My body aches but is physically unbruised. Echoes of the beatings that I endured in the somnatorium for the last six hours assault me as I walk. My flesh may be unbroken, but my mind is having trouble letting go of the wounds I suffered. I am exhausted, my limbs feel like lead. My Cor is almost empty of Ancient Frost. I was unable to call upon any form of ice for the last two fights.

At least those ones were shorter than the others.

The constructs may not be real, but it felt like they remembered me and were only too happy to get revenge for my earlier victories. Contessa said little between matches as she pushed me to my limits, only watching me with those sharp eyes. This is how a sword must feel on the anvil.

As I drag myself toward the loci to refill my drained reserves, I miss the companionship of the legions. A few other gladiators wander past me, but they do not seem to be as broken as I. The white-robed servants smile and greet me, but I find their platitudes unsettling. Their lives are not ones of iron and blood. They may serve, but not like me.

At last, I arrive in the training hall, and the sight of the snowy locus drives all thought from my mind the same way an oasis would for a man in the desert. This late at night, the hall is empty, and most of the lumos relics are off, casting heavy shadows through the dim room. I am the only soul in the building as I stumble through the abandoned sand toward my feast.

True to his word, Pliny left it running, and the strange doors slide open soundlessly to welcome me into Winter’s frosty embrace. Cold hammers at me, and I let out a sigh of delight as I sink to my knees in the growing snowbank. It is far from ancient, but even the time that it has been allowed to gather makes a difference in the congruency as I pull the essence from around me. I must still condense it to be usable by Ancient Frost, but it is no longer Fresh Snow. I cock my head, trying to taste the new Symbols swirling around me like they are fancy wines.

They are just Snow and just Ice now.. The magisters in collegium taught us that specificity is what makes a Symbol strong. The more specific it is, the more power you will have over the narrow aspect. But as I ponder the differences in how the room feels, I realize that there are limits to that definition.

Technically, Fresh Snow is more specific than just Snow. By that logic, old Vellum would have considered it a more powerful Symbol for a new electus to attune to. But Fresh Snow is a far scarcer thing. It lasts for maybe a day before it is gone, swallowed into the more general “Snow.”

I suspect that someone bound to the Fresh version would be able to pull essence from Snow, the same way that I could with Ancient Frost; they were both Symbols of Winter. But it would get harder for them the older it got, instead of easier like it does for me. In the true North, where I first encountered permafrost, it would be a nightmare for them to cultivate unless they were hit by a blizzard dumping fresh powder on them.

Both Ancient and Fresh are the second level of specificity, but it was clear to me that there was an advantage to one over the other. But having just Frost or just Snow would make it easier for someone to maintain their reserves no matter where they were, even though it was technically less specific. This was not something they taught us to consider about the elements in school. But then again, the sons and daughters in that room were expected to use their Hearts to climb the social ladder, not become warriors.

My breathing settles as my reserve of Ancient Frost begins to fill. When it is almost empty, it is as if my Cor shrinks like a raisin. The metal veins that run through my flesh tighten and harden as if they are turning to stone. But now as essence floods the channels, they relax once more.

My body releases the final bits of tension that it carried from my bouts. I marvel at the healing that seems to sweep through me as I achieve balance once more. I have been holding my iron gladii all day, but that is not enough to keep me whole. I need both parts of my Heart to be sated for it to work its Silver blessings upon me.

I do not miss being a Copper. Not one bit.

Straightening my back, I slow my breathing, focusing on pulling in essence with each inhale and pausing as I exhale. The magisters taught the exercise to us in collegium as the healthiest way to cultivate, but I feel no difference. The torrent still pours into me, succoring my tortured body like water.

My veins do not stretch or strain as they did when I was a Copper; they accept the essence comfortably. Frustrated, I shake my head, trying to keep it clear. Whatever the path is to Ascend to Gold, it is not the same one that I walked to become Silver.

I think back on the moments that I felt them burn. It has not happened when I am cultivating, but when I am exerting my will upon the world. It feels like there is something to that. When I became a Copper, I had to learn how to stand, but as a Silver, I must now learn how to walk.

