My fingers have gone numb inside my gloves, but I forge ahead, each breath crystallizing before me like little ghosts of doubt. Beside me, Lyra's blue hair whips in the mountain wind, a bright banner against the endless white. She steps with an elegant confidence that makes me wonder if the ice itself bends to accommodate her. The elder's warnings echo in my mind, a persistent drone beneath the howl of the wind: "The ice wyrm has awakened from its ancient slumber. Harmonious will not survive its hunger."

  "You're awfully quiet, Aelia," Lyra says, her golden eyes catching the sparse sunlight filtering through the clouds. "Are you worried about our little serpent?"

  I adjust the sword at my hip, its familiar weight a comfort against the uncertainty ahead. "The elder called it a 'terror from the age of legends,' not a 'little serpent.'"

  Lyra's laugh chimes like icicles in the wind. "For someone with the blood of Rhythm Knights, you're remarkably literal." She waves her hand, and a small flurry of snowflakes dances between her fingers, forming the miniature shape of a serpentine creature before dissolving into the air.

  The path narrows as we climb higher, forcing us to press our backs against the mountain face. Snow crunches beneath my boots, occasionally giving way to reveal treacherous ice beneath. I test each step before committing my weight, a habit formed from years as a village guard. Lyra, by contrast, seems to glide across the surface, her footprints barely visible.

  "The elder's face when he spoke of the wyrm," I say, breaking the silence. "I've never seen him look so afraid."

  "Elders love their dramatic stories," Lyra replies, but her tone lacks its usual lightness. "Though I suppose this one has some truth to it. The ice wyrm is ancient, even by the standards of my people."

  I remember the gathering in the village square three days ago, the elder's gnarled hand trembling as he pointed to the northern mountains. His voice had cracked with fear: "The signs are unmistakable. The frozen lake has shattered from beneath. Hunters report livestock missing as far as the lowland pastures. The beast stirs." When he'd asked for volunteers, the silence had stretched until Lyra stepped forward, her voice clear: "I will go. My ice magic will be most effective against such a creature." And I, unable to let her go alone, had joined her moments later.

  Now, tracing our perilous path through the mountains, I wonder if I was too hasty. Not that I regret accompanying Lyra—who knows what trouble she'd find alone—but the task seems more daunting with each passing hour.

  "Look," Lyra says suddenly, pointing ahead. "We need to cross there."

  Before us yawns a ravine, perhaps thirty feet across, its depths lost in swirling mist. The wind howls through the gap, carrying stinging ice crystals that bite at my exposed skin.

  "There's no way around?" I ask, though I already know the answer. The mountain path we've been following leads directly to this point.

  Lyra's smile turns mischievous. "Why go around when we can go across?" She steps to the edge, her blue robes billowing around her like frozen waves. "Stand back, Lia. Let me show you what a descendant of the Ice Witches can do."

  I retreat a few paces, my hand unconsciously moving to the hilt of my sword, though what good steel would do against a fall into that abyss, I'm not sure.

  Lyra raises her arms, her fingers spread wide. She begins to hum—a haunting melody that seems to resonate with the very air. Frost patterns spread from her feet, spiraling outward in intricate designs. The temperature drops further, and I pull my cloak tighter as my breath comes in visible puffs.

  As her humming intensifies, ice crystals form in the air before her, coalescing and stretching across the ravine. The bridge takes shape—an elegant arch of transparent ice, adorned with delicate spires and swirling patterns. It's beautiful, reminiscent of the grand architecture in the ancient paintings of the Holy Capital.

  "There," Lyra says, lowering her arms with a flourish. "What do you think? Impressive, isn't it?"

  The bridge glimmers in the weak sunlight, a testament to her power. "It's beautiful," I admit. "But is it stable?"

  She laughs again, the sound bouncing off the mountainside. "Of course it's stable. I'm not some novice conjuring party tricks." Without waiting for my response, she steps onto the bridge, her footfalls creating tiny musical notes as ice meets ice.

  I hesitate, then follow, testing my weight on the first few steps. The bridge feels solid enough, though I can't shake a sense of unease. We proceed carefully, the wind stronger now that we're suspended over the ravine. Below us, the mist swirls, occasionally parting to reveal dizzying depths.

  Halfway across, a cracking sound freezes me in place. Lyra, a few steps ahead, turns back with wide eyes.

  "Keep moving," she whispers, urgency replacing her earlier confidence. "Quickly now."

