THE SNOWDRIFT HALL (3)

Upon seeing the damage, Chioni Wyn sighed and went to retrieve a medical box from a cabinet.

Medical supplies were laid out on the floor table, and the disciple was gestured towards a floor cushion.

"This didn't happen when I grabbed your sword," Marshall said, taking a seat.

His hand looked as if someone had slid a knife over it in random directions, creating a twisted pattern of frost flowers. On top of the look of it, the wound stung like the worst burn.

"That is because after your encounter with Cheimon, I took care of the damage while you were unconscious. You did not get the chance to touch anything." Wyn explained, unscrewing a vial of what Marshall assumed was a disinfectant.

He glanced back at the screen, a bloody ghost of a handprint grabbing the side of the frame. So touching things right after getting bitten by spiritual frost was off limits...

"Ow," he flinched as the snow deity began cleaning the wound.

Even as the disciple shifted at times when it stung too much, Wyn remained patient. He pausing for a moment whenever Marshall jerked back, then went back to dabbing the disinfectant-soaked cotton ball over his hand.

"How did you heal my hand before?" Marshall asked to distract himself.

"By a spiritual energy transfer," Wyn replied, applying a healing salve. "Since I use spiritual frost, I am immune to its effects, so..."

The snow deity paused, reaching for the bandage. "...if I transfer some of my energy to you, your body becomes temporarily immune to it. It counters the negative impact of spiritual frost."

After Wyn cleared the table of medical supplies, he patted the table.

"Give me both of your hands."

Marshall stared at the wrinkleless bandage that hugged his hand with the perfect folds.

"What for?" he asked, carefully placing his hands on the table.

"The energy transfer, what else? The wound is taken care of, but I still have to get rid of the spiritual frost damage."

The warmth of Wyn's hands contrasted the stoic behavior once again, and Marshall couldn't help but chuckle to himself.

"Is something the matter?" Wyn questioned, arching a brow in question.

"No, nothing," Marshall replied, grinning.

The only sound filling the silence was the soft hum of the spiritual energy.

Once the transfer was done, Wyn withdrew his hands, the pale-blue glow fading away.

Marshall stretched out his fingers. The lingering ache from the spiritual frost seemed to dissipate.

"Thanks, Wyn."

The arch in the snow deity's brows relaxed as he accepted the gratitude. "You should head back and get some rest."

Wyn continued, "The damage caused by spiritual frost might seem insignificant, but it should not be ignored. On your way out, do not touch anything in the Snowdrift Hall. Do not wander around, and do not..."

Marshall distractedly turned his head to the side, taking a good look around.

The room was was dimly lit, thick curtains hanging over the windows. Everything was clean, but not as sterile as he had imagined. The furniture was made of rosewood, and the dark tones clashed with the white walls.

On the corner of the dark floor table they sat by, lay The Art of Frost and Solidification book with a glass of iced water sitting next to it. Wyn must have been practicing freezing the water earlier in the day.

Then his eyes landed on a delicate vase adorned with intricate snowflake patterns. One of the last rays of sun hit it with a pale orange light, the surface glittering.

"Beautiful vase," Marshall commented without thinking about it.

Wyn glanced at the vase briefly before responding, "It was a gift."

"Oh, really?" Marshall's curiosity perked up. "From someone dear?"

The snow deity bowed his head in a slow nod. "My mother."

"Is she more like Muyang or like you?" Marshall amusedly asked, plucking the corner of the book on the table.

"Neither of us," Wyn moved the book further away from the restless hands. "She is long gone."

Marshall froze, his mouth opening in a silent "oh."

A somewhat tired question was sent to the disciple. "Will you leave now, or are you planning to spend the night here?"

"Heh," Marshall smirked at him, and continued to tap his fingers on the table. 

But seeing Wyn's unimpressed expression, he said, "Don't worry, I'll leave in a bit. Why the hurry? Is it your bedtime already?"

"Yes."

"Really? How can you go to sleep so early? The sun has barely set."

Wyn regarded him with a somewhat sarcastic look. "Count to one hundred. Imagine sheep leaping over a fence."

Marshall hummed in thought. "Perhaps I should try doing that. But then I have some questions..."

"...If I count to hundred, but remain awake, do I start again or keep counting until I get to thousand? And what color should the sheep be? White? Grey? Can I imagine them in unnatural colors too? Or patterns?"

Wyn's face twitched as Marshall fired off a barrage of questions, but he answered nonetheless.

"If you manage to count to a hundred and still find yourself wide awake, then by all means, start over. As for the color of the sheep, use your imagination. They can be any color you like. Does that answer your silly questions?"

Marshall grinned, sensing a challenge. "Silly? I took you for someone who cared about details."

He rested his chin in one hand while the other kept tapping the table obnoxiously. "And what if the sheep become too loud? Who could fall asleep with a herd of sheep going 'baa' in their head?"

Wyn suppressed a sigh, watching him with thinning patience. "You should imagine the sheep leaping over a fence silently, with no sound at all."

The disciple's grin stretched wider. "Then what about the size of the fence and the weather conditions? If the fence is too tall, the sheep will struggle, but if it's too low, they'll jump too fast."

Wyn stifled a chuckle, resting his head in his hand. "Absurd."

"Why? These are perfectly practical questions. And if I imagine a weather too hot, the sheep will struggle. So should I instead think of a cool winter night?"

"Imagine whatever scenario that helps you sleep, Marshall."

Marshall rose from his seat, and stepped on another Wyn's nerve. "Then you won't mind if I picture you hopping over the fence, right?" he joked.

Wyn's lips parted and closed a few times, resembling a koi fish opening and closing its mouth underwater. He seemed to be unable to find the right reaction, but eventually he gave up and scoffed.

"Picture whatever helps you sleep, but if you ever draw that scene, you will regret it," the snow deity warned.

"Ah, come on, I'm a good artist! I'll make sure to paint you handsome!" the disciple teased, running away.