The thought is trite, but for some reason, I cannot get it out of my head. If I am right, the way to progress through the Silver tier is to use my Cor, rather than just feed it. I check my reserves. They are full, in perfect balance between Iron and Ancient Frost once more. With a sigh, I begin to rise. My feet do not even wait for my mind to decide what I am going to do. It knows what my heart wants, just like the rest of me.

The locus’s door slides open, and I stalk out into the dim training hall, casting a glance around the room to make sure I am still alone. Seeing no one, I step into the sand, dropping a hand to the hilt of my gladius. After a moment of reflection, I lift my palm, instead calling on the Glacialis Falx to summon its icy twin in my hand. The frozen blade materializes, and I wince at the loss of essence. I just finished refilling it, but I will need to return to the locus again before I leave.

The weapon in my hand is a gladius, like it has always been since Aquilo first gave the ability to me. But after my practice today, I can see the glint of something lurking in the ice. I can sense its potential, feel it quivering with unbound excitement. It will change if I ask. The path has been laid before my feet. I am only at the beginning of Silver. I have so far to go, but I want—I need—to unlock its secrets.

Wordlessly, I extend my left hand, manifesting another icy blade. I picture the long form of a dueling blade in my mind and, using my will, I command that the Glacialis Falx manifest as this different sword instead of its normal gladius.

I let out a deep grunt and close my eyes as my body pays the toll. When it is finished, I open them eagerly, expecting to find a different weapon in my hand. But to my disappointment, my left hand holds a second gladius, a perfect copy of the first. The ice defies me.

My reserve is dangerously low, so for a while, I stand in the center of the empty ring, waiting to reclaim some of my lost essence from the two frozen blades. I try a breathing tactic old Vellum taught us and am surprised to find that it helps. My animus gathers the floating essence from the swords between each breath, condensing it together before absorbing it in bursts.

As I cultivate, I scheme, trying to think of a way to force this ability to obey me. An idea begins to form in my mind, growing like an icicle, drip by drip.

When I am satisfied that I have enough essence to keep me on my feet, I lower myself into a fighting crouch, ignoring the complaint of the tired muscles in my thighs. It is time to begin. I move in deliberate paces, focusing on my form as I glide through attacks. With my first movement, I extend my right-hand blade in a low thrust aimed at an invisible foe’s stomach.

As it cuts through the air, I reach into the gladius with my mind and command it to change, to become the dueling blade once more. For a moment, my Cor resists me, as if it is a living thing with its own will. My request is beyond the gift that Aquilo gave me. Its refusal is like a thick wall in my mind, dampening my thoughts. I grit my teeth, pouring all my focus and energy into breaking through that limitation. Without the threat of violence, my ability is far more rigid. But I’ve done this before, and I know it is possible. I just have to be strong enough. Slowly, the barricade begins to bend—but not break as it gives in to this one request.

A crack echoes through the training hall as the frozen sword begins to twist. Essence, an unsustainable amount, pours out of me to add more ice to the weapon. I grimace with pain and force myself to keep moving.

When the strike is done, the sword is a thin caricature of the dueling blade. It is too short, and the ice is pale and thin. It would shatter under a heavy blow, but it is different than the gladius. I made it. It’s a first step toward unlocking the full potential of my ability.

I take a deep breath and brace to try again. This time, I step forward with my left foot, twisting my wrist to slash diagonally at my invisible opponent in a cut that would open a man from hip to shoulder. As I do, I command my second sword to shift from a gladius to a dueling blade. The wall of resistance in my mind holds firm. My knees buckle and threaten to give out from the cost of essence. My vision goes black at the edges. For a moment, I teeter on the edge of unconsciousness. But then it is done, and I stagger to the side with a gasp of shock like a man bursting free of frigid water. My veins burn, stretching under the demands that I am putting them through. Panting with exertion, I study the second weapon that I have changed. It is still definitely not a true dueling blade, but it is closer than my first attempt. A tired smile grows on my face as I close my eyes.

It is working.

I square my shoulders, preparing to try again, but my determination breaks against the ravenous demands of my Cor. The gladius in my right hand cracks warningly as I try to manipulate it. Essence trickles out of me like a river running dry. With a sharp retort, the sword shatters, falling apart in my hands.

