CHAPTER 111: DELICACIES OF WINTER [II]

Alani inhaled deeply, letting the frigid air rush into his lungs.

His chest rose, then fell, his breath spilling out in a white plume.

Right now he was content with the world.

When his gaze shifted toward his sister, he noticed the faintest curve on her lips.

A smile.

It had been so long.

He hated to admit it, but he could not remember the last time he’d seen her smile like this.

Ever since the disappearance of the Prince years ago, Anya had carried a storm within her.

She had blamed herself for not being strong enough, for failing to protect him when he needed her most.

The weight of that failure had driven her into the hunting grounds again and again until her bones groaned beneath the strain, until her skin was mapped with scars and until she thought she was strong enough.

Sure they could heal the physical scars but the mental ones? They couldn’t.

Strength had been her solace.

But joy? That had left her.

Yet now, with crimson eyes reflecting in the winter light, her lost Prince had returned.

He stood beside her, living proof that she had not been wrong to hope.

And though she tried to maintain her composure, though she masked her emotions under the calm exterior she had cultivated, Alani saw the truth.

She was happy.

That was enough for him.

"Prepare to witness my masterpiece — the roasted ice fish!" Alani declared with a booming laugh, spreading his arms theatrically.

The warmth of his voice rolled through the frost-bitten street, and to his quiet satisfaction, even the boy with the crimson eyes — Azel allowed himself the faintest smile.

Alani turned and reached behind the stall.

From the pile, he hauled out two freshly caught icefish.

They gleamed under the pale light, their scales shimmering like fractured glass, their bodies easily the length of a grown man’s arm.

Azel’s brows lifted.

They were larger than the ones he had seen just now.

Alani slapped them onto his roasting slab with confidence, the wet flesh hissing against the cold surface.

Then he snapped his fingers.

A sharp crack.

Flames burst into life, orange and red, licking eagerly at the fish.

The blaze danced unnaturally strong, controlled perfectly in his hands.

Azel’s eyes narrowed slightly.

[Oh?] Kyone’s melodic voice lilted inside his head. [A fire affinity? Here? How very peculiar.]

[Indeed,] Nyala murmured. [In this land of frost, every soul bears ice. Yet this one wields flame. It makes me curious.]

Azel said nothing, but he noted it carefully.

Perhaps that was the reason he didn’t have the build of a Hunter?

Alani worked swiftly, sprinkling crushed herbs that released a tangy, peppered scent into the air.

A clay jar produced thick sauce, drizzled generously over the roasting bodies.

The aroma clung to the cold, weaving smoke and spice together until passersby slowed, their mouths watering.

He hummed tunelessly as he garnished the sizzling flesh, his joy evident.

Finally, with a proud flourish, he speared each fish with a long skewer, lifted them high, and turned with a grin.

"This one’s on the house."

Azel accepted the offering, holding it in one hand.

He eyed it a moment.

’Why do these things always end up as skewers?’

Still, he sank his teeth in.

And the world stopped.

The fish melted in his mouth — tender, smoky, rich with spices that deepened the flavor without overpowering it.

The skin crackled just enough to contrast the buttery flesh beneath.

The sauce lingered, tangy at first, then subtly sweet.

Azel almost groaned.

In his head, both goddesses sighed in unison.

[Divine...] Kyone whispered, breathless.

[Indulgent... too indulgent, Buy them and bring when you’re coming!] Nyala said, though her voice carried the dazed warmth of bliss.

Azel’s hand twitched slightly.

His jaw worked with precision, refusing to let slip the sound threatening to escape his throat.

But a faint flush crept across his cheeks regardless.

"From your face, I’d say you’re enjoying it," Anya teased softly, her eyes bright.

He stiffened and turned his head sharply away, crimson gaze fixed on the snow-dusted street.

"...It’s edible."

Her laugh rang like chimes, unrestrained and warm.

Azel scowled faintly, then muttered, "I’d like... a whole lot more of these."

Alani’s booming laugh rolled out again, satisfied.

By the time they left, Azel had several neatly wrapped packets stored safely away.

"I’m glad you enjoyed it," Anya said as they walked, her tone carrying uncharacteristic gentleness.

Her eyes then flickered to his hand. "Though... I don’t quite understand the artifact you used."

Azel lifted his hand, letting the faint glimmer of the silver ring catch the light.

"This? It’s a storage ring. You can place anything inside — as long as it isn’t alive. It will remain exactly as it was when you stored it."

Her breath caught softly. "Astounding... Truly, the Empire’s tools are beyond us."

He only gave a small shrug, but his lips quirked faintly. "I can get you one later if you’d like."

’I would..’ She thought.

Before he could slip his hands into his pockets again, Anya’s slender fingers slid into his palm.

Azel blinked down, surprised.

She didn’t falter as she guided him forward, tugging him toward the snow-covered main street.

And soon, they stood before a tall building of heavy stone, its walls reinforced with black iron bands, a chimney puffing pale smoke into the sky.

"This is the blacksmith I mentioned," Anya said, pausing before the thick door.

Her voice carried a faint pride. "When he was young, he even dared to touch the Goddess’s Blade, though it nearly froze him."

She placed a hand on the handle. "This is Elyon’s Smithy."

The door creaked open, spilling warmth into the snow-bitten street.

Inside, the scent was thick with something Azel hadn’t smelled before.

Rows of weapons gleamed on the walls: bone swords with frost-etched hilts, bone spears with crystalline tips, axes that seemed hewn from glaciers themselves.

Each bore the mark of a craftsman’s obsession.

But Azel’s eyes didn’t linger on the weapons.

They found the man at the center of it all.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, not at a forge, but before a steaming bowl.

His hair was pure white, long and unruly, falling over broad shoulders.

His left arm was encased entirely in ice, frozen as though time itself had seized it, yet he used it without hesitation to balance the bowl.

Unbothered, he lifted it to his lips and slurped loudly.

The sound echoed through the smithy, vulgar and unashamed.

When he drained the last of the broth, he exhaled with a satisfied sigh, then let out a thunderous burp that seemed to shake the walls.

Azel raised an eyebrow.

The man looked up at last, his frost-blue eyes sharp beneath heavy lids.

"Oi," he said gruffly, his voice carrying the weight of iron striking an anvil. "What are you younglings doing in my forge?"