The knife struck.
For a suspended second, the courtyard seemed to reject what had happened.
The soldier remained standing.
The blade protruded from his back, buried to the hilt. A dark stain bloomed beneath the metal, spreading across his armor in a widening circle. Blood flowed in heavy, deliberate pulses, too fast.
Then his knees gave way.
He collapsed forward onto the stone.
The sound was dull. Final.
Around them, the battle did not pause. Steel rang against steel. Kosmo flared in distant bursts as the captain continued his engagement with the boss. Shouts echoed along the prison walls.
But around Reikika—
Silence.
She was already moving.
She caught him before his head struck the ground fully and lowered him onto his back. Her gauntlets slipped in the spreading warmth. Blood coated her fingers, thick and slick, seeping through the joints of his armor.
The wound was catastrophic.
The blade had torn through organs. The exit wound gaped. Blood pooled beneath him in dark red sheets, flowing into the cracks of the stone courtyard.
His breathing was shallow. Wet.
Each inhale rattled.
Reikika pressed her hand to the wound instinctively, though she knew.
The damage was beyond repair.
Her mind calculated automatically. Trajectory. Force. Suppressed Kosmo signature. Delay in reaction time.
Too late.
His eyes found hers.
They were steady.
Not accusing.
He tried to lift a hand but lacked the strength. His fingers twitched once before falling back against the stone.
"Focus," he said.
The word was quiet. Controlled.
Not a plea.
An instruction.
His chest rose one final time.
Then did not rise again.
The battle sounds rushed back in, violent and distorted.
Reikika remained kneeling.
Her hands were still pressed against a body that no longer required pressure.
There was no scream.
No collapse.
Only the precise understanding of what had been taken.
She had stepped forward confidently.
She had lowered her blade.
She had assumed control.
And someone else had paid.
The temperature shifted.
At first it was subtle.
A thin mist escaped her lips as she exhaled.
Then the air sharpened.
The warmth draining from the courtyard was not imagined.
Stone darkened beneath her knees as frost began to crawl outward in delicate fractures.
A presence unfolded behind her.
Not seen fully—
Felt.
Veynar.
The Eternal Ice.
There was no roar. No towering apparition.
Only pressure.
Sound dulled as if wrapped in snow.
The clash between the captain and the boss faltered as their breath crystallized mid-air. Frost formed along prison walls in intricate patterns. Ice traced the lines of fallen weapons.
Reikika rose slowly.
Her Kosmo expanded outward in a sudden, violent surge—but it did not scatter wildly.
It sharpened.
Compressed.
Focused.
The second-in-command had pushed himself halfway upright, horror dawning across his face as he saw the shift in her eyes.
The warmth was gone.
Not replaced by rage.
Replaced by absence.
"You—" he began.
Ice formed beneath his hand, fusing skin to stone.
He screamed as frost raced up his arm in jagged veins. The sound cut short when the cold reached his throat.
Reikika stepped toward him without haste.
Each footfall left frozen impressions in the courtyard.
The remaining criminals tried to flee.
The gate ahead of them sealed shut in a wall of crystalline ice.
One man swung blindly at her.
His blade shattered on contact with the frost that coated her armor.
She did not look at him as she passed.
A flick of her wrist—
A blade of condensed ice formed and pierced cleanly through his chest.
No flourish.
No wasted motion.
The second-in-command struggled, panic tearing through what remained of his composure.
"I didn't—" he gasped.
Ice sealed his mouth.
His eyes widened as frost climbed over his face.
Reikika's gaze never wavered.
She tightened her fist.
The ice constricted.
Bone cracked softly beneath pressure.
Then silence.
The courtyard became still.
The boss, locked in combat with the captain, hesitated—just long enough for the captain's blade to find its mark.
He fell heavily.
Within moments, the fighting ended.
No cheers followed.
Only the sound of ice settling.
The captain stood motionless for a long moment, observing the frozen bodies, the frost-covered stone, the air shimmering with cold.
His gaze settled on Reikika.
Her Kosmo still radiated outward in glacial waves.
