Alaric stood on the granite summit, the wind whipping his cloak. His pronouncement was quiet, yet it held the weight of destiny.
"You have an affinity for Ice, Edric. Not just the chill of the North, but the absolute, crushing cold of the True North. You will train this power until you can easily suppress dragonfire and freeze the rage of a conqueror."
Edric felt a thrilling shiver that had nothing to do with the wind. "Suppress dragonfire? How low must the temperature go?"
Alaric's eyes seemed to pierce the distance, filled with knowledge that stretched beyond the stars. "The lowest you have felt is a summer frost. You will push it to absolute zero, to the temperature of the deep sea. You must learn to freeze an enemy from the inside out, turning their blood to shards and their very soul brittle. Ice magic is not merely building walls, nephew; it is the fundamental cessation of movement, of life, of all heat."
He then spoke of the gruesome, factual dangers of cold: the crystalline structure of ice at sub-zero temperatures, the internal frostbite that could kill before a man knew he was struck, and the sheer, crushing density of magic-infused ice. Edric listened, his excitement now mixed with a heavy sobriety. This was not a game.
"Your first lesson is not magic," Alaric concluded, his gaze turning severe. "It is mastery. Strip, Edric. Leave only the innermost layer of cloth."
Edric, without hesitation, obeyed. He peeled off his thick leathers, his furs, and his woolen tunic until he stood bare-chested on the frozen peak, the high-altitude air stinging his skin like a thousand needles. He immediately began to shiver violently.
"Feel it," Alaric commanded, unyielding. "The cold is not your enemy; it is your raw material. You must be acquainted with it. Let it bite, let it sting, let it scream at your skin. Until your body accepts the cold as its natural state, you cannot command it."
The next two years passed in a relentless, elemental cycle. Edric's routine remained unchanged in its structure—morning runs, solar lessons, afternoon combat—but his magical training added a brutal, daily pilgrimage.
Every day, Alaric and Edric would fly their hoverboards to the Summit of the Skirling Pass. The first instruction was always the same: strip to the essentials.
Edric was forced to endure the exposure. Initially, he shivered uncontrollably, the cold a raw, brutal shock. Days turned into weeks, and the trembling slowly subsided, replaced by a dull, constant ache.
Alaric would often leave him alone for hours, observing from a distance with the two-way mirror to ensure his safety, only returning when Edric's skin was blue and his breathing shallow. The purpose: forge an unbreakable bond between boy and frost.
Once acclimatized, Alaric introduced the first exercise: summoning ice from his body. Edric started with simple frost, barely enough to coat his fingertips. Alaric demanded more. "Feel the water in the air, Edric! Feel the water in your own blood! It is not coming to you; it is you making it real!" Days were spent trying to form a simple cup of ice, failing, and trying again, the cold burning in his palms.
To build core magical stability, Alaric would make Edric stand for hours in a meditative stance, focusing his will to generate a thin sheath of ice armor around his torso. If his focus wavered, the ice would crack, and the mountain air would immediately punish his exposed skin. He learned that magic was control; a single, errant thought could be the difference between a protective layer and hypothermia.
As the first year concluded, Edric's body had ceased to view the cold as a threat. He could stand on the summit, bare-chested, for hours without shivering. His focus shifted from survival to power.
The Ice Construct Test: Alaric demanded increasing complexity. The focus was density—the ice could not be brittle or translucent. Alaric would test the constructs with a powerful thump of his finger. If they cracked, Edric had failed. His hands would often bleed from the raw magical exertion, but his swords grew harder than steel.
Controlling Temperature: This was the most crucial step. Alaric would make Edric manipulate a small sphere of ice. "Do not just freeze it, Edric. Lower its temperature. Feel the absolute drop. You must not only make the ice, you must make it dead cold." Edric learned to push the magical temperature downward, sometimes feeling a strange, hollow agony in his core as he tapped into the deeper cold. His ice began to gain a faint, sinister blue glow that terrified even the seasoned guards when they sparred with him below.
Alaric finished by integrating the training with his other disciplines. During his daily fighting with the guards, Edric was now permitted to draw small amounts of ice magic, not for attack, but to enhance his senses.
He learned to feel the subtle shift in air pressure, the faint changes in temperature, and the slightest buildup of condensation—all hints of an enemy's move. This allowed his honed instincts to become faster, colder, and absolutely lethal.
Two years later, Edric stood on the summit, his body lean and powerful. His skin was permanently toughened against the bite of the North. He could summon a massive, diamond-hard blade of ice with a single thought. He was no longer just the heir of Winterfell; he was an elemental weapon, ready to unleash the absolute, unforgiving cold.