cleanly from frost, while the lower half shifted into practical overalls with straps crossing neatly over his chest.
The mix made him look like a butler of some sort, with the ice posed so that his hands rested behind his back as if he were waiting for orders.
She squinted at it, then gave a small nod.
"Not something to be proud of. It will suffice."
She stepped beside me.
....
"Ice transmutation is the natural course for Blue Cored Weavers. Do you know why?"
"Because of the Blue Core's innate ability," I answered
"Which is?"
"Compression."
She nodded once.
"Ice in nature is brittle. Rigid. Prone to fracture. Yet it also adapts to pressure and is only limited by its user's flexibility and creativity."
She extended her hand.
Blue mist flowed from her palm effortlessly, far smoother than mine. It condensed instantly, forming ice without visible strain. She sculpted with small, precise motions.
Within moments, a figure stood beside mine.
Her.
Every strand of hair is defined.
The faint curve of her lips. The folds of fabric. It was so lifelike that for a brief second, my eyes flickered between the sculpture and the original, unsure.
She glanced at me.
"Observe the density."
She tapped the sculpture lightly. It did not tremble.
"Now."
She formed another sculpture.
This time it was me.
The outline was accurate, the posture correct, though the structure was noticeably more translucent. Thinner. Less compact.
"Think of this one as a non-Blue Cored Weaver attempting ice transmutation."
She folded her arms.
"Punch the sculpture of me."
"…What?"
"As hard as you can. Do not restrain yourself."
I stepped forward and drove my fist into the ice replica of Solaris with everything I had.
"OW!"
Pain shot through my knuckles.
The sculpture only tipped sideways and tumbled to the ground intact.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Again."
"No! It fucking hurts. You did that on purpose, didn't you?"
"Don't be a wuss, this time punch your own sculpture."
Hah.... this girl never listens to me.
I turned and struck the translucent version of myself with the same force.
It flew backward instantly, skidding across stone before slamming into the wall and shattering into fragments.
.....
.....
Solaris gestured toward the broken pieces.
"They can extract one hundred percent of what ice naturally offers, Rigidity. temperature and Form," she said calmly.
She pointed to her own fallen sculpture, still whole.
"We extract ten times its potential."
She knelt and lightly touched the intact ice. It refracted light almost like a crystal.
"Our compression does not merely compress ice. It reinforces molecular alignment through sustained Thrum pressure. Density increases beyond natural parameters."
She looked back at me and compressed her ice sculpture until it fit perfectly in her palm. Then she extended it toward me.
"That is the privilege of a Blue Cored Weaver."
I took it confidently.
The moment the weight settled into my hand, my knees gave out.
I slammed against the tiles with a loud crack, the floor splintering slightly beneath me.
"What the—"
It was ridiculously heavy. Dense beyond reason. It looked delicate enough to shatter with a tap, yet it felt like I was holding a chunk of a frozen mountain.
Solaris looked down at me without concern.
"Compression," she said simply. "You are holding what ice becomes when compression is executed without compromise."
I forced myself back to my feet and carefully returned it to her. She dissolved it into mist with a flick of her fingers.
"That will be all for today," she declared.
"I have already ordered an appropriate suit for you. It will match mine for tomorrow's ball."
"You ordered it?"
"Yes."
"You didn't even ask for my measurements."
She gave me a flat look.
"I have connections."
Right.
I rubbed the back of my neck. "So you approached me because you didn't want to partner with other nobles?"
"As a princess, alignment is never simple," she replied.
"If I held the hand of a noble during the ball. It signals favoritism. Favoritism invites speculation. Speculation invites rumors."
"A domino effect of doom, so to speak."
She brushed imaginary dust from her sleeve.
"The techniques I am teaching you will circulate eventually during the midterm or finals. Associating with you creates less turbulence."
"Less turbulence, huh...." I muttered.
"You are connected to Salem's militia through your family. That alone stabilizes several assumptions. You are politically useful without being politically aggressive."
I stared at her.
"So I'm convenient."
"You are adequate," she corrected.
I sighed. "My appearance leaves much to be desired, too, I assume?"
She examined me openly this time, blue eyes scanning without hesitation.
"Your posture is inefficient, and most atrociously, your fashion sense is nonexistent."
I slumped.
"However," she continued calmly, "your face is not unpleasant."
"Well, I apologize for not having a prince-like face to match yours."
She opened the door and stepped outside, pausing just enough to turn slightly as the sunlight caught in her hair.
"That would be redundant. There is only room for one perfect face in this partnership."
I snorted.
Troublesome princess.
She began walking toward the exit.
"Do not be late tomorrow, Matthew."
"Yes, Your Highness."
....
"You can call me Solaris."
I smirked under my breath.
"Then from now on, please call me Matt."