The information from Valerius arrived not on parchment, but in a dream.
Damien, deep in a meditative cycle, felt the familiar, frozen stillness of his mind invaded by a subtle, perfumed chill. A scene unfolded behind his closed eyes: not a memory, but a crafted vision. He saw a laboratory of polished black stone, not unlike the Moros facilities but older, dripping with Gothic grandeur. A figure in Karyon clan robes lay on a slab—a woman, pregnant. A masked apothecary administered a vial of shimmering, silver-grey liquid through a complex series of crystal tubes. The vision zoomed in on the liquid. His Oculus, even in the dream, analyzed it: "Mnemonic Bane Toxin - A concoction designed to sever specific spiritual-genetic connections in utero, keyed to ocular nerve and mana-channel development."
The vision shifted. He saw ledgers. Shipping manifests from the Vexis Clan to a holding company, then to a blind trust, then to the Moros Consortium. A paper trail detailing the purchase of "experimental gestational reagents."
The message was clear, brutal, and impeccably sourced. His step-mother Selene's clan had poisoned him before he was born. They had sold him to the Moros to be mined for whatever latent power remained. Valerius hadn't just given him a clue; he'd given him a weapon—the undeniable truth of his betrayal.
Damien awoke, the cold in his chest deeper than any frost his Constitution could produce. It was a cold made of facts. He stored the knowledge away, another log on the pyre of his purpose.
At dawn, Silas was a whisper at his door.
"The Tower rats are nervous," the young man murmured, slipping inside. He looked better—cleaner, in a sturdy, nondescript tunic, his eyes brighter, the Silverite shard likely hidden on his person. "The older one who arrived, the 3rd Order, he's not happy with Kael. They're planning something for the final melee. Not to kill you—they're too smart for that in Ferros's hall. To discredit you. To make your power look… unstable. Dangerous to bystanders."
Damien listened. The final grand melee was a Conclave tradition—a chaotic free-for-all among the champions in the main bailey, a display of strength and control. "Details."
"Couldn't get close enough to hear specifics. Their quarters are warded. But they've been buying up alchemical components from a shady apothecary in the lower town. Flash-powder, dreamsmoke, and… Soul-Flare Crystals."
Soul-Flare Crystals. When shattered, they released a burst of energy that violently agitated the spiritual sea of anyone nearby, causing temporary loss of mana control, dizziness, even unconsciousness. If triggered near Damien during a crowded melee, it could cause his frost to run wild, potentially freezing innocent spectators. He'd be labeled a hazard, his "converter" core a public menace. Ferros would be forced to side with the Tower to maintain order.
It was a clever, political attack.
"Good," Damien said. Silas blinked, surprised at the praise. "Can you get into the apothecary? Switch the crystals for inert fakes?"
Silas shook his head. "Too watched. The apothecary is in the Tower's pocket. But… the crystals are delicate. They need to be kept in a neutral-stasis pouch until use. The pouch will be on the disciple holding them, likely the woman, Livia."
Damien thought. A direct confrontation was what they wanted. He needed a subtler solution. He looked at Silas. "Can you steal the pouch during the melee itself? In the chaos?"
A fierce, proud grin split Silas's face. "You just give me the distraction, Warden. I'll make the pouch vanish before she knows it's gone."
The plan formed. Damien would provide the ultimate distraction. He would not hide his power in the melee. He would dominate it, so utterly that all eyes would be on him, creating the perfect moment for a shadow to work.
The day of the melee arrived. The main bailey was packed. Lord Ferros and his court watched from a high balcony. Champions from a dozen minor lords, mercenary bands, and independent talents like Damien stood in the sandy arena. Kael, Livia, and the other Tower disciple stood apart, their expressions smug. The older 3rd Order disciple watched from the balcony, a faint smile on his lips.
A horn blew.
Chaos erupted. Swords clashed. Elemental blasts lit the air—a geyser of earth, a whip of lightning. A hulking beast-kin roared, swiping at a darting elf.