I gasp in surprise and pain, staggering as my body is racked by the threat of the crassamentum—the fury of my empty Heart. The other sword falls from my limp right hand as I sink to my knees in the sand. I fall forward onto all fours and stay there for a long time, panting from exertion. I pushed myself beyond my limits. A foolish thing to do when my life is constantly in danger.

But as my breath slowly returns, I raise my head to find myself staring at the Winter locus just on the other side of the room. A wry grin spreads across my face as I remind myself that my empty reserves are easily fixed.

With a grunt of effort, I manage to stand on wobbly legs and stagger back into the frozen room, letting its coldness wash over me. The pressure my Cor is exerting in my chest fades, and I relax, lying on the snow like it is a field of heather.

It takes longer for my reserves to fill this time. Somehow, I managed to deplete them even further than Contessa did with her relentless training. When I am sated, I struggle to my feet and stomp out of the locus, feeling pleased with myself and my progress.

Whistling to myself, I stride along the stone edge of the practice arena, making my way toward the mess hall. I am starving; running through my entire reserve of Ancient Frost twice in one day has lit a ravenous appetite within me. Fortunately, this place has food at all hours of the day for training gladiators, which means there’s no danger of me missing a meal. I pause midstride, struck by a sudden pang of a different sort of hunger. I am brimming with Ancient Frost; what could it hurt to go through the dance one more time?

I step into the sand, dinner already forgotten. Grinning ear-to-ear, I seize my Symbols and manifest the frozen blades as I walk. I know that I have only uncovered the tip of the iceberg of what I am able to do with my powers. There are secrets lurking just beneath the surface, and I want them. But to find them, I’m going to need to dig.

In the end, I empty my reserves twice more. I am still not able to summon anything other than a gladius with the Glacialis Falx, but the dueling blade that I shift my sword into looks almost right, even if it is too thin and fragile. When I emerge from the locus after my fourth time, even my desire to Ascend is overshadowed by the ravenous hunger that shakes my body. I do not know if even that would have been enough to stop me from practicing my manifesting again, but I do not have a choice.

Pliny is waiting for me.

The small magister smiles brightly at me as I step back into the training room. Most of the lumos relics are still off, and he is hovering on the edge of a shadow, subtly telling me that he has been here for a while.

“Most impressive, Castor,” he says by way of greeting. “Your Cor’s speed and efficiency made significant leaps during your training this evening. And your progress on manifestation is truly… inspiring.”

“Are you spying on me?”

“It’s hardly spying. It’s my job to watch over you.” He snorts. “I was waiting for you at the mess hall for dinner, intending to instruct you on deepening your connection to your Cor. When you did not appear, I came looking for you and found that you had already begun the process yourself.” My heart leaps at his words.

“I’m on the right track?” The short magister cocks his head like a bird studying a worm.

“Tell me what you have learned.”

“My Cor does not stretch from the same exercises that it did when I was a Copper—a cuprum.”

“How so?” Pliny prods, smiling slightly at my correction.

“When I first attuned to… Ancient Frost, I felt it grow every time that I cultivated,” I say after a moment of thought. “It seems like the path to Silver was about accumulating more essence, expanding how much of it I could hold within myself. I was feeding the seed of the Cor, to let it grow and become a part of me.”

“And now?” An arched eyebrow.

“I don’t feel anything when I fill my Cor.”

“But you’ve noticed it at other times?”

“Yes.” I nod, trying to figure out how to put in words the breakthrough I had made tonight. “It seems to be whenever I am pushing myself in using my essence to make a change. When I exert my will to do something difficult with my Symbol, like manifesting the Glacialis Falx or changing their shapes.”

“Your instincts are correct. A key portion of advancing your Cor through the stages of argentum, you will need to push your Heart to new heights, to demonstrate complete mastery of your Symbol.”

“Complete mastery, Magister? What does that mean?”

“You were right, a Cuprum Heart is like a seed that needs to be fed.” Pliny gives me an approving nod. “It is the easiest path to walk for most electi, because all it requires is patience and access to a source of essence. Over enough time, anyone with a Cor can Ascend to Silver, even if it takes their whole lifetime.” I wonder what he would say if he knew that I reached the peak of my first Symbol—Iron—the first time I was exposed to an abundance of it.