  We hurry the rest of the way, the cracking growing louder behind us. I feel the bridge shift beneath my feet, tiny vibrations that send pulses of fear through my body. As my boots touch solid ground on the far side, I turn to see the bridge shudder, splinter, and then collapse into the ravine with a sound like shattering glass.

  Lyra stands beside me, her face unusually pale. "Well," she says after a moment, her voice slightly higher than normal. "That was... invigorating."

  I stare at her, my heart still pounding. "Invigorating? That bridge collapsed moments after we crossed it!"

  She waves a dismissive hand, though I notice it trembles slightly. "The important thing is that we made it across. A minor miscalculation on the ice density, nothing more."

  "Minor? Lyra, we could have—"

  "Look out!" she shouts, pushing me to the side as a white blur lunges from behind a nearby outcropping of rock.

  The frost wolf lands where I stood seconds ago, its crystalline fur bristling. Its eyes, pale blue and devoid of pupil, fix on us with predatory intent. A low growl emanates from its throat, and more shapes emerge from the rocks around us—the rest of the pack.

  I draw my sword, the familiar ring of steel cutting through the mountain air. "Stay behind me," I tell Lyra, adopting the defensive stance drilled into me through years of guard training.

  "Don't be ridiculous," she replies, stepping forward. "These are creatures of ice and cold. This is exactly what my magic was made for."

  Before I can protest, she begins another incantation, this one faster and more aggressive than the melody that created the bridge. The air around her hands shimmers with power, and she thrusts her palms forward with a triumphant cry.

  A wave of ice shoots from her fingertips, but instead of forming a protective barrier as she clearly intended, it twists and spirals in the air. The frost wolves pause, watching as the ice magic takes shape—an intricate, beautiful sculpture of intertwining branches and flowers, delicate as spring blossoms frozen in mid-bloom.

  It's breathtaking, and entirely useless against the approaching wolves.

  Lyra stares at her creation, her mouth open in shock. "That's... not what I meant to do."

  The lead wolf snarls and launches itself at us, breaking the moment of stunned appreciation. I step forward, pivoting to catch the creature mid-leap with the flat of my blade, sending it sprawling to the side. Two more charge from different angles. I duck beneath the first, driving my sword up into its belly, then spin to slash at the second.

  Years of guard duty in Harmonious have prepared me for combat, if not against mythical ice wolves. My movements are efficient, practical—slash, parry, step, thrust. No flourishes, no elaborate displays. Just the solid techniques taught by the captain of the guard.

  Lyra attempts another spell, with similar results—a shower of ice crystals that rain down harmlessly, sparkling like diamonds in the mountain light. Her frustration is palpable as she resorts to using her staff as a physical weapon, swinging it at a wolf that gets too close.

  Minutes later, the skirmish ends. Four frost wolves lie dead or wounded around us, their bodies already beginning to dissolve into fine snow that's carried away by the wind. The rest of the pack has retreated, melting back into the white landscape.

  I wipe my blade clean and resheathe it, turning to Lyra. "Are you hurt?"

  She shakes her head, looking at the dissipating remains of her ice sculpture with a mixture of confusion and embarrassment. "I don't understand. That spell should have created a wall of ice."

  "Well, it created something," I say, unable to keep a hint of amusement from my voice. "Just not something particularly useful for defense."

  Lyra sighs, pushing a strand of blue hair from her face. "Perhaps I was showing off a bit too much," she admits with a rueful smile. "The spells work differently here, in the domain of an ancient ice creature. I should have been more cautious."

  I squeeze her shoulder gently. "We're alive. That's what matters."

  We continue our journey in silence for a time, the mountain path growing steeper. The air thins, making each breath more labored. Around us, the landscape becomes increasingly alien—ice formations that defy natural shapes, snow that glitters with faint blue luminescence.

  "I don't understand why my magic isn't working properly," Lyra says eventually, her voice troubled. "When we face the wyrm, I need to be at my best."

  "Maybe you're trying too hard," I suggest. "Back in the village, when you're just... being yourself, your magic flows naturally."

  She considers this, golden eyes thoughtful. "Perhaps. Or perhaps the wyrm's presence affects all ice magic in its territory." A determined expression crosses her face. "Either way, I'll master it before we reach the beast. My magic will be perfect against the creature, you'll see."

