He needed to become stronger.
A roar made Tryg quickly turn back. He dodged another electric discharge and then chased his last enemy, half feline, half serpent. The Tatzelwurm tried to escape again, but Tryg once more grabbed its tail, pulled it to the surface, and pierced its head through the mouth, silencing its desperate electric snarl.
Tryg pulled out the sword and it broke, its gray blade crumbling into endless particles of dust, until nothing remained but the hilt. Staring at the remains of the weapon, he sighed and threw them away. It would be complicated to fight in the next chamber with only his fists. Not to mention his vital training...
"You did well," Sinmara suddenly said beside him. "Your posture and form still lack quite a bit of refinement, but, even so, they are good enough for a beginner... Um... What are you doing, young man?"
Tryg went to the place where the remains of the witch's staff lay and picked up a small, sharp splinter of wood. Then he crouched and began to draw something in the snow. Something he had learned long ago — from a nomadic merchant who had passed through his old village in Midgard —, to make sure Jorg was not cheating him on his payments. Not that he did not trust the old man. It was just to make sure...
Anyway, the name of that something was mathematics, if he was not mistaken.
"If one hour in here is equivalent to approximately four minutes outside," he said, scribbling numbers and symbols, "that equals a difference fifteen times smaller. Therefore, one day would be equivalent to... Um..."
"Ninety-six minutes," the young god and the queen concluded in unison.
Tryg looked at Sinmara, and she continued, analyzing his calculations with gestures of her paw. "In other words, for one day to pass outside, fifteen days would need to pass in here." She looked at him with doubt in her eyes. "But why are you looking at this? It is useless. It will not change anything you have to do."
Tryg shrugged. "True. But it'll let me take more risks." The fox raised an eyebrow, confused, and he continued, "I'm thinking of spending fewer hours of my day advancing through the labyrinth and more training. The stronger I get, the less time I'll spend in the chambers, the less I'll fail and get hurt, and, consequently, the lower the chances we'll need to go back and start over."
He exhaled. "You were right. I need to stop being so overconfident and start being more careful. Methodical. Anyway... What do you think?"
Sinmara did not take long to nod. "Excellent idea. Incidentally, I have been thinking that I have been too lenient with you during our training." Tryg exhaled, imagining how tiring and painful the queen's new regimen would be as he watched her move away, her fluffy tail swaying from side to side. "More time would be convenient."
He nodded. "We'll advance only during the afternoon and train during the mornings and nights..."
The mist gathered around the fox, swirling and enveloping her body, transforming her once more into her diminutive giantess form, one or two fingers taller than Tryg, her crystalline and cerulean skin, her white eyes blazing like the sun. Then she stretched her arms forward and opened her hands. Beneath her palms, snow and ice rose and gradually formed two smooth, sharp swords, as pale and resplendent as silver.
Sinmara held both swords and threw one of them to Tryg. He caught it in the air by the hilt. It was light, as light as a cloud. If he were not touching it, he would not even realize he was wielding it.
"It seems... fragile," he said, analyzing the blade, swinging it from one side to the other, up and down.
"Well, it is not— Argh!"
The queen groaned in pain, bending over and grabbing her chest, driving the sword into the ground and leaning on it, her long, white hair hiding her pained expression. Tryg hurried over to her, but Sinmara raised her hand and made a sharp gesture to stop him.
"I am... I am fine..."
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He frowned, placed the sword on the ground, and knelt in front of her. "No, you're not. Do you think I didn't notice?"
The queen raised an eyebrow at him, her suffering expression relaxing little by little. "I do not know what you are talking about..."
Tryg narrowed his eyes. "Your magic. Every now and then, you suffer when you use it. If I had to guess, I'd say that only happens when you use a particularly more... demanding magic."
"You do not know what you are talking about." She stood up and began to distance herself, her sword raised. "I am perfectly fine, more than enough to give you a beating, by the way."
"All right, I won't argue. You don't have to tell me. But can I at least make a request?" Tryg asked, also standing up.
Sinmara turned to him. "What?"
"I'd like you to stop using your magic to help me, unless it's extremely necessary."
She sighed. "I already said I am fine, young man."
