# Chapter 13:
Fractures in the Frost
The return to the Royal Arcane Academy was a storm Rin had not anticipated. Whispers had spread like wildfire through the capital, carried on the wings of ravens and the lips of courtiers. By the time the Frost siblings arrived back at the crystal-domed halls, the truth was etched in every gaze: Rin was the true daughter of House Frost, the blood heir lost and found. Lily, the golden girl raised in silk and silver, was the magpie who had unwittingly claimed Rin’s nest.
Rin had never sought the family for love. She could thrive alone, her life woven into the Guild’s web of contracts and shadows. She took jobs selectively—escorts through misty passes, hunts for lesser beasts that tested her skills without dragging her into wars. Politics was a quagmire she avoided; nobles hired her for her blade, not her blood, and she kept the distance ironclad. Returning to the Frost estate had been mere curiosity—a whim to humor the strangers who claimed her as kin. But now, that curiosity had cracked open a chasm.
The Academy buzzed like a disturbed hive. Students stared openly in the corridors, their whispers a constant hum: *The real Frost daughter…* *Lily’s just a commoner now…* *How does it feel to lose everything?* Lily walked with her head high, but her steps faltered. The Heart Dormitory, once her sanctuary, now felt like a cage of pitying eyes. Noble girls who had fawned over her invitations withdrew, their smiles brittle. Commoners, sensing the shift, offered awkward sympathies that only deepened the wound.
Albert watched it all with growing concern. As the second son, he had always been more fighter than diplomat, his world one of blades and bruises rather than ballrooms. He had felt a vague barrier with Lily—her delicacy, her need for protection clashing with his rough edges. But Rin’s arrival had cleared the fog; her quiet strength resonated with him, a mirror to his own. Yet duty called.
A letter arrived from Lilian days after their return—sealed with indigo wax, scented faintly with lavender.
*My dear Albert,
Guard your sisters well. The court’s eyes are upon us. Lily is fragile; she needs your strength most. Keep harmony in the family.
Your mother*
The innuendo was subtle but clear: focus on Lily, the weaker one. Albert sighed, folding the parchment. He was neither close nor distant to Lily—fond, perhaps, in the way one is of a distant cousin. But he complied. It was Mother’s wish.
He sought Lily out in the Heart common room, where she sat by the fire, her golden curls catching the light like a fading halo.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, sitting beside her.
Lily forced a smile. “Fine. Just… whispers.”
Albert nodded. “Ignore them. You’re still you. Still Frost.”
She leaned against him slightly, grateful for the support. “Thank you, Albert.”
But he dragged Rin along too at times—whenever he could, as if partially expecting her to make the situation better. In the training yards, during meals in the quad. “Come spar with us,” he’d say to Rin, pulling her into the circle. “Lily could use the distraction.” It was his way of forcing harmony, of bridging the growing crack he sensed like a fighter senses a feint. Instincts honed on the blade told him: the family was fracturing, slow and silent, like ice under pressure.
He blamed Alfons for not seeing it. The eldest brother, ever the dutiful knight, buried in his Order duties and estate ledgers. One evening, after a particularly tense dinner in the Clover Dormitory where whispers had followed them like ghosts, Albert confronted him in the sparring yard, heading toward his brother.
“Alfons,” he said, voice low but edged. “You see what’s happening, don’t you? Lily’s crumbling. Rin’s… Rin. The family’s splitting.”
Alfons wiped sweat from his brow, sheathing his sword. “Exaggerating, as usual. Lily will weather it. She’s strong.”
“Strong? She’s hiding tears behind smiles. And Rin—she’s not even trying to fit in. Father dotes on her like she’s a key to some political lock. Mother ignores her, focused on Lily. You notice nothing?”
Alfons’s expression hardened. “Rin is a tool, Albert. Useful, perhaps. But Lily is our sister—the one we raised, the one who belongs. Mother’s right to focus on her.”
Albert recoiled. “A tool? She’s blood.”
“Blood doesn’t make family,” Alfons snapped. “Loyalty does. Heart does. Rin has neither. I am not blind to not see that Rin’s heart is not on us.”
The words hung heavy. Albert stormed off, fists clenched. Internally, he blamed himself. *There were signs,* he thought. *The way Mother’s eyes skip over Rin. Father’s calculating glances. Alfons’s cold pragmatism. I just closed my eyes. There is no real love in this family—maybe there never was. Or maybe I didn’t know where to look.*
Riled up, he needed to vent. The next morning, he cornered his friend Elowen in the Academy stables—an elf from the Sylvandar border, lithe and sharp-eared, with a bow slung over his shoulder and a perpetual smirk.
“Elowen,” Albert said, saddling his horse. “Family’s driving me mad. Need to blow off steam. Forest hunt? Just us, no drama.”
Elowen raised a brow, his green eyes glinting. “Family drama again? The Frost sisters saga?”
Albert grunted. “Something like that. Lily’s crumbling under whispers, Rin’s a ghost, and Alfons is an ass. Need to hit something that hits back.”
Elowen laughed, mounting his own steed. “Fine. But if we run into trolls, I’m blaming you.”
They rode into the Whisperwood Forest beyond the Academy grounds—a tangled expanse of ancient oaks and mist-shrouded paths, home to beasts that strayed from the borderlands. The air was crisp, scented with pine and damp earth. Snow crunched under hooves; birds called warnings from the branches.
Albert returned sporadically, his absences noted but excused as “training.” But one venture went wrong.
It started simple: a vent session turned hunt. They tracked a pack of shadow wolves—Rank D beasts, agile but manageable. But deeper in, the forest turned hostile.
Three massive forms burst from the underbrush—hulking brutes with fur like blackened iron, eyes glowing red, claws that rent the earth. Rank C verging on B: Ironhide Behemoths, territorial horrors that could crush a knight’s armor like parchment.
Albert and Elowen fought back-to-back, blades flashing in the dappled light. The air reeked of musk and blood; snow churned to red slush underfoot. Albert’s sword bit deep into one beast’s flank, drawing a roar that shook the trees. Elowen’s arrows whistled, embedding in joints with elven precision, but the hides were thick—wounds closed almost as fast as they opened.
They retreated, hearts pounding, breath fogging the air. Branches snapped like bones; the ground trembled with pursuing footsteps. The behemoths were agile for their size—leaping over roots, herding them like prey.
“We’re gonna die here,” Elowen panted, exhausted, his bowstring taut but arrows dwindling. Sweat stung his eyes; his limbs burned from the fight.
Albert, equally winded, gripped his sword tighter. Guilt clawed at him—he’d dragged Elowen into this. “No. We escape. If not… leave me. I’ll hold them.”
“Are you crazy? Your family would kill me.”
“I’m at fault for dragging you here. Should I make a letter of admittance?” Albert panted, tone lightening the dire moment, though his eyes were grim.
Elowen snorted mid-dodge. “Idiot. We go together or not at all.”
The behemoths closed in, roars vibrating through their chests. Claws raked the air; one swipe grazed Albert’s arm, drawing blood that burned hot against the cold.
Then—a flash of silver. One beast howled in pain, staggering back as something struck its side.
Aid had come.
But from whom?