FROST
Chapter 124: The Signal and the Silence

Chapter 124: The Signal and the Silence

Professor Cedric’s gaze did not waver, locked with unwavering intensity on the lone figure now standing atop the signal tower—an elf, tall and regal, yet undeniably menacing in his stillness.

The very same perch where he and Professor Bramble had stood only moments earlier before he attacked them now belonged to a presence that eclipsed the wind itself.

The elf was framed against the storm-dark sky, the iron spires of the tower groaning softly beneath his boots. Snow flurried around him in ghostly spirals, but none dared settle upon his shoulders.

His cloak, woven from deep obsidian threads and lined with faint silver runes that shimmered like starlight, billowed in the harsh wind like a banner of conquest.

It snapped and twisted violently behind him, yet the elf himself stood immovable, as though the world itself turned around him.

His hair—long, dark, and tousled by the relentless northern gale—swept across his sharp, high cheekbones and the slanted tips of his pointed ears.

Strands of it danced across his face, but he made no motion to brush them away. Every line of his posture was deliberate, his back straight, chin slightly lifted, as if surveying not just the professors below, but the entire realm that lay beneath the tower’s shadow.

There was something unnerving about his presence—an ancient stillness wrapped in youthful skin, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Even from the ground, Cedric could feel the air around the elf pulsing with raw, restrained magic, a quiet, rhythmic thrum that unsettled the wind and made the metal of the tower hum in sympathetic resonance.

Professor Bramble shifted beside him, his breath clouding in the frigid air, but Cedric did not blink. His eyes remained fixed on the elf, trying to decipher the intent behind those distant, narrowed eyes.

There was no fear in the elf’s expression—no trace of warmth either. Only the glint of ageless wisdom and the cold precision of one who had studied war, not from books or lectures, but from the bloodied soil of forgotten battlefields.

Cedric felt a deep, instinctual shiver run down his spine—not from the cold, but from the realization that they were no longer observers of a brewing storm. The storm had arrived, and it wore the face of an elf whose name was likely etched in songs too dangerous to sing aloud.

"Judging by your immense mana," the elf said, voice like smooth ice layered with arrogance, "you two are arcane mages. Perhaps... from the Guardian Realm?"

His bow of crystalized ether rested casually on his back, yet his presence felt anything but casual. Every fiber of mana that wrapped around him pulsed with quiet threat.

Professor Bramble shifted, one hand resting lightly near his waist as if prepared to draw a glyph mid-air. His shoulders remained relaxed, but his mana was alert—tense like a coiled spring.

Cedric, standing beside him, offered nothing but silence. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, cold, and calculating. The elf’s lips curled further as the professors refused to answer.

"Mages can come from many places," Cedric finally spoke, voice low and composed, but laced with unmistakable warning. "But elves like yourself..."

His gaze narrowed, cutting through the space between them.

"...are prohibited from entering the human realm without sanctioned passage. Unless, of course, you broke rules."

The elf’s grin widened in appreciation, amused by Cedric’s deduction. "Ah," he snapped his fingers, a soft crack echoing like a breaking icicle. "Good catch. Yeah..."

He crouched slightly, resting his chin on the back of one hand, his elbow planted on his bent knee. He looked perfectly at ease, like a cat toying with a mouse.

"I am, in fact, on a mission..."

Before either professor could move, his gaze darted past them—something cold and sharp flashed in his expression. In that exact moment, Cedric and Bramble’s instincts flared.

They whirled around in unison, their cloaks slicing through the wind, just as three pulses of dense, overwhelming mana appeared behind them—sudden and unannounced.

Three figures stood there now, cloaked entirely in black. Faces hidden in shadows, mana coiled around their bodies like black mist slithering through cracks. They did not speak. They did not need to. Their presence alone was a declaration of war.

The air turned colder, impossibly colder, the city around them unaware of the silent clash of titans about to unfold above their heads.

The elf behind them chuckled and stood tall once more, his arms folded as he surveyed the scene like a master of a stage play.

"We," he said with exaggerated flair, "are on a mission."

His voice dripped with mockery, each syllable laced with condescension.

"Now..." he added, tilting his head with a dangerous smile, "unless you plan on standing in our way, we won’t be forced to send you back to the Guardian Realm..." He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. "...dismantled."

His eyes gleamed with malevolence as the three cloaked figures began to move—just a step, just enough to signal readiness.

Bramble muttered under his breath, activating the first layer of his defensive seal. Cedric’s fingers were already raised, glowing softly with silent sigils.

They were outnumbered. Outflanked. And yet neither professor flinched.

Because what the elf didn’t know was that Guardian Realm professors never walked into the human world without expecting to face darkness.

And they never, ever, came unprepared.

Meanwhile, back in the Guardian Realm, the tension had thickened to an almost suffocating degree. The apprentices had already been waiting for well over half an hour, seated in rigid rows of tiered, semi-circular seating that climbed the interior of the Grand Celestial Auditorium.

Polished marble arches framed the walls, their intricate carvings of past Guardians and celestial glyphs glowing faintly in the subdued light. High above, the domed ceiling—constructed of enchanted glass and starlit crystal—offered a view of the sky beyond.

The clouds there churned in slow, ominous swirls, low and heavy, casting long shadows over the golden floor panels of the stage below. The heavens seemed unsettled, as if echoing the unease festering within the room.

No Guardian had appeared to address them. No announcement had been made. Only the solemn hush of the vast chamber accompanied them, broken occasionally by the creak of a chair, a cleared throat, or the faint, nervous shuffle of boots against stone.

A low breeze whispered through the archways, rustling the crystal-leafed vines that climbed the ivory columns, but even the wind seemed reluctant to linger.

The apprentices had grown accustomed to waiting—training exercises, assessments, missions, lectures—but this was different. There had been no forewarning, no briefing, just a summons delivered by Ezekiel’s wisps and the closing of the great chamber doors behind them.

Mila, always the first to speak when silence grew unbearable, finally cracked under the pressure. "Goddamn it!" she hissed, her voice low but heated, slicing through the stagnant air like a blade. "So, are we supposed to die in intense anxiety now?" Her knee bounced restlessly as she twisted in her seat, her gaze darting toward Adeline, who sat stone-still beside her.

Mila’s fingers fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeve, her nails tapping in a restless rhythm against the embroidery. Her eyes, a tempest of worry and frustration, narrowed. "I have a very bad feeling about this, Adeline," she whispered, not bothering to hide the tremor in her voice. "What if this is about Silvermist again?"

Adeline inhaled slowly through her nose, her eyes fixed on the closed entrance at the far end of the courtyard, as if hoping someone—anyone—might