Noa staggered out of the training grounds, his footsteps echoing through the corridor covered in ice. Every movement felt unbearably heavy, as if he were dragging boulders across the frozen floor. His breath rose in pale clouds, and his legs trembled, refusing to obey him.
Reaching his door, he grasped the handle. The iron bit into his bloodied palm, its cold sharp against his skin. His fingers shook, his wrists weak. He pulled once—the door did not move.
For a moment, he simply stood, staring at his stained hands. His fingers, nearly frozen, would not obey him. Gritting his jaw against the pain, he summoned every ounce of strength and pulled again.
The door groaned open.
It should have felt like victory. Yet Noa's face betrayed no triumph. He stepped into his quarters, burdened not by the cold but by the weight of his exhaustion.
The room was plain: a narrow bed, an old table, a chair. Not a prison, but not freedom either. For the soldiers, a shelter; for Noa, another extension of the battlefield.
He took a strip of cloth from the desk and wrapped his bleeding hands. Pain coursed through his body, but he sat in silence, his eyes searching the emptiness.
He sank onto the bed. His breath trembled, his body shuddered.
In a whisper that was more plea than thought, he asked:
— How much longer will this last? How much more must I endure…?
No answer came. Only the trembling of his body carried him into uneasy sleep. Even in slumber, his fists remained clenched in pain.
---
Dawn broke, and this time Noa awoke on his own. His muscles screamed with stiffness, his arms felt carved from stone. Yet he did not see torment—he saw a sign. A sign that his body was changing, straining toward strength. His limbs were heavy, unwilling to obey, like stones that refused to be lifted.
He rose slowly and made his way to the mess hall.
---
The soldiers lined up for rations. When it was Noa's turn, his tray held only a hard chunk of bread and a cup of icy water.
He stared.
— This… is it? — he whispered.
The soldier beside him laughed, a cruel spark in his eyes.
— What, were you expecting warm meat and soft bread? This isn't a palace, boy. Here, hunger and hardship are your teachers. Hahaha!
Laughter rippled through the hall. Some whispered, "The prince still hasn't woken."
Noa said nothing. He took the bread, its hardness stinging his sore fingers. He did not shy away from the pain—he consumed it.
Under his breath, he murmured:
— Even from bread and water, I will draw strength. I must live.
His teeth ached as he bit into the stone-like loaf. The icy water burned his throat. Yet to him, these were not punishments—they were lessons.
And though the soldiers laughed under the torchlight, a glimmer burned in Noa's eyes—silent defiance, quiet fury, a hidden spark of power.
---
After breakfast, the soldiers returned to the courtyard. The wind cut like knives, the snow shimmered under the ruthless dawn. Noa still trembled, his body worn from the previous day's trials, but in his heart, something heavier than fatigue burned—unyielding resolve.
The officer's voice thundered from the platform:
— Today, weakness will find no hiding place. Whoever deceives themselves, the ice will consume.
The ranks shouted in unison. Voices from the crowd jeered:
— The little prince will vanish in the snow today!
— He can't even lift a weapon!
Noa turned his gaze away, lips sealed. Their scorn no longer pierced him. Inside, another voice whispered: Mock me. Laugh. But my silence will one day drown out your shouts.
— On the ground! — the officer barked.
— Breathe against the ice. Let it judge your flesh.
The soldiers sprawled onto the snow. Frost bit like a thousand needles. Some leapt up moments later, exhaling white puffs into the air.
Noa shivered violently. His teeth chattered, his toes numb. But he told himself: If the ice consumes me, my spirit will freeze as well. I must survive.
He pressed deeper into the snow. The laughter around him blurred, harsh breaths faded, leaving only the silence of cold.
The officer's gaze fell on him. He studied Noa for a long while—neither pity nor hatred in his eyes. Only fire wrapped in frost: a look that said, Rise. Endure. Fail, and I will forget you.
When the drill ended, lips blue, hands raw and swollen, Noa staggered to his feet—but did not fall.
— Final trial! — the officer thundered. — Pair up. In the water and on the ice, show me who you are.
From across the yard, Garn stepped forward, a smirk curling his lips.
— This time, you'll drown in the cold, pampered boy.
They waded into the pool, black water steaming. Garn plunged in, mocking laughter echoing.
Noa followed. The water struck like knives, piercing bone and crushing breath. His body convulsed, yet inside he whispered:
— I will not break. I will survive, even on ice.
---
When the exercise ended, the soldiers climbed out of the water, wrapping themselves in shimmering mana—glows of crimson, gold, and blue dancing like flames around them. Each shielded themselves, holding back the deadly cold.
Noa stumbled from the water, skin numb, hands trembling. He stared at the others, bewildered.
— What… is this?
The officer barked:
— What are you waiting for? Cloak yourself—or do you intend to fall sick?
Laughter broke out again:
— He can't even weave mana around himself!
— So much for the pampered prince!
The officer stepped closer, voice sharp as steel:
— Picture your body. Envision wrapping it in your inner force, as if sealing yourself in armor. Guide it with your hands. Do it—and the cold will no longer touch you.
Noa whispered, weakly:
— Alright…
He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and imagined his body wrapped in warmth. He waited. But nothing happened.
Opening his eyes, he looked helplessly at the officer.
— Sir… I feel nothing.
The officer paused, then pressed a hand to Noa's chest. His eyes widened, pupils narrowing like a predator's.
He whispered:
— Impossible… You have no mana?
Gasps rippled through the ranks, followed by laughter:
— Hahahahaha!
— He doesn't even have mana!
— Our prince was born without the dragons' gift!
The laughter shook the courtyard.
Noa staggered back, voice trembling:
— W… what did you say, sir?
The officer's gaze was ice:
— Every child of dragons awakens with mana—the inner spark, the soul's trigger. It turns cold to flame, fear to strength. But in you… there is nothing. You are an empty shell.
Noa's heart pounded, vision blurring.
— No… that's impossible. I… I must have…
The soldiers howled with laughter, some doubled over.
— Even this so-called prince… is hollow! Weak! Hahaha!
The officer roared, silencing them instantly:
— Enough! He is manaless. And here, there is only one path left: prove yourself through strength alone.
In Noa's ears, a single word echoed, louder than cold, louder than their mockery:
Manaless… manaless…
Inside, he screamed:
No! This cannot be true! How can I survive without mana? How can I overcome this frozen world?!
For the first time, Noa's heart truly broke: the truth struck like a blade of frost—the mana, the gift given to every child of dragons, was not in him.
Now, dear reader, I leave these questions to you:
— Why was Noa born without mana? Is this fate's cruel jest, or is there a hidden reason yet to be revealed?
— When Slvya called him "different," what did she truly mean?
Hello friends! What do you think? Leave your thoughts.
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