The courtyard of Winterhold was crisp and cold under the pale sun, but the temperature was about to rise dramatically.
Edric Stark, ten years old and buzzing with nervous energy, stood opposite his uncle.
Alaric Stark wore the simple confidence of a man who knew the secrets of the cosmos, yet he carried himself with the easy grace of a Northman.
"Today, Edric, you start training that little spark of power you have inherited," Alaric instructed, his voice calm yet commanding. "Forget respect. Forget that I am your uncle. I want you to attack me with the intent to kill. If you do not commit absolutely, you will learn nothing."
Edric nodded, his young face settling into a determined mask. He knew his uncle was, quite literally, the most powerful man on the planet, but the challenge ignited a fierce Stark pride.
Closing his eyes for a heartbeat, he channeled the primal energy that hummed just beneath his skin. With a gasp of concentration, the air shimmered before him, and two solid, gleaming, phantom blades materialized in his hands—the emerald green of pure Projection Magic.
"Begin," Alaric murmured.
Edric launched himself forward. He was a whirlwind of ten-year-old fury, his twin swords slashing in surprisingly competent arcs, mirroring the standard Winterfell training he'd received.
Alaric reacted instantly, his own palm shimmering to produce a simple, sturdy wooden practice sword, though its speed was inhuman. The clash of Steel against ordinary wood sent sharp, rhythmic echoes across the courtyard.
"Good footwork, nephew!" Alaric called out, parrying a cross-slash that would have left a lesser opponent winded. "But your intent is sloppy! You worry about your stance; worry instead about the gap in my defense. You must be fluid, Edric! Predict my counter before I even raise the blade!"
Edric pressed the attack, trying to incorporate the critique, forcing Alaric to shift his weight. The uncle used the opening, sidestepping Edric's charge and tapping the small of his back with the wooden sword.
It was a momentary breach, but a deadly one. Edric instantly broke away, his breath coming faster now.
"Again!" Alaric urged. Edric, put more power into his projection. The steel swords grew thicker, more defined, and he attacked with renewed, desperate speed, using feints and quick pivots. Alaric defended easily, his wooden blade a blur.
"Better density, but you are relying on the magic to carry the weight," Alaric observed, his tone remaining clinical despite the intensity of the duel. "The magic is an extension of your body, not a replacement for your strength!"
With a sharp, sudden movement, Alaric slapped his wooden blade against Edric's twin projections. The force was negligible, yet the energy behind it was immense, and with a high-pitched shing, Edric's twin swords fractured into a thousand shimmering shards, dissolving back into the air.
Seeing his primary attack shattered, Edric instinctively retreated, his frustration boiling over. He shifted his mental focus. The emerald green disappeared, replaced by the chilling, pale blue of Ice Magic. The ground around his feet crackled with frost.
He slammed his hands down. Two massive forms—two ice wolves, five feet tall, carved from solid, brittle frost—burst forth and hurtled toward Alaric, snapping their cold jaws.
Alaric did not draw his sword. As the ice wolves closed in, he merely swiped his open hand in a casual, downward arc. A wave of invisible, controlled kinetic force met the constructs.
With a sound like glass shattering, the ice wolves instantly exploded into a spray of cold mist and sharp shards, disappearing harmlessly into the cold air.
"Weak," Alaric stated. "They were brittle. Their core temperature was too high. You used ice magic, but your intent was fire. Try to defend yourself now."
Edric then quickly channeled his own power. Three ice wolves, easily the size of the enhanced direwolves, larger and denser than any natural ice, formed in a terrifying, silent pack.
He then projected his own twin swords, these in a solid, terrifying black steel, and joined the attack.
Edric started attacking ferociously. Alaric danced around the courtyard, dodging the lumbering, coordinated ice beasts and Edric's desperate slashes. But the coordination was too much for the boy.
Edric was pouring all his focus into attacking Alaric head-on, and the wolves, losing the necessary mental connection, began to stumble, their synchronization failing.
The next ten minutes were a grueling, one-sided lesson. Edric was in a desperate struggle to at least land a simple attack, but Alaric was always faster, always in control. He never struck a crippling blow, but he pressed the boy relentlessly until the boy was moving on pure will.
Finally, utterly depleted of energy and breath, Edric stumbled, dropped his sword projection, and collapsed onto the stone floor, panting raggedly, frost clinging to his hair. Alaric instantly dismissed his own sword and his three ice constructs.
He walked over and knelt beside his exhausted nephew. "You tried to rush the magic, Edric. Your ice lacked density. Its temperature was closer to freezing water than true, life-shattering cold. You used ice magic for a ten-minute run, not a true defense. Now, stand up. We start again."