"Stand down," he said.
Not sharply.
Firmly.
The frost continued to spread for one heartbeat more.
Then another.
Finally, Veynar's presence receded.
The ice did not vanish—but it stopped advancing.
Reikika's shoulders lowered a fraction.
She turned.
The soldier's body lay where she had left him.
Frost had not touched him.
They carried him back to Hydros at dusk.
The Sanctuary gates opened without ceremony.
Closed without sound.
Reikika walked behind the stretcher.
She did not offer to carry it.
She did not look away from it either.
Her armor was stiff with dried blood. Darkened streaks ran along her gauntlets and across her chest plate.
Citizens parted silently as Strike Division passed through the city streets.
No whispers.
No applause.
Only awareness.
The body was taken to the lower sanctum.
Preparation for rites began immediately.
The funeral was held at dawn.
Warriors assembled in disciplined lines within the central courtyard of Hydros. Armor polished. Weapons at rest.
The soldier's body lay upon a raised stone platform, draped in the insignia of Strike Division. His blade rested across his chest.
No embellishments.
No flowers.
The commander stepped forward.
"He died as a warrior," he said.
Nothing more.
No recounting of bravery.
No dramatization.
The truth was enough.
At the signal, four soldiers lifted the platform and carried it toward the inner sanctum, where fallen warriors were laid to rest beneath engraved stone.
Reikika stood unmoving in formation.
Her gaze did not falter.
But inside—
She replayed it.
The suppressed Kosmo signature.
The slight shift in stance.
The moment she had looked away.
She had believed the fight was over.
She had allowed pride—quiet, unspoken pride—to dull vigilance.
Her strength had dominated.
But it had not protected.
The weight of that settled deeper than the frost had.
Midarion found her later, near the outer training grounds where fewer recruits lingered.
She stood facing the horizon.
He did not approach too closely.
"I heard," he said quietly.
She nodded once.
He waited.
The silence between them was not uncomfortable. It held understanding.
"He stepped in," she said finally.
"Yes."
"I didn't see it."
Midarion did not offer reassurance.
"You can't see everything," he said.
Her jaw tightened slightly.
"I should have."
He considered that.
"I've been told," he began carefully, "that distance isn't always intention."
She glanced at him briefly, not fully understanding the context—but sensing its weight.
"I don't need comfort," she said.
"I know."
He hesitated.
"Stay in my quarters tonight."
The offer was simple. Practical.
She did not answer immediately.
Before she could, another presence approached.
Captain Aelyss.
Her steps were soundless against the stone.
"No," Aelyss said evenly.
Midarion turned.
"Captain—"
"No."
Her gaze remained on Reikika.
"This is the life you chose."
Her voice was calm. Absolute.
"You will lose comrades. You will watch them fall. You will carry them home."
Reikika did not lower her eyes.
"If attachment weakens your discipline," Aelyss continued, "then it will cost more lives."
Midarion's jaw tightened—but he remained silent.
"You must be ready to lose," Aelyss said. "And to be lost."
The words were not cruel.
They were stripped of softness.
Reikika inhaled slowly.
"I understand."
Aelyss held her gaze for a moment longer, measuring.
Then she turned and walked away.
Midarion remained.
"I didn't mean—" he began.
"I know," Reikika said.
Her voice was steady.
But something within it had shifted.
That night, she sat alone in her quarters.
The room was sparse.
Functional.
She removed her armor piece by piece.
Each clasp released with a quiet click.
The breastplate came last.
When it fell away, dried blood marked the fabric beneath.
She stared at her hands.
Dark stains clung to her skin where water had not fully cleaned them.
She walked to the basin.
Filled it.
The surface stilled.
Her reflection looked back at her—unmarked, composed.
She lowered her hands into the water.
Red clouds unfurled slowly.
"Was this strength?" she whispered.
Veynar did not answer.
No frost formed.
No presence stirred.
Only silence.
She stared into the basin as the water trembled slightly from her breathing.
Ripples fractured her reflection into broken lines.
Distorted.
Unstable.
She did not look away.
And the water did not still.