  I don't voice my skepticism. Despite her earlier failures, I can't deny that Lyra's power, when properly controlled, is impressive. But something about this place feels wrong—as if the very elements resist our presence.

  The path leads us around a final bend, and we stop, gazing ahead in awe. Before us stands the entrance to a massive cave, its mouth a jagged gash in the mountainside. The walls glitter with ice crystals that seem to pulse with an inner light, creating patterns that shift and change even as we watch. The air around the entrance is unnaturally still, as if the wind itself fears to enter.

  "The wyrm's lair," Lyra whispers, her voice small against the overwhelming presence of the cave.

  I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. The numbness in my fingers has spread to my chest, a cold that has nothing to do with the mountain air. We stand at the threshold of legend, about to face a creature from the age of myths with nothing but a sword and unreliable magic.

  The ice crystals pulse again, sending waves of eerie blue light washing over us. It feels like an invitation—or a warning.

  "Are you ready?" I ask Lyra, my voice steadier than I feel.

  She nods, her determination returning. "Together, Lia."

  Side by side, we step toward the cave entrance, into the domain of the ice wyrm.

  The cavern opens before us like the throat of a sleeping giant. Ice columns stretch from floor to ceiling, some as thick as ancient trees, others delicate as spun glass. Our footsteps create echoes that seem to multiply and transform, as if the very walls are whispering to each other about our intrusion. Light filters through the translucent ceiling, fracturing into prismatic beams that dance across the crystalline floor. I try to quell the trembling in my hands, but my breath still catches as I take in the impossible beauty of this place – beauty that, according to legend, guards a monster from an age when magic ran wild through the world.

  "It's magnificent," Lyra whispers beside me, her golden eyes wide with wonder. Her voice carries strangely in the cavern, rippling outward like a stone dropped in still water.

  I nod, unable to find words adequate for the spectacle. The cold here is different from the biting chill outside – deeper, more ancient, as if we've stepped into the very essence of winter itself. Despite my heavy cloak, I feel it seeping into my bones, carrying whispers of an age long before Harmonious existed.

  "Look at these formations," Lyra continues, approaching a cluster of ice crystals that spiral upward in impossible geometries. "No natural process formed these. This is old magic, Aelia. Very old."

  I follow her, my boots crunching on the frost-covered ground. "The elder said the wyrm has slumbered here since the Fall."

  "At least that," Lyra agrees, trailing her fingers along a translucent wall. Small flurries of snow follow her touch, as if the ice responds to her presence. "These patterns suggest it predates even the legendary Rhythm Knights. We're walking in a relic of the world before history."

  We venture deeper, passing beneath archways of intertwined ice that remind me of the elaborate architecture in the Holy Capital's ancient texts. The cavern seems to expand as we progress, opening into a vast chamber with a domed ceiling that captures and amplifies the ethereal light. Frozen waterfalls cascade along the walls, perpetually caught between flowing and stillness.

  Something crunches beneath my boot – not ice, but bone. I kneel to examine it, my stomach tightening. "Animal remains," I mutter, lifting what appears to be the frost-covered rib of some large creature. "Recent, by the look of it."

  Lyra kneels beside me, her face solemn. "The wyrm has indeed awakened. These are the bones of mountain goats, I think." She pauses, examining the peculiar manner in which they've been broken. "It doesn't just devour its prey – it freezes them first, then shatters them to extract the marrow."

  I stand, my hand moving instinctively to my sword hilt. "Charming."

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "It's actually fascinating," Lyra says, rising gracefully. "Ice wyrms were thought to be extinct. The last confirmed sighting was over three hundred years ago, during the Great Winter. To think we're about to encounter one..." Her voice holds an unsettling note of excitement.

  "We're not here to study it, Lyra. We're here to stop it before it threatens Harmonious."

  She waves a dismissive hand, her attention already captured by a new wonder – a collection of objects suspended in a wall of clear ice. "Look at these artifacts!"

  I approach cautiously. Embedded in the ice are weapons, jewelry, and other relics – evidence of previous adventurers who never returned from this glittering tomb. A sword with an ornate hilt, a shield bearing an unfamiliar crest, a necklace with a pendant shaped like a musical note... all preserved in perfect clarity, as if frozen only moments ago.

  "The wyrm collects treasures," Lyra murmurs. "It's intelligent."

  "That's not reassuring," I reply, eyeing a helmet with a suspicious hole punctured through its center.

