Chapter 5: Whispers of the Frost

Liam stood in the secluded alcove, his breath misting in the cold air. He glanced around nervously, ensuring he was alone. The victory over Torin was exhilarating, but it had also been a close call. He knew he'd been lucky, and luck wouldn't carry him through the rest of the tournament. He needed an edge.

He focused his attention on his boots. Van's technique was useful, but it wasn't enough. He needed something more, something different. He closed his eyes, remembering the chilling surge of power in the crypt, the feeling of ice forming under his skin. Could he control that power and use it to his advantage?

He channeled his thoughts, focusing on the coldness, imagining a thin layer of ice forming on the soles of his boots. He felt a familiar tingling sensation, and a faint, almost imperceptible frost began to appear. It worked... sort of.

He tried to take a step, and nearly slipped, flailing his arms wildly to regain his balance. The ice was too uneven, too unpredictable. He tried again, focusing on creating a thinner, more controlled layer. It was excruciatingly difficult, like trying to hold water in his cupped hands. The ice flickered, forming and melting in patches.

After what felt like an eternity, he managed to create a somewhat stable layer of frost on the soles of his boots. He took a tentative step, then another. He was faster, definitely faster, but the ice made his movements slippery and unpredictable. He needed to practice, to learn how to control this new, unstable element.

As he struggled to maintain his balance, he heard footsteps approaching. He quickly scraped the ice off his boots, his heart pounding in his chest.

Gareth, Anya, and Freya entered the alcove. Their expressions were a mixture of curiosity and annoyance.

"What are you doing, Liam?" Anya asked. Her eyes narrowed. "Sneaking off to practice your… dancing?"

Liam forced a smile. "Just… thinking," he said, trying to sound casual. "Trying to figure out how to… improve."

Gareth snorted. "By hiding in a dusty corner of the keep? You're even stranger than I thought."

"Just leave him alone," Freya said, rolling her eyes. "He's obviously lost it."

The siblings left, leaving Liam alone once more. He knew he couldn't let them see him practicing his magic. They wouldn't understand. They would probably tell Father, and then… he didn't even want to think about it.

Later that day, as Liam was walking through the keep, he encountered Kael Dergovia. The Dergovia heir was leaning against a wall, polishing his sword with a practiced ease that made Liam's stomach churn.

"Still alive, Volgunder?" Kael asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I must admit, I was surprised you managed to win your first match. Pure luck, I assure you."

Liam clenched his fists, trying to control his anger. "Luck had nothing to do with it," he said, his voice tight.

Kael raised an eyebrow, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "Oh really? Then perhaps you'll enlighten me. What brilliant strategy did you employ to defeat… what was his name? Torin? "A truly formidable opponent, I'm sure." He chuckled, then effortlessly twirled his sword, the blade flashing in the light.

Liam swallowed, his mouth dry. He wanted to retort, to tell Kael that he was wrong, that he did have skill, but the words wouldn't come. Kael's confidence, his sheer presence, was intimidating.

"See you in the arena, Volgunder," Kael said, his smile widening. "Unless, of course, you decide to run away and hide. I wouldn't blame you."

With a final, dismissive glance, Kael turned and walked away, leaving Liam seething with frustration and a growing sense of dread.

The next day, Liam found himself standing in the arena once more, facing his second-round opponent. This time, it was Serin Pondoria, a tall, lithe young woman with a confident smirk and a 2-star ranking displayed on her tunic. The Pondoria were known for their spear work, and Serin held hers with an easy grace that spoke of years of training.

The signal was given, and the match began. Serin immediately took the offensive, her spear a blur of motion. Liam found himself on the defensive, struggling to keep up with her attacks. Her reach was incredible, and he couldn't seem to get close enough to land a blow.

Van's technique, the one he had practiced so diligently, proved useless. It was designed for opponents who relied on strength, on powerful blows that could be redirected. Serin was different. She was fast, agile, and her spear kept Liam at bay, preventing him from using any kind of close-quarters maneuver.

Liam took a glancing blow to his arm, a sharp, stinging pain that made him stumble. He realized he was losing. He was outmatched, outskilled, and outmaneuvered. He needed to do something, something desperate.

He remembered his practice in the alcove, the feeling of ice forming on his boots. It was a risky move, a desperate gamble, but he had no other choice.

He focused his mind, channeling the coldness he had felt in the crypt. He imagined a thin layer of ice forming on the soles of his boots, just enough to give him a burst of speed. He felt the familiar tingling sensation, and a faint frost appeared.

Serin lunged forward, her spear aimed at Liam's chest. It was a powerful, well-aimed thrust that he wouldn't be able to block. But, with the ice on his boots, he was just fast enough to dodge. He felt the spear graze his tunic, missing his flesh by a hair's breadth.

Emboldened by his near miss, Liam decided to go all-in on his reckless plan. He focused again, trying to extend the ice to cover not just his boots, but his knees as well. It was much harder, the magic resisting his clumsy attempts to control it. He felt a wave of dizziness, and he nearly lost his balance.

Serin, seeing her opportunity, pressed her attack. She thrust again, aiming at Liam's exposed side. Liam knew he couldn't dodge conventionally. He had one chance.

He dropped to his knees, the (uneven, barely-there) ice on his knees allowing him to slide forward, under Serin's spear. At the same time, he swung his sword sideways, aiming not at Serin herself, but at the shaft of her spear.

From the stands, Arthur Volgunder watched with a frown. He had been distracted, his mind preoccupied with reports from the East, but the sudden, unnatural movement of his son caught his attention. For a split second, he thought he had seen... something. A shimmer of blue, a flash of ice on Liam's knees as he slid. But it was gone so quickly, he dismissed it as a trick of the light, a figment of his imagination. Magic? Impossible. The Volgunders were swordsmen, not mages. It had to be a desperate, clumsy maneuver, nothing more.

The sudden, unexpected slide caught Serin off guard. Liam's sword connected with the spear shaft, not with enough force to break it, but enough to knock it off course. Serin stumbled, losing her balance. Liam, still sliding, managed to scramble to his feet and, with a desperate lunge, knocked the spear from Serin's grasp.

Silence descended upon the arena. Then, slowly, a murmur of disbelief rippled through the crowd, followed by hesitant applause. Liam had won again. But it was a victory that felt even less deserved, even more reliant on luck than his first.

Gareth, Anya, and Freya stared at Liam, their expressions unreadable. Kael Dergovia, however, watched with a flicker of something that might have been interesting in his eyes, though his mouth was still set on a sneer.

That night, Liam found sleep elusive. He tossed and turned, his mind racing. The fight with Serin had been too close, too reliant on a desperate gamble. He couldn't keep relying on luck and uncontrolled bursts of magic. He needed to understand his power, to master it.

And then, a dream came.

It was a fragmented, chaotic dream, filled with swirling images and disembodied voices. He saw Kael Volgunder, the founder of his family, but his face was shrouded in shadow, his features indistinct. He heard a voice, ancient and powerful, whispering about "dragon's blood" and "the price of power." He saw images of ice and fire, intertwined, locked in an eternal struggle. He saw a sword, engulfed in both flames and frost. He felt a surge of fear, but also a strange, exhilarating sense of power.

He woke up with a gasp, his heart pounding, his body covered in cold sweat. The dream lingered in his mind, a jumble of confusing symbols and cryptic messages. What did it mean? Was it a warning? A prophecy? Was it connected to his magic, to his family history, to the forgotten power of dragons? He didn't know, but the dream left him with a growing sense of unease and a desperate need for answers. He looked at his hands, and then at the faintly glowing circle on his back. The pieces were there, scattered and fragmented, but they were starting to form a picture, a picture that was both terrifying and strangely compelling.