petals in the space of snows

Some time had passed since the events that cracked the sky.

Ellejort, however, had not softened. The cold here didn't fade — it lingered like a memory that refused to die. The kind that outlives wars.

Within the austere, frost-bitten city, beneath snow-blanketed eaves and bone-white skies, Atiya and Zelaine had settled briefly into something that resembled a routine. Days passed with icy breath and wordless meals. Their companion Elim, once quick with tongue and cleverness, now sat blank-eyed, barely responding to anything.

Zelaine spent most of her time alone, inside her room, wrestling with a sigil that no longer bloomed as it once did. And Atiya — when he wasn't running errands or tending to Elim — trained.

The flame had not answered him yet.

And he didn't know how much longer he could stand its silence.

---

Late that day, the ceiling above them still veiled in frost, Atiya lay on the bed beside Zelaine. She breathed evenly beside him, half-asleep.

Then — he said it:

"Let's duel."

Zelaine's eyes popped open. "You really haven't changed at all."

She turned away. "Ask me again in five hours. I'm sleepy."

He didn't argue. Just rose, silent. And before stepping out, his gaze lingered on her — the way her body curled in the blankets like a child hiding from the world.

"Maybe you're desperate too," he whispered, "just like I am."

---

Five hours later, the door slammed open.

Zelaine groaned and pulled the blanket tighter. "You better have a damn good reason."

Atiya's grin was smug. "It's time. The duel."

She frowned in disbelief. Then, without another word, he touched her shoulder—

—and teleported them both.

---

In the living room, Manglaan turned to Zellerick, raising a brow. "They just vanished."

Zellerick didn't flinch. "Atiya does that often. Zelaine, however… I gave her the day off."

Manglaan tilted his head. "She's quite something, that one."

"She moves with elegance," Zellerick said. "But that mouth…" He paused. "Still, her sigil is curious. Most change forms. Hers adapts. I've never seen that before."

---

The duel site was a frozen forest. Tall conifers rose like ancient sentinels, their boughs heavy with snow. A biting wind whispered between their trunks.

Zelaine blinked as she landed, arms crossed. "You really want to die out here?"

"Not die," Atiya said. "I want to win."

"Whoever lands the first hit wins," she muttered. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

He stepped back — sixty meters.

The trees loomed high between them.

"Start," he said.

---

The duel began in silence — no countdown, no declarations.

Zelaine's petals shimmered into the air, scattered wide — some drifting with snow, some hidden beneath it. Atiya could already see it: a battlefield layered with traps.

He smiled.

Then moved.

He folded space, leaping sideways — behind a tree — laying invisible threads like silent webs. Each one tuned to twist and warp whatever touched it.

But Zelaine was already responding. Her petals moved unnaturally — weaving through trees, splitting mid-air, changing shape.

Atiya bent a few from their path — only to find they were decoys.

The real ones struck low.

He folded a sliver of space upward, deflecting them barely in time. Snow exploded beside him.

"You adapted fast," he called.

"I've been watching you," she said. "Longer than you think."

She dove behind cover — branches bending as she threw crystalline petals that ricocheted off tree trunks. Shrapnel scattered like glass shards.

Atiya warped forward, shifting his angle.

But a petal mine erupted beneath him. She'd hidden it in the snow.

He twisted mid-air, wrapped the blast in a spatial loop, and used the momentum to launch himself sideways.

Another thread snapped.

Another petal sliced past his cheek.

---

From Zellerick's window, the wind howled. Manglaan stood watching the snow.

He muttered, "What is wrong with that girl's sigil?"

Zellerick closed his eyes. "It's not what I thought it was. Her sigil… adapts. According to the user's state."

---

Back in the forest, Zelaine's petals suddenly surged — faster, sharper.

She felt it — something in her had clicked.

The Thornvine wasn't weakening.

It was listening.

Adapting.

And it wanted blood.

She smiled.

Atiya moved again, warping space between them, closing distance—

Zelaine exploded her hidden ring of petals.

A blast of pink and frost.

Atiya bent the space around him in a sphere — petals warping, flying outward —

But one didn't.

One followed the spiral.

She'd curved it manually — a single, frozen shard — and launched it through the fold.

It struck.

A cut on his arm — shallow, but real.

---

The forest went still.

Snow fell gently again.

Zelaine lowered her hands.