  A sound reaches us then – distant at first, like the groan of settling ice, but growing steadily into something more deliberate. The floor beneath our feet vibrates, sending tiny ice crystals skittering across its surface. A shadow passes across one of the far walls, too large and sinuous to be anything natural.

  "It knows we're here," I whisper, drawing my sword with a rasp of steel against leather.

  Lyra nods, her earlier excitement now tempered with caution. "Stay close to me. Remember, ice magic is my birthright – I was born for this confrontation."

  I want to remind her of her failures outside – the collapsed bridge, the useless ice sculpture – but there's no time. The groaning sound intensifies, and the massive chamber trembles again. Cracks appear in several of the smaller ice columns, splintering with sharp reports that echo through the cavern.

  "There," Lyra breathes, pointing to a dark tunnel at the far end of the chamber.

  Something moves within that darkness – something enormous. A gleam of crystalline scales catches the light, refracting it into dazzling patterns across the cavern walls. Then, with a grace that belies its size, the ice wyrm emerges.

  My breath stalls in my chest. No village elder's warnings, no ancient text, could have prepared me for this sight. The creature is serpentine, its body as thick as the largest tree in Harmonious, coiling between stalagmites with fluid ease. Its scales – if they can be called such – are like living crystal, each one catching and bending light in hypnotic ways. They shift between transparent and opaque as the wyrm moves, creating the illusion that parts of its body appear and disappear.

  Its head is wedge-shaped, adorned with crystal spines that form a crown-like crest. Eyes like twin moons regard us with ancient intelligence, pupils contracting to vertical slits against irises the color of deepest ice. When it exhales, its breath materializes as intricate frost patterns that hover momentarily in the air before dissolving.

  "Magnificent," Lyra whispers again, but this time I hear the tremor beneath her awe.

  The wyrm's gaze fixes on us, unblinking. It makes no move to attack, studying us with the patience of a creature that has outlived civilizations.

  Lyra steps forward, her blue hair stark against the white surroundings. "I've got this," she says, voice steadier now. "My magic is specifically attuned to ice. I can communicate with it, perhaps even convince it to return to its slumber."

  "Lyra, wait—" I start, but she's already advancing toward the ancient beast, her movements deliberate and graceful.

  The wyrm's head swivels to track her, its massive coils shifting around the ice columns with surprising delicacy. Its scales catch the light in new ways with each movement, creating flashes that almost seem like signals or a form of communication.

  "Great one," Lyra addresses the creature, her voice carrying the formal cadence she uses for important ceremonies in Harmonious. "We come seeking peace between your kind and ours."

  The wyrm's only response is a slow blink of those moon-like eyes.

  Lyra glances back at me, a smile playing at her lips. "Watch and learn how a true ice mage handles a wyrm," she says with a wink that doesn't quite hide her nervousness.

  She raises her hands, beginning a complex series of gestures. The air around her fingers crystallizes, forming intricate patterns that match the geometry of the cavern itself. Her voice rises in a chant – not the simple humming she used for the bridge, but a full song in a language I don't recognize. The melody is haunting, ancient, rising and falling like wind through mountain passes.

  Ice mist gathers around her, swirling faster as her song intensifies. Her blue hair lifts as if caught in an unseen breeze, her golden eyes glowing with inner light. In this moment, she truly looks like the descendant of the legendary Ice Witches – powerful, ethereal, connected to the very essence of winter.

  The wyrm watches, unmoving, as Lyra's magic builds to its crescendo. She extends her hands toward the beast, palms outward, and releases her spell with a final, triumphant note.

  A beam of concentrated ice magic – blue-white and crackling with power – shoots from her hands directly at the wyrm. I hold my breath, expecting the creature to be encased in ice, or perhaps driven back by the force of the spell.

  Instead, the wyrm's scales flash with sudden, blinding intensity. The magic strikes them and is reflected – not randomly, but with precision, directed back exactly the way it came. There's no time for warning, no chance for Lyra to dodge.

  The reflected spell hits her with full force. The look of shock on her face would be comical if the situation weren't so dire – her eyes wide, mouth forming a perfect "O" of surprise as her own ice magic engulfs her.

  In an instant, Lyra is encased in a perfect cocoon of ice, frozen mid-gesture with that expression of utter astonishment still fixed on her face. Her blue hair is suspended in its magical lift, her robes caught in their billowing motion. She looks like one of the exquisite ice sculptures she's so proud of creating – beautiful, perfect, and completely immobilized.

