Time, they said, softened all things. Whoever "they" were had never met me.
Four years swept by, and not a day passed that didn't feel hard-edged, honed by disappointment and sharpened by icy resolve.
I was fifteen now—almost grown, if you listened to the whispers in the palace halls or the gossip on the Academy steps.
The city outside the castle swelled and brightened each year, but within my heart, only the walls grew higher.
My hair, once an unruly snowdrift, now hung down my back in a polished fall of white gold.
My cheekbones had carved themselves sharper, my eyes glittered colder, and my voice, when I cared to use it, could freeze a room.
I never meant to become beautiful; I'd have traded every compliment for a little peace. But there it was, a weapon like any other: the cold beauty of the Ice Princess, as everyone called me now.
No one dared say it to my face, of course. But the name stuck, as names do, and I did nothing to dislodge it. Why would I? Let them keep their distance. It was easier that way.
School was starting tomorrow. Another year of expectations and pressure, of being measured against an impossible standard: grades that never slipped, swordsmanship that impressed even the masters, magic so controlled and elegant that the teachers could only nod and scribble praise in the margins.
Sometimes I wondered if my perfection was armor or a cage. Perhaps both.
But today was not for wondering. Today was for battle.
Seraphina and I trained in the upper courtyard, where the heat of the summer afternoon shimmered off the stones.
The sky was cloudless, the sun an unyielding coin of fire overhead. Sweat glued my shirt to my back, and my arms ached from the effort of controlling the White Flame. Seraphina, as always, showed no mercy.
"Again!" she snapped, her own magic gleaming blue and silver around her fingertips. "You flinched. You can't flinch, Isolde. Not ever."
I bit back a retort—Seraphina's drills had a way of sanding my temper down to the bone—and summoned the White Flame once more.
It spilled into my palms, dazzlingly bright, then swept in a controlled arc to meet her attack. Our magic collided, hissed, and evaporated into steam.
We circled each other, sweat streaming, neither willing to give ground.
"Don't hold back," Seraphina urged, eyes fierce. "If I were your enemy, you'd be dead already."
"You're not my enemy," I panted.
She grinned—wolfish, wild, and beautiful. "Maybe not. But the world is full of them. Again!"
We repeated the drill until my arms shook and my head spun. When Seraphina finally called a halt, we collapsed onto the cool marble steps by the fountain.
She handed me a flask of water. I drank deeply, barely tasting it, but grateful for the icy relief.
Seraphina sprawled out beside me, chest heaving, sweat slicking her brow. "You're getting stronger," she said at last. "I almost had to work for that last round."
I snorted, stretching my cramped fingers. "You have no idea what it's like, living in your shadow."
She nudged me with her foot. "Please. You're the talk of the entire Academy, whether you want to be or not. Ice Princess."
I rolled my eyes. "Mother also thinks my shoes are too shiny and that I should smile more."
"She's not wrong," Seraphina teased, but her tone was softer now, warmer. "We could both stand to smile more."
We rested a moment longer, breathing in the garden scents roses, sun-baked stone, the faint sweetness of lavender.
Then Seraphina sat up abruptly, her eyes scanning the lower yard. "Do you want to go watch the knights train?" she asked, voice too casual.
I narrowed my gaze. "You mean you want to go watch Lyra."
Seraphina flashed a guilty grin. "She's the only interesting thing about that lot anymore. Besides, you know she'll be shirtless in this heat. It's practically a public service."
I groaned, but couldn't suppress a wry smile. Four years, and Seraphina's fascination with Lyra had only grown.
I pretended indifference, but the truth was I noticed too. How could I not? Lyra had changed in ways I could not ignore, though I tried my best.
"Fine," I said, standing. "But don't blame me if you get caught staring. Again."
We made our way down to the training field, crossing the sun-bleached flagstones. The yard bustled with activity: young squires running drills, knights trading blows, the clang and clash of metal against metal ringing through the air.
And there at the center of it all was Lyra.
I would have known her anywhere, even without the shock of red and white hair tied back from her face, even without the fangs she flashed whenever she smiled or taunted an opponent.
She had grown almost as tall as Seraphina now and her body had shifted from lanky awkwardness to something undeniably, almost absurdly, beautiful.
Muscles rippled under tanned skin, her shoulders broad and arms cut with lean power.