“But an argentum Heart has different needs. It has grown strong enough that it will exert pressure back on its electus, polluting them with its own attributes. In order to progress toward Aurum, you must bend it to your will, master your Symbol and its corruption. If you do not, when you become Gold, it will consume you.” The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I hear the warning of a dead man nestled in Pliny’s words. My father, a Copper electus himself, once told me something very similar.

“What do you mean, ‘its corruption’?”

“Surely you have felt the effects of holding a Winter Symbol?” Pliny arches an amused eyebrow. “I imagine it comes in quite handy for you.”

“When I hold Ancient Frost, it drives my fear away,” I reply slowly, struggling to think of what else he might mean. “It helps me stay logical and not panic. But other than that, I have not noticed any other effects.”

“My dear boy,” Pliny says with a sad smile. “I wish I had a mirror to let you see yourself.” He pauses for a moment, as if struck by a thought. “Perhaps I do have one. Yes, this is important. You must see before it is too late.” I follow the smaller man without a word, my physical hunger forgotten. I want to see the thing that makes him so afraid.

To my surprise, the magister takes me back to the room with the dream relic in it. He gestures for me to step into the center as he takes up a position on the edge, just like Contessa earlier today. Instinctually, I draw my gladii as I cross over the black boundary on the floor.

“You will not need that,” Pliny calls, but I ignore him, keeping the sword gripped firmly in my right hand. I have suffered enough pain today.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs as if unsurprised by my response. The magister raises a hand and gestures at the far wall, activating the relic. The world flickers, but the room does not change. Instead, a figure appears across from me, carrying a pair of swords.

He is my height, wearing a set of training leathers marked with the broken trident of Domus Pelias. He is lean and dangerous, like a wolf that has been struggling to hunt through the winter. His brown hair falls in a tangled mess to his shoulders, which are broad and strong.

On instinct, I raise my gladius, holding my left hand out to the side in preparation to summon the Glacialis Falx. I freeze as my opponent copies my move. Suddenly, I notice the Cor veins that run through his body are mismatched, Silver and white. My gaze flicks up to his face, and I see him clearly for the first time. This isn’t an opponent for me to test myself against.

It’s me.

I may have used the mirror in my quarters, but I did not see myself when I looked in it last night. My face is sharper than I remember. My cheeks are hollow, and the bones stick out, making me look almost palatine. But the biggest change is my eyes. They are no longer brown, like my father’s. Instead, they are a steely blue, harsh and unforgiving. How did I not notice? An air of frigid menace rolls off me like a wave. If I were not immune to such cold, I would have shivered at its touch.

Slowly, I lower my sword, and my duplicate copies the motion. Yet, despite the lowering of aggression, I do not look any further away from violence. There is an edge to me, like a knife buried under an inch of snow, ready to be used. The influence of Iron and Ancient Frost is as plain as day to my eyes. A new fear uncoils in my mind as I wonder how many others can see it.

Slowly, I tear my eyes away from myself, even though every instinct inside of me screams to not look away from a predator like this. Out of the corner of my vision, my copy does the same, which makes me feel only a little better.

“How long have I been like this?” I demand.

“Since the moment I met you,” Pliny replies with a soft shrug. “It is common for Silver electi, especially strong ones like you, to begin to be warped by their Cor until they learn to control it.” My father’s warning echoes in my mind once more. If only I had been smart enough to listen to his wisdom when he was alive.

“You are a cold man, Castor, although I suspect that has not always been the case.” Dimly, I think of the laughing boy who raced through the fields with Marcus and Valentina only a year or two ago. When was the last time my laughter was not cruel? I have become something frigid and hard, a blend of Iron and Ice. My thoughts are only of revenge and power.

I have lost myself, just as my parents feared.

“How do I fix it?” My voice seems harsh now; I hear its bitter chill. I cannot change it to sound any different. I’m not sure I want to. There is a power to the cold. I have seen it. I have felt it. I need the power if I am going to do what has to be done. My skin tingles as my votum with Nemesis reminds me of my task.