"No, you're not. And even if I believed you, it would still remain a fact that you suffer when you push yourself too hard. And I..." His gaze fell. "I don't want that to happen."
The queen froze for a moment, her mouth half-open. Then she smiled. Not a reserved, hidden smile, like the ones she used to sketch. But an evident smile. Sincere. Happy.
"Very well. I will accept your request. But I do not want to hear complaints if we end up back at square one because of this."
Tryg smiled too. He was happy that Sinmara had decided to preserve her health. And more important than that... He was happy to see her smiling. To witness, from her, the display of another emotion besides the indifference and melancholy that had defined her before.
It was good to know that his presence, despite being brief, recent, and passing, was warming, even a little, the cold that afflicted her.
His smile widened. Then, looking into the depths of her bright white eyes, Tryg said:
"Thank you..."
He entered. Dove into the dazzling, blazing depths of the queen's two irises. Swam through the frozen ocean that she was, like a fish exploring the depths of cold, ancient, turbulent seas. As the seconds passed, he sank deeper and deeper, reaching dark and ancestral places no living mortal or god had ever visited.
Tryg stopped and frantically analyzed his surroundings, asking himself again and again where the hell he was. Although freezing, shadowed waters surrounded him, he breathed normally. He felt no cold, saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing, tasted nothing.
He blinked. From one instant to the next, he was no longer sinking, nor swimming. He was standing in an earthly world, surrounded by seas of earthen mounds, colossal mountains, and a cloudy, somber sky.
His gaze lowered and, although he did not know exactly where he was, he soon realized this was a battlefield. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of corpses, weapons, shields, and puddles of blue liquid spread around him. But there was something strange about the corpses...
Narrowing his eyes, Tryg approached one of the dead lying on the muddy ground and crouched. The body was enormous, two, perhaps three times larger than him, and was covered in deep cuts from which blue blood flowed and watered the earth. A Jötunn, he realized. And not just any Jötunn. But one with hair as white as snow and crystalline, cerulean skin, just like Sinmara.
A frost giant.
...Hadn't Sinmara been the last of her kind for millennia?
Tryg stretched out his hand to examine the body, but stopped again, staring at his fingers in shock. His arm, his torso, he himself seemed to have lost his materiality and colors. A transparent, colorless shade... like the shadows that had started following him after New Midgard.
He frowned, staring at his ethereal fingers, and tried to touch the giant. As he had imagined, his hand simply passed through the dead body, without any resistance. What is happening?
Footsteps. Apprehensive as he was, Tryg jumped and quickly turned toward the sound, clenching his fists. He saw a woman descending the slope of a nearby earthen mound, covered with fallen, bloodied warriors.
Strong and tall, the woman was definitely a warrior, just like the dead there. However, her presence was more intense, more threatening, despite the staggering way she walked, holding her injured arm, and the worrying bluish wounds afflicting her crystalline skin.
She was dressed in intricate armor, which seemed to be made of the purest, strongest, coldest ice, and carried a pale, gleaming sword, sharp enough to split even an entire mountain. She had a pained expression on her face, and her long white hair was stained with dirt, ash, and blood. Yet, despite everything, her beauty was still evident and stunning.
Tryg widened his eyes. Beautiful. Experienced. Powerful. Until now, he had known only one woman like that... His teacher.
"Lady Sinmara...?"
It was her, it had to be. But why did the queen look so... young?
"Lady Sinmara!" he called, waving his hand in the air, but he did not receive even a simple glance in return.
Tryg dashed toward her, trying to get her attention, and stood right in front of her. Sinmara, however, passed straight through him, crossing him as if nothing existed in her path. And perhaps nothing truly did.
He froze. Looked at himself again — at his colorless, spectral skin. The lack of reaction. A younger Sinmara. A battlefield filled with dead Jötnar.
Tryg was no longer in the realm of cold and mist, nor in any other realm. He was no longer in reality.
He was in a memory. And in a memory that was certainly not his. After all, fortunately, he had never experienced any scene as bloody as that one. No...
That was a memory of the queen of Niflheim herself.
Tryg was inside Sinmara's mind.