  I stand paralyzed for a moment, my mind refusing to process what my eyes are seeing. Lyra – powerful, confident Lyra – has been frozen solid by her own spell, leaving me alone to face an ancient ice wyrm with nothing but a standard-issue sword and village guard training.

  The wyrm's roar snaps me back to reality – a sound like glaciers calving, deep and resonant enough to shake loose crystals from the ceiling. It uncoils further, revealing more of its massive length as it slithers forward, fixating now on me.

  "No, no, no," I mutter, backing up a step. My sword feels absurdly inadequate in my hand, a toothpick against a mountain. But it's all I have.

  I risk a glance at Lyra. Through the clear ice, I can see her eyes still active, moving frantically though the rest of her is completely immobilized. At least she's alive in there. For now.

  The wyrm rears up, its head nearly touching the cavern ceiling. Its breath swirls before it, crystallizing into deadly sharp shards that hang suspended in the air. With a flick of its head, it sends the shards flying toward me.

  I dive behind a column, feeling the ice shards embed themselves in the barrier with enough force to crack it. One grazes my cheek, leaving a line of fire-cold pain in its wake.

  "Really could use some of that Rhythm Knight power right about now," I hiss to myself, pressing a hand to my cheek and finding it wet with blood that's already beginning to freeze.

  The wyrm circles, seeking a clear path to me, its coils scraping across the cavern floor with a sound like grinding glass. I need a plan. I need a miracle. I have neither.

  What I do have is training, instinct, and a stubborn refusal to end up like one of those artifacts embedded in the wall – a curiosity for the next fool who wanders into this death trap.

  I glance around, assessing the chamber with the tactical eye trained into me by years of guard duty. The columns supporting the ceiling, the frozen waterfalls, the uneven terrain, the suspended stalactites overhead... anything could be an advantage if used correctly.

  The wyrm lunges, faster than something so large should be able to move. I roll aside, feeling the rush of displaced air as its massive head strikes the spot where I stood. Its scales scrape against the floor, sending up a shower of ice fragments that tinkle like breaking glass.

  It recovers quickly, sinuous body flowing like water as it reorients toward me. Those ancient eyes hold no malice, no hunger – only the dispassionate interest of a predator regarding prey.

  "I'm sorry about my friend," I say, not sure if the creature can understand me, but needing to buy time to think. "She's usually more careful with her magic."

  The wyrm tilts its head, regarding me with what might be curiosity. Then it exhales another cloud of frost that swirls and solidifies into jagged projectiles.

  I dive again, this time rolling up against Lyra's frozen form. Her eyes track me, wide with apology and fear. I rest my hand briefly against the ice encasing her.

  "Don't worry," I tell her, hoping my voice penetrates her prison. "I'll get you out of this."

  Another roar from the wyrm pulls my attention back to the immediate threat. It slithers closer, its coils scraping against the columns, causing small avalanches of ice to rain down.

  I step away from Lyra, drawing the wyrm's attention deliberately. If I'm going to have any chance, I need to keep it focused on me and away from her vulnerable form.

  "Come on then," I call to it, brandishing my sword. "Let's see what you're really made of."

  The beast's eyes narrow, as if accepting my challenge. It rears back again, preparing to strike.

  I know in this moment that I face more than a fight for survival – I face a test of everything I've trained for, everything I believe about myself. With Lyra incapacitated, there's no one to rely on but myself.

  My fingers tighten around my sword hilt. They're no longer numb – instead, they burn with a strange heat that spreads up my arm and into my chest. Not fear, not exactly. Something else. Something that feels almost like... anticipation.

  The wyrm lunges, and I prepare to meet it, sword raised against scales that have reflected even the most powerful ice magic. Against all odds, against all sense, I stan

  I circle the wyrm, my boots sliding on the glassy floor. My breath comes in sharp bursts, creating tiny clouds that dissipate before they reach the creature's massive form. It watches me with ancient eyes that have seen empires rise and fall, civilizations forgotten by even our oldest texts. I'm nothing to it—a fleeting annoyance, a mayfly compared to its glacial lifespan. Yet here I stand, sword in hand, while Lyra remains imprisoned in ice of her own making, her golden eyes following my movement with desperate hope. I need more than courage now. I need to see what the wyrm doesn't expect me to see.

