The old wooden door creaked as I pulled its iron handle.
Marie stood on the threshold, frozen like stone. Her small hand holding the wooden tray stopped in mid-air. She stared at me not with eyes full of pity like usual, but with confusion mixed with instinctual fear. The cold air seeping out from inside my room hit her face, carrying the scent of pure snow that strangely did not originate from outside the window.
"Young... Master?" she whispered hesitantly, as if afraid the figure standing before her was a disguised ghost.
I intentionally stepped backward, giving her space. "Come in, Marie."
My footsteps were no longer dragged. My ankle, although still leaving a thin sense of ache, was now able to support my body weight without any meaningful limping. Marie stepped inside extremely slowly. Her eyes swept around the room—searching for a reason why a room that usually smelled foul, damp, and miserable suddenly felt so clean, cold, and rigid.
She set down the tray containing a bowl of thin soup on the table, but her gaze kept returning to me. My face was still pale and my body was still thin, but my upright posture and the way my eyes stared straight at her made the young maid unconsciously bow her head.
"Is something wrong with your face, Marie?" I asked softly.
"N-nothing, Young Master," she answered stammering, twining her trembling fingers together. "It's just that... You look... different. Your eyes..."
"I just slept more soundly than usual," I cut her off calmly, hiding the gleam of ice behind the gray stillness of my eyes. "Thank you for the soup."
Marie nodded stiffly, bowing deeper than usual—a gesture of respect that she had never performed before to the useless bastard—then hurried out as if this room would freeze her alive.
After the door latch was locked again, I took a deep breath. Cold air swirled inside my lungs, merging with the newly formed Mana Core in my chest.
I raised my right hand, opening my fingers over the rough surface of the wooden table. I closed my eyes, focusing my awareness into my blood vessels. There, the cold energy flowed like clear mercury. I guided it slowly, letting its current creep from my shoulder, trace down my arm, until it gathered at the tip of my finger.
Srrr...
A soft scraping sound was heard. From the tip of my index finger, a thin pattern of ice crystal began to bloom over the wood. The ice crept slowly, forming elegant, transparent, and extremely sharp ice flower petals. There was no spell I uttered. There was no dramatic hand movement. Only pure control of will formed by the discipline of my soul.
I touched the ice petal. Its coldness did not burn me; it was an extension of my own existence.
Then, I shifted a portion of that mana flow down to my left ankle. A cold sensation crept into the bruised muscle tissue and joint, wrapping its pain like a spiritual ice compress that accelerated cell regeneration from within. The remaining pain evaporated instantly.
This was not just ordinary ice magic. This was high-level ice mana that had been purified by my mother's antidote poison. Eleanor and Raymond thought they had killed my talent, but what they actually did was merely bury this seed in the darkest soil until it was ready to bloom with the sharpest thorns.
Heavy and pressuring footsteps interrupted my silence in the afternoon. The sound of boots clacking loudly against the stone floor of the corridor showed no respect at all.
Brak! Brak!
My room door was banged roughly.
I flicked my hand, melting the ice crystals on the table in an instant until only leaving ordinary droplets of water, then walked to open the door.
A middle-aged man with a sturdy body in a neat senior servant uniform stood outside. Shane, the right hand of Head Butler Thomas as well as Duchess Eleanor's favorite spy. His sharp-angled face was adorned with his usual insulting smile.
"Still breathing, apparently," Shane sneered without further ado, having no intention to step into this room that he considered disgusting. "I bring news from the Main Hall."
I only stared at him, crossing my arms over my chest at the doorframe, letting my silence press down on his arrogance.
Shane cleared his throat slightly, feeling uncomfortable when my cold gaze met his eyes. He pulled out a piece of parchment paper stamped with red wax. "By the generosity of Duchess Eleanor and the direct command of the Lord Duke, you are required to attend the Grand Family Dinner two days from now in the Main Hall."
I narrowed my eyes thinly. "Family dinner?"
"Yes," Shane answered with a boastful tone. "All clan members and the elders will be present. The Duchess wants to make sure that the youngest son of the Romario clan has not forgotten how to behave in front of the dining table. Make sure you wear proper clothes... if you have any."
I knew exactly what this was. This was not a family banquet full of warmth, but a stage for social execution. Eleanor and Raymond wanted to drag me out of the West Tower to showcase "the broken coward" in front of Duke Alistair and the other nobles, cutting off all my possibilities of receiving an inheritance or recognition.
A thin smile—almost invisible—was carved on my lips.
"Convey to the Duchess," I said with a voice that was extremely calm and deep, "I will come."
Shane frowned, surprised to see no panic or gertakan of fear on my face. He stared at me sharply for a moment, trying to find a gap of doubt, but all he found was an impenetrable wall of ice. Without saying another word, he turned around and walked away with a strange feeling that disturbed his mind.
I closed the door and leaned my back. The stage had been prepared. They invited a lamb to be slaughtered at their dining table, without realizing that what would step into that hall was a predator wrapped in the first frost.