The morning sun had barely touched the windows when the rhythmic sound of breathing and movement began to fill the mansion's inner courtyard. There, in the cool light of dawn, Damon placed a single hand on the stone floor and slowly lowered himself, sweat dripping down his bare chest. Each flexion made the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense like steel cords about to snap, his breathing measured, steady—controlled like the beating of a heart at war.

In the last few months, his body had changed drastically. The thin, almost sickly-looking boy who had arrived in Mirath was no more. In his place was a man sculpted by effort and pain, with defined muscles and a strength that seemed to pulse beneath his skin. Discipline—or perhaps fury—had transformed him.

The scars on his arms and abdomen told stories no one in the mansion dared ask. Sweat ran down his chest to the floor, dripping steadily, mixing with the cold dust of the stone.

He switched arms, lowering himself again in a slow, almost deliberate movement, as if defying his own weight. The morning wind touched his tousled blond hair, and the icy glint in his eyes fixed on the floor—focused, silent.

The side doors to the corridor opened with a soft creak. Two young maids, carrying freshly laundered sheets to the courtyard, stopped dead in their tracks at the sight.

"For the love of the gods…" one of them murmured, completely forgetting about the towels in her hands.

Damon continued the exercise without even looking, but the mere sight was enough to capture everyone's attention. With each movement, the tension and relaxation of his muscles drew shadows across his tanned skin. The sun rose slowly, gilding the contours of his body.

Two more maids approached, barely concealing their interest. They pretended to fetch water from the nearby fountain, but their expressions told no lie. Whispers and shy giggles began to spread.

"Did you see that?" one whispered, her eyes wide. "He looks different... more..."

"Dangerous?" another added, blushing.

Damon finished the set and stood up in one fluid movement, his sweat-covered body glistening in the light. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs. For a brief moment, the world seemed to quiet down.

He walked to one of the stone columns and rested his arm against it, stretching his muscles. A faint steam rose from his warm body in contrast to the cool morning air.

The maids, trying to look busy, looked away when he turned. But the blush on their faces gave it all away. Damon arched an eyebrow, a half-smile appearing—brief, almost imperceptible.

"Ridiculous," he thought, turning back to the center of the courtyard.

He picked up the spear leaning against the wall—a thin, dark-stemmed blade made of black steel and engraved with tiny ice symbols. It was a gift from Elizabeth, and also a challenge: to learn to master it along with the cold energy that now coursed through his blood.

He turned the weapon in his hands, testing its weight, its balance. The sound of metal cutting through the air echoed softly, like the distant roar of a sleeping beast.

The maids, unable to contain themselves, stood in the shadows, watching. Damon swung the spear once, twice, three times—each movement faster than the last, until the air around him began to change. The ground beneath his feet was covered in a thin layer of ice, and a frigid mist rose around his body.

The cold grew, radiating from him like a living aura. His gaze sharpened even more, and the smile faded.

"Control, Damon. Don't destroy the entire courtyard," he muttered to himself, echoing Elizabeth's words.

The spear trembled in his hand, eager to release more energy than he could contain. The air around him crystallized into tiny, glittering particles. He took a step, then another, twisting his body in a sweeping swing—and a blast of freezing air exploded from the blade, ricocheting against the courtyard walls.

The maids screamed, the cold wind lifting their skirts and scattering the sheets across the floor.

Damon took a deep breath, the spearhead digging into the ground, the ice rising halfway up his forearm. For a moment, he lay still—the sound of his own breathing the only noise. Then, slowly, the ice began to melt, and he released the weapon.

The maids recoiled, awed, frightened—and enchanted.

One of them whispered, almost voicelessly, "He's beautiful... and dangerous."

Damon turned, his cold, weary gaze briefly meeting theirs. And, without saying a word, he picked up his spear again and resumed his training.

Damon twirled the spear amid the cold mist; the courtyard now seemed like the heart of a contained storm. The stones on the ground crackled beneath the thin layer of ice that spread with his every movement. The maids had backed away, but none could truly move away. They all stared—fascinated, paralyzed—as if faced with a force they shouldn't even witness.