  The beast lunges again, its massive head striking like lightning. I dodge, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle my hair. As it recovers, I notice something—a pattern in its movements. Three heartbeats between attack and recovery. A slight tilt of its head before it strikes. The way its scales shift from translucent to opaque as its muscles bunch beneath them.

  It may be ancient, but it's still a predator with predictable hunting behaviors.

  The wyrm's next attack confirms my observation. I sidestep with half a second to spare, using the momentum to slide across the icy floor, putting distance between us. As I move, I study how light plays across its crystalline scales—how they bend and reflect the cavern's ethereal glow.

  When the creature turns to track me, sunlight filtering through the ice ceiling catches its scales at a new angle. For an instant, I glimpse what might be a vulnerability—darker patches between the overlapping plates, especially where its serpentine body bends.

  I need to get closer, but a frontal approach would be suicide.

  The wyrm's tail sweeps across the floor, sending shards of ice flying in all directions. I drop flat, feeling them whistle overhead, then use the slick surface to slide beneath a nearby ice column. The beast roars in frustration, its breath creating new frost patterns on the cavern walls.

  "You don't like losing sight of your prey, do you?" I mutter, watching its head swivel back and forth, searching.

  I seize the moment to dash to another column, keeping it between us. The wyrm senses the movement and coils toward me, its massive body flowing with unnatural grace. I wait until the last possible moment before diving aside, using the slippery floor to slide beneath its body.

  Above me, for a precious second, I see what I'm looking for—the darker, softer scales at the joints where its body segments. I thrust upward with my sword, feeling it sink into flesh rather than bounce off crystal.

  The wyrm shrieks, a sound like breaking ice amplified a thousandfold. It writhes, nearly crushing me as I roll clear of its thrashing coils. My attack has wounded it, but the damage is superficial—like a splinter to a mountain.

  I retreat to catch my breath, ducking behind a frozen waterfall as the beast smashes its head against nearby columns in rage. My sword drips with a pale blue fluid that steams in the cold air—wyrm blood, perhaps, though unlike any blood I've seen before.

  A quick glance toward Lyra shows her still frozen, but her eyes communicate volumes—frustration, worry, and something that might be an idea trying to form. I wish I could hear her thoughts.

  The wyrm has calmed enough to resume its pursuit, slithering around the perimeter of the chamber, trying to flank me. Its tactics are becoming more deliberate, less instinctual. It's learning.

  I need a new approach. My sword can hurt it, but I'd need a hundred strikes in those vulnerable spots to bring it down. I study the cavern again, searching for an advantage.

  The ceiling. Massive stalactites hang like stone daggers, some as long as I am tall. The columns that support them are ancient but not invulnerable—several are already cracked from the wyrm's earlier rage. If I could bring those down...

  A plan forms—desperate, reckless, with slim chance of success. In other words, exactly what the situation calls for.

  I move into the open, deliberately exposing myself. "Over here!" I shout, my voice bouncing off the ice walls.

  The wyrm's head swivels toward me, those ancient eyes narrowing. It surges forward, faster than before, driven by pain and fury. I stand my ground until the last possible moment, then dive aside, letting it crash into the column behind me.

  The impact shakes the entire cavern. Cracks spread through the column like lightning bolts through a night sky. Small ice shards rain down, but the stalactites remain stubbornly attached.

  Not enough. I need more force.

  I repeat the tactic, drawing the wyrm into another column. This one splinters more severely, groaning as the weight above shifts. The wyrm seems to realize my strategy and becomes more cautious, its attacks measured, trying to strike me without hitting the cavern structure.

  I change tactics, running directly at the beast. It rears back in surprise at my audacity, then strikes. I slide beneath its head on the icy floor, slashing at the softer scales beneath its jaw as I pass. More of that strange blue blood splatters across the ice.

  Enraged beyond caution, the wyrm gives chase, smashing through smaller ice formations in its pursuit. I lead it in a weaving path through the forest of columns, forcing it to contort its massive body around them. Each impact sends tremors through the chamber. Above us, the stalactites begin to sway.

  "Just a little more," I gasp, my lungs burning from exertion and cold.

  I slip on a patch of the wyrm's blood, going down hard. My sword skitters across the ice, coming to rest at the base of a column several yards away. The wyrm sees its opportunity and lunges.

  I roll desperately, feeling the floor crack beneath the impact of its head. The entire chamber shudders. Overhead, a massive stalactite breaks free, plummeting down to shatter against the floor. Then another falls, and another.