She fought bare-chested, sweat gleaming on her back, and even I had to admit she moved like fire: reckless, impossible to contain.
The knights circled her warily, two at a time, then three, then four. Lyra wielded a practice sword in each hand, a wicked grin lighting her face.
She ducked, spun, blocked, and countered with a kind of brutal grace, her every movement precise and predatory. The onlookers cheered, a group of younger squires nearly falling over the fence to watch.
"Is she ever going to lose?" Seraphina asked, almost wistful.
I scoffed, folding my arms tightly. "She's showing off. As usual."
When one knight lunged for her, she sidestepped and knocked him flat with a sweep of her leg, not even breathing hard.
"She's going to get in trouble for not wearing a shirt," I grumbled, mostly to myself.
Seraphina shot me a sideways glance. "Don't pretend you aren't enjoying the view. Half the palace is."
I flushed and pretended not to hear. It was easier to hate Lyra, to resent her easy grace and the way she drew every eye.
But I could not deny the heat that prickled under my skin, or the faint jealousy that curled in my stomach when I saw the way others looked at her.
The match ended with Lyra dispatching the last of her challengers in a flurry of blows, sending his sword skittering across the yard.
She threw both her weapons aside and lifted her arms, grinning at the applause.
The master-at-arms shouted, "Enough! Skyblade, put on a shirt before you embarrass us all!"
Lyra just laughed, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She looked utterly unrepentant, as always.
Seraphina was still staring, entranced. I nudged her. "Close your mouth. You're drooling."
She snapped her jaw shut and tried to compose herself, but her cheeks were flushed. "Oh, hush. If you had a shred of taste, you'd understand."
"Trust me, I have taste. That's why I'm not throwing myself at her feet."
Seraphina smirked. "Just admit you're jealous."
"Of what?" I retorted, too sharp. "Her complete lack of decorum? Her inability to follow rules?"
She shrugged, not rising to my bait. "Maybe of how free she is. How she doesn't care what anyone thinks."
I said nothing, because the truth landed uncomfortably close. Lyra was everything I could never be—untamed, unbothered, and beloved for it.
While I was the Ice Princess, admired but never approached, Lyra was the wildfire everyone wanted to touch, even if it burned.
The crowd began to disperse as the knights finished practice. Lyra scooped up her shirt, slinging it over her shoulder, and gulped water from a jug.
I noticed the new scars crisscrossing her arms—testaments to her recklessness and her refusal to lose.
Seraphina straightened her skirt and waved, a little too enthusiastically. "Lyra! Over here!"
Lyra's eyes narrowed when she spotted us. The old animosity flickered in her gaze, the same chill I felt every time we crossed paths.
Four years, and the hatred between us had only sharpened. We avoided each other when we could, clashed when we had to, and never, ever let our guard down.
She strode over, shirt still abandoned, sweat glistening on her skin. "Princesses," she greeted, nodding stiffly.
Her voice had deepened with age, low and rough at the edges.
She eyed Seraphina with mild curiosity, but when she looked at me, it was all frost and fire.
Seraphina grinned, undeterred. "You're showing off again, Lyra. Do you ever let anyone else win?"
Lyra shrugged, a slow, lazy gesture. "Only when they deserve it."
I snorted. "And you decide who deserves it?"
She smiled—sharp, unfriendly. "Someone has to. The standards are slipping around here."
Seraphina intervened, her tone bright and warm. "I was hoping you could help me with my footwork, Lyra. You're far more creative than the instructors."
Lyra blinked, as if surprised by the genuine compliment. "Sure. If you don't mind getting knocked down a few times."
"I look forward to it," Seraphina replied, her eyes glinting with mischief.
Lyra and I locked gazes again, the air between us sparking with old, unspoken grievances. I felt the heat of her attention, the way she measured me, judged me, found me wanting.
"We're not friends, Skyblade," I said quietly.
She raised an eyebrow, mouth twitching. "Wouldn't dream of it, Ice Princess."
Seraphina ignored the tension, looping her arm through Lyra's and steering her toward the practice field. "Come on, show me that famous spin. Isolde, are you coming?"
I hesitated, watching Lyra's muscles flex as she strode ahead, shirtless and unashamed, the very picture of everything I could not be.
I trailed after them, silent, my mind already spinning through tomorrow's lessons, tomorrow's battles, tomorrow's mask.
The Ice Princess did not melt not for anyone.