Damien didn't move from his starting spot. He let the battle swirl around him. A burly axeman charged him, only to skid to a halt as a wall of ice thicker than a man erupted from the ground before him. The man cursed, turned, and found another foe.
Damien was creating a zone of exclusion. A moving pillar of ice would block a stray arrow. A slick sheet would trip a charging warrior. He wasn't fighting; he was curating the battlefield around him, a quiet conductor of the symphony of violence.
The Tower disciples moved. They worked as a unit, their Mana-Drain techniques creating sucking voids that disarmed and weakened opponents, clearing a path toward Damien. Livia's hand was clenched around a small pouch at her belt.
Time for the distraction.
Damien stopped curating. He announced.
He raised a hand to the sky. Above the swirling melee, the air itself began to weep frost. Not a blizzard, but a beautiful, terrifying phenomenon. Intricate snowflakes, each as wide as a shield, began to crystallize out of the moisture in the air, floating down in a slow, silent dance. They were breathtakingly complex, glowing with a soft internal blue light. The very heat leached from the area, the sounds of battle muffled. Fighters paused, staring upward in awe.
"Frostfall Display," someone gasped.
All eyes were on the descending art, on Damien, the still point at its center. Even Lord Ferros leaned forward, captivated.
In that moment of universal distraction, a grey blur detached from the shadow of the retaining wall. Silas, moving with a pauper's desperate grace, slipped through the stunned combatants. He bumped against Livia, a clumsy-looking stagger. As he apologized profusely, his fingers, delicate as a spider's legs, found the clasp of the pouch at her belt. It came free. He palmed it, replaced it with an identical pouch of pebbles and sand he'd prepared, and melted back into the crowd.
Livia, her eyes on the beautiful frostfall, never felt a thing.
Damien saw the switch through his Avatar's detached perspective. He closed his fist. The floating snowflakes shattered simultaneously with a sound like a thousand bells chiming, dissolving into a harmless, glittering mist that coated everyone in a layer of sparkling rime.
The melee, broken in its rhythm, stumbled to a conclusion. No one was seriously hurt. The display of control was absolute, breathtaking.
Kael looked furious, confused. He glanced at Livia. She nodded, patting the fake pouch, a smirk on her face. They thought they still held the trap.
Lord Ferros stood, clapping his gauntleted hands together slowly. "A display of power with artistry! The Frost-Warden shows control to match his strength! Remember this, all of you—true power does not bludgeon; it commands!"
The Conclave was over. Damien had won prestige. The Tower's plot had been neutered by a thief they never saw coming.
That night, in his cell, Silas presented the stolen pouch. Damien took the three Soul-Flare Crystals, each pulsing with unstable energy. He held one in his palm. His Glacial Devourer instinct stirred. Could he…?
He focused. Instead of consuming its energy, he gently coaxed it. Using his frost, he guided the agitated energy into a stable, looping pattern within the crystal. He wasn't draining it; he was reprogramming it. When he finished, the crystal glowed with a steady, calm light.
He handed it back to Silas. "Keep this. The others, we will sell. Your service was adequate."
Silas took the stabilized crystal, his eyes wide. "Adequate?" he breathed, a real smile, not a calculated one, touching his lips for the first time. "I lived a decade in this keep and never saw a day like this." He looked at Damien, the calculation in his eyes now mixed with something else—the beginning of loyalty. "What next, Warden?"
Damien looked at the map to the Sun-Scorched Expanse. "We prepare for a journey. To a place where fire forgets to burn. You will come. You will be my eyes in the light, as you are in the shadows."
He had a shadow. He had a direction. The quiet, relentless engine of his conquest shifted gears, preparing to leave the petty politics of the Vale behind and step onto a much larger, more dangerous stage. The Academy, with its structured challenges and potential allies like Kiran and Lyra, was still a future destination. But first, he needed to feast on fire.