  The wyrm recoils from the falling ice, momentarily distracted. I scramble toward my sword, sliding the last few feet to grasp the hilt. The floor beneath me vibrates continuously now as more stalactites crash down. The entire ceiling is becoming unstable.

  I need higher ground. My eyes find a ledge about fifteen feet up a partially collapsed wall—a precarious perch, but reachable. Using fallen debris as stepping stones, I climb while the wyrm weaves through the rain of ice, searching for me.

  Reaching the ledge, I press my back against the cavern wall, trying to blend with the shadows. Below, chaos reigns. Entire sections of ceiling collapse, forcing the wyrm to protect itself with its coiled body. Its scales flash brilliantly as it moves, sometimes reflecting the falling ice shards back toward the ceiling, causing more damage.

  I wait for my moment. The beast pauses directly beneath my position, its head swinging back and forth as it searches. Its back is exposed, scales parted slightly near where I'd struck it earlier, revealing a vulnerability.

  Now or never. I push off from the ledge, my sword gripped in both hands, point downward. For a suspended moment, I fly through the frigid air, my focus narrowed to that single spot between the wyrm's armored plates.

  I land hard on its back, driving my sword down with all my strength and weight behind it. The blade sinks deep, penetrating between the scales into the flesh beneath. The wyrm's shriek threatens to shatter my eardrums. It bucks and twists, trying to dislodge me, but I cling to my embedded sword, twisting it deeper.

  The beast's thrashing intensifies, smashing through the remaining columns in its death throes. I hang on, my arms burning with the effort, as the cavern literally collapses around us. Finally, with a sound like a dying glacier, the wyrm crashes to the floor. Its enormous body twitches once, twice, then goes still.

  I release my grip on the sword, sliding off the creature's back onto the ice-covered floor. My legs give way immediately, and I sit heavily, lungs heaving, muscles trembling with exhaustion and fading adrenaline. The cavern continues to crumble in places, but the main collapse seems to have stopped.

  Through falling ice dust and swirling mist, I look upon the fallen form of the ice wyrm. In death, its scales have lost their brilliance, becoming cloudy and opaque. Its massive head rests on the floor, those ancient eyes now dull and lifeless. Despite everything, I feel a pang of regret for the passing of such a magnificent creature.

  A muffled sound reminds me of my more immediate concern. Lyra! I force myself to my feet, stumbling across the debris-strewn floor to where she remains frozen in her cocoon of ice.

  Her eyes are wide with a mixture of relief and urgent pleading. I retrieve my sword from the wyrm's body, wiping the strange blue blood on my cloak. The blade is undamaged, testament to the quality of Harmonious craftsmanship.

  "Hold still," I tell Lyra, which earns me an eye-roll that clearly says: What choice do I have?

  I study the ice encasing her. It's not ordinary ice—it's her magic, turned against her, and it seems to be sustaining itself somehow. I can't risk shattering it completely for fear of harming her in the process.

  "This is going to take some time," I warn, beginning to carefully chip away at the outer layer with the point of my sword.

  The ice resists more than I expected, almost as if it's trying to heal itself where I cut. I work methodically, starting around her face to allow her to breathe and speak freely.

  "I can't believe you did it," are her first words when her mouth is freed, her voice hoarse from the cold. "You defeated it with a sword. Just a regular sword."

  I continue working, freeing her neck and shoulders. "Not just a sword. I had the entire cavern as a weapon."

  "Smart," she says, her teeth beginning to chatter as I free more of her upper body. "Very smart. Unlike me."

  "Hold that thought until you're completely out," I reply, carefully working around her arms.

  It takes nearly an hour to free her entirely, chipping away at the magical ice bit by bit. When the last piece falls away, Lyra collapses forward into my arms, her body trembling violently.

  "S-so c-c-cold," she manages through chattering teeth. Her blue hair is matted to her head, her golden eyes watery from the intense cold. "I could f-feel everything, b-but couldn't move."

  I strip off my cloak and wrap it around her shoulders, pulling her close to share what warmth I can offer. "You're safe now. We both are."

  She nods against my shoulder, then pulls back slightly to look at the fallen wyrm. "My own s-spell," she says, shaking her head in disbelief. "I didn't expect it to reflect like that."

  "Its scales," I explain. "They're like perfect mirrors when they catch the light right. I noticed while fighting it."