It was at that moment that a different presence cut through the air, as cold as the ice enveloping the courtyard. The temperature seemed to drop even further when the front door opened. The sound of boots echoed steadily on the frozen ground.

Ester stood in the doorway.

The morning sunlight fell on her from an angle that highlighted the rigidity of her posture and the metallic glint in her golden eyes. She wore a dark overcoat, buttoned to the neck, her hair tied up impeccably. There was no expression on her face—just that icy calm that made the air around her seem denser.

The maids felt the weight of her presence immediately. Their giggles ceased as if they had never been. One of them even dropped a sheet, hurrying to pick it up and flee.

Ester watched Damon for a few seconds without saying anything. He, noticing her gaze, twirled the spear one last time and rested it against the ground, steam rising from his still-tense shoulders.

"Impressive," she said finally, her voice low, sharp as a sharp blade. "You turned the courtyard into an extension of the north in the middle of autumn."

Damon turned his face away, wiping the sweat from his chin with his forearm. "I was just training."

"Training?" She took a step forward, the heel of her boot clicking against the ice. "Or trying to freeze the maids?"

He frowned. "They were watching on their own. I didn't ask for an audience."

Ester crossed her arms. "Of course. I'm sure they simply stumbled here, drawn by the sound of your flexing and... muscles."

Damon raised an eyebrow, unable to hide the provocative tone in his gaze. "Are you jealous?"

Her golden gaze pierced him like an invisible blade. For an instant, he felt the air shift—Ester's mana was subtle, yet dense enough to press against the room.

"I don't waste time on useless emotions," she replied coldly.

But there was something in the hardness of her voice that made him smile. A corner of her lip lifted, almost imperceptibly.

"Of course," he murmured, twirling his spear slightly. "So you only came here because you were worried about the state of the courtyard."

Ester didn't answer immediately. Her eyes scanned the frozen floor, the walls covered in a fine white mist—and then returned to him. With each drop of sweat dripping down Damon's body, his gaze grew harder, as if he were waging an internal battle.

She took a deep breath. "Elizabeth wants to speak with you."

Damon blinked, looking up. "Now?"

"Now," she confirmed, without changing her tone.

He released the spear with a light touch, and the ice melted with a subtle crack, evaporating into mist. He wiped a towel around his neck, wiping away the sweat, and walked toward her. The maids, noticing his approach, scattered like leaves in the wind—though none of them took their eyes off him completely.

Ester followed his movement in silence, her jaw clenched. As he passed her, the metallic smell of ice mixed with hot sweat hit her nostrils, and she had to take a deep breath to regain control.

Damon noticed. He stopped beside her, so close that the heat emanating from his body contrasted with the almost palpable coldness of Ester's mana.

"Is everything really okay?" he asked, his voice low and grave. "You seem... tense."

"I'm just trying not to reflexively freeze the rest of the castle," she replied dryly.

Damon gave a short laugh, but there was something curious in his gaze—a spark of satisfaction.

"Right. So, where's Elizabeth?"

Ester turned toward the hallway, keeping her face impassive. "In the office. And, Damon..." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "Put on a shirt before you go."

He looked down at his body, then back at her. "Why? Is it distracting you?"

Ester took a deep breath, her gaze steady, but the tips of her ears slightly flushed. "It's distracting the whole castle."

"Understood," Damon replied, still smiling. "But I don't think it's my fault they're staring too much."

She ignored him, turning to walk on. Damon fell into step with her, the sound of them echoing through the cold hallway of the mansion.

The silence between them felt like a taut rope—fragile, about to snap.

When they reached the end of the hallway, Ester stopped before the large double doors to the office. She turned to him, and for a moment, her golden eyes softened.

"Damon…" she said, more quietly this time. "Try not to provoke Elizabeth. She's not in the mood today."

He tilted his head curiously. "What does she want with me?"

Ester hesitated for a moment, then replied, "Something about… training." And then, calmer, she added, "I think it's time you met someone."

Damon arched an eyebrow. "Someone?"

Ester simply opened the door. The sound of the hinges echoed like the prelude to something important.

"Come in," she said, cold again. "The Lady is waiting."

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