“Fix it?” Pliny asks softly. “I don’t know if there is a way to ‘fix’ it. You have bound an Elder Symbol, lad. There is nothing colder than what flows in your veins. You may learn to manage it in time, but the thing you have bound is bigger than what most mortals can handle.”

“What is an Elder Symbol?” The Censors threw the word around, but I have never heard it before. The confrontation had not seemed like the moment to ask either.

“I forget that your education is incomplete,” Pliny replies, tilting his head in surprise. “Your teachers no doubt blathered on about specificity?”

“Having an attunement to a narrower area of an element grants a greater level of congruency.”

The older man nods, satisfied by my simple definition. “That is true but does not encompass everything in the hierarchy of the domus of an element.”

“Hierarchy of a domus?” I frown, confused by the sudden change of definition. I have never heard it described like this before.

“Many modern magisters think of the different elements like a house. Congruency lets you touch the other stones inside the structure that are part of the same whole. The foundation is the most basic version of a Symbol. In your case, that would be Winter.”

“Not Ancient Frost?” I ask, surprised at his explanation.

“No.” Pliny shakes his head, a small smile crossing his face. “All things within a house are seeking to become their final form. Fresh Snow is one of the youngest members, the first step to the house. Eventually, it will become Snow, then Old Snow. One day, it might become Ancient. Your Symbol is the Eldest of Domus Hiems—the House of Winter. It has a different kind of power, because all things in Winter flow to it.”

Damn Dead Aquilo and his rotten games.

“As you walk the Path of Silver to Gold, you must gain absolute control of your Symbol. There can be no question between you and it who is the master and who is the servant. Your Cor is a bridge between you and your Symbol. Ancient Frost will try to use you as a vehicle to feast on essence. You must develop the self-control to only use it when you need it.” I swallow slowly, realizing how comfortable I have become being submerged in my Symbols, letting their cold presence wash away the feelings from me. It has been easier than living in the pain of loss.

“It is rather like the difference between a wine connoisseur and a lush. If you cannot find the balance, it will eventually rot you from the inside until only a shell of your humanity remains. It will take all your concentration, but if you are willing, I will help you as much as I can.”

“What must I do?”

“Only seize your Symbol when you need it.” Pliny holds up his hand, counting off instructions on his fingers. “Resist the urge to exist in its embrace even for clarity or comfort. Never take hold of it without using it. Condition yourself to treating it like a tool. It is in your body, but it is not a part of your flesh. You must not forget that. Lastly, you must use all your focus on this task. The power of Ancient Frost is immense—if you do not devote yourself wholly to building up these foundations before you reach the peak of Silver, it may be too late.”

“Are Elder Symbols the most powerful?” I ask, still reeling from this new vision of the elements.

“They have the greatest authority of their kind,” Pliny replies, sighing after a moment when he sees I do not understand.

“There are two things that affect how much will and essence an electus must use to perform a feat with their Cor. You were taught by your magisters about congruency, the relationship of likeness or sameness between two elements. Granite and sandstone are both rocks and are therefore congruent.

“But the other piece of the equation is authority. Most elements have similar levels of influence. An oak tree and a birch tree are siblings in the house of arbor. In your own house, Winter is the thread that connects every piece of the domus.

“Specificity is like a fulcrum. The authority gives you more leverage for your will to make its commands known. Elder Symbols have the most authority within their domus. This means that you have an advantage over any Winter Symbol because you are the top of the pyramid.”

“Oh,” I reply, feeling small.

“They say that Elder Elements were the attunements of the gods.”

I struggle to keep my face impassive.

“Now you understand what is before you. You must walk a narrow and dangerous path. But if you can make it to the other side, you will know a level of power and strength that few have the chance to master.” Pliny smiles softly as he gestures at the dream relic across the room, making my copy vanish.

“Take heart, young Castor. This is not an impossible task, just a difficult one. Even an Elder Symbol is not as corrupting as Iron.” Dread flows through my veins, cold and overwhelming. I seize Ancient Frost despite his warning, leaning on it to keep me calm as I return his smile. I can only hope he cannot see the terror that burns behind my eyes.