  Lyra shivers again, but manages a rueful smile. "I suppose I deserved that. All my talk about being a true ice mage, and I end up frozen by my own magic."

  "Well, you did warn me that the wyrm's presence might affect your spells."

  "Not quite what I meant," she says with a weak laugh. "I think it was more that I was trying too hard to impress you. As you said outside—when I'm just being myself, the magic flows naturally."

  I help her to her feet, steadying her as she takes a few tentative steps. Her movements are stiff, and I wonder if there will be lasting effects from being frozen for so long. But her strength seems to be returning rapidly.

  "We should take something to prove we defeated it," she says, gesturing toward the wyrm. "The elder will want evidence."

  I nod, approaching the fallen creature. One of its crystalline scales has come loose during the battle. I pry it free—it's about the size of my palm, surprisingly light, and still catches light in mesmerizing ways.

  "This should do," I say, tucking it into my belt pouch. "Ready to go home?"

  Lyra nods, taking another look around the devastated cavern. "It's almost a shame. This place was beautiful before we destroyed half of it."

  We pick our way carefully through the rubble toward the entrance, supporting each other over the more difficult sections. Lyra's shivers gradually subside as we near the exit, where pale sunlight spills in from the mountain pass.

  "You saved my life," she says suddenly, stopping to look at me. "When my magic failed—when I failed—you stepped up and faced that thing alone."

  I shrug, uncomfortable with her earnest gratitude. "You would have done the same for me."

  "But that's just it," she insists. "I'm not sure I could have. Without my magic... I've relied on it so much that I've never bothered to learn other ways of solving problems."

  We emerge from the cave into the crisp mountain air. The sun hangs low over the distant peaks, painting the snow in shades of gold and amber. Our breath plumes before us, but after the bone-deep cold of the cavern, the outside air feels almost warm.

  I help Lyra sit on a fallen log, then rummage in my pack for the dried meat and bread I'd brought. We eat in companionable silence for a while, regaining our strength.

  "I've learned something today," Lyra says eventually, her voice stronger now. "Power isn't just about having the most impressive magic. It's about using what you have effectively."

  I nod, thinking about how I'd defeated the wyrm. "And sometimes the environment is your greatest ally."

  "You were so calm," she continues. "So methodical. You assessed the situation, found a weakness, and exploited it."

  "Years of guard training," I reply with a small smile. "Captain always said, 'When outmatched, look for the battlefield advantage.'"

  Lyra laughs, the sound echoing off the mountainside. "Well, I certainly provided a distraction by turning myself into an ice statue."

  I can't help but join her laughter. "You should have seen your face! Frozen in the perfect expression of 'I've made a terrible mistake.'"

  She swats at me playfully, color returning to her cheeks. "Never speak of this in the village. I have a reputation to maintain."

  "Your secret is safe with me," I promise, standing and offering her my hand. "Though I reserve the right to tease you about it when we're alone."

  She takes my hand, pulling herself up with renewed vigor. "Fair enough. And I reserve the right to remind you that despite your incredible victory today, you're still hopeless at basic frost charms."

  I drape my arm around her shoulders as we begin our descent, the path ahead clear in the late afternoon light. "Deal. We each have our strengths."

  "And weaknesses," she adds softly.

  "That's why we're stronger together," I reply.

  As we make our way down the mountain path, leaving the wyrm's lair behind, our laughter carries on the wind—the sound of a friendship tempered by danger and strengthened by trust. Harmonious awaits below, still unaware that their humble village guard and the mysterious blue-haired mage have faced an ancient legend and emerged victorious.

  I glance at Lyra, her hair now a wild tangle of blue strands catching the dying light, her lips curved in a smile that speaks of exhaustion and triumph in equal measure. In this moment, I know with certainty that while the ice wyrm was formidable, there is nothing we cannot face if we stand together.

  "Next time," I say as we round a bend in the path, "maybe we could try something simpler. Like dragon hunting."

  Lyra's laughter rings out again, bright and clear against the mountain silence. "Only if you promise to bring more than just a sword."

  "Why? It seemed to work out just fine."

  She shakes her head, golden eyes sparkling with renewed warmth. "You, Aelia Windwhisper, are either the bravest or the most foolish person I've ever met."

  "I'll take that as a compliment," I reply, and together we continue our journey home, the wyrm's scale in my pouch and the memory of ice and victory