"Victory," she said.

Atiya exhaled. "I almost dodged it."

"Almost doesn't win duels."

He sat down in the snow, grinning through the sting. "So… have I improved?"

Zelaine wiped sweat from her brow. "You need to focus more on space manipulation. It's troublesome as hell to counter."

"I'm chasing flame," he murmured.

She didn't reply.

Not immediately.

But deep down, her heart ached.

That stubborn Yaisha fire — it still lived in him.

She softened.

"I'm ready now," Zelaine said, quietly. "My mind's clear."

He looked at her.

"Let's go to the mansion. Sometime soon."

Atiya nodded.

Above them, snow fell.

And in the silence, the forest remembered them.

Two thorns, grown in cold soil.

Still blooming.

---

The mansion was a symphony of light and silence.

Wide corridors threaded like rivers through its belly, archways framed every room, and triple-glass windows opened to the frozen horizon of Houfam — catching slivers of the pale sun, reflecting a still world. The walls, clad in composite matte panels, whispered warmth despite the exterior chill. They absorbed sound like secrets, and held a strange, reassuring quiet.

Stone-tiled floors stretched across the interior, etched faintly with circular glyphs — not enough to draw the eye, but just enough to catch stray light. They weren't decorative. They were old patterns. Araya knew. He'd once traced them as a child when the Count first brought him here.

The ceiling lights — recessed and quiet — shifted throughout the day, mimicking real sky. At the moment, they glowed with a soft amber hue, like twilight trapped behind glass.

This was not a house that breathed like Ellejort's homes of snow and survival. It didn't creak. It didn't whisper. It watched.

And tonight, it waited.

---

Araya returned with a tired gait, his white coat still draped over one shoulder — stained faintly at the cuff from the final procedure of the day. A minor operation. A child whose threads had fractured near the spine.

He rubbed his brow as he stepped into the entrance hall. His boots tapped gently against the tile.

The doors opened before him.

And standing by the threshold was Lukas — the only remaining servant of the estate. Tall, lean, and unbothered by the cold. Lukas bowed shallowly, his face impassive.

> "Doctor Araya. You've returned later than usual."

Araya exhaled. "Penelope stayed late again."

There was no judgment in his voice. Only resignation.

Lukas nodded. "The Count will be returning soon."

Araya stopped halfway through unbuttoning his collar. His eyes lifted.

"…When?"

Lukas offered a slight shrug. "No time was given. Only the message."

A silence passed between them — weightless, but heavy in meaning. Then Araya nodded once and moved toward the central staircase.

---

In his room, the world dimmed. The ceiling lights shifted to mimic dusk.

He slid off his boots, loosened the rest of his uniform, and sank into the edge of his bed. For a few moments, he said nothing. Let his bones remember fatigue.

Then a soft chime — his comm unit buzzed.

A message. From Penelope.

> "Would you join me for dinner tonight? My family insisted."

He stared at the text for a moment.

His lips curved upward.

He typed quickly:

> "Of course. I'd be honored."

Even if he'd already eaten, it didn't matter.

Araya stood, stretched once, and made his way out. Just before the main gate, he paused by Lukas once more.

> "I'll be taking a detour."

Lukas bowed.

> "I'll inform the Count… if he returns before you."

---

Meanwhile, back at Zellerick's residence—

Manglaan stood near the window, arms crossed, eyes distant.

"Is the rumor true?" he asked.

Zellerick didn't glance up. He was polishing an old blade — ceremonial, dulled, but not forgotten.

"Which one?"

Manglaan's silence was answer enough.

Zellerick sighed, then spoke slowly. "The Count's return… perhaps true. Perhaps planted."

Manglaan's expression darkened.

Zellerick finally looked at him. "You feel it too, don't you? Something's shifting. The threads around Houfam aren't quiet anymore."

"And you want to send those two?" Manglaan asked. "They're not your scouts."

Zellerick smiled faintly. "Maybe not. But sometimes, the world doesn't care who you are. It cares what you're near."

Manglaan scowled. "They won't help you. They're not yours."

Zellerick returned to the blade. "No. But maybe the threads of fate are."

There was no arrogance in his voice — only certainty. The kind of certainty that came from men who once peered too deep into what lay beyond time.

Because Zellerick had once been a seer.

And fate — no matter how it wandered — always circled back to the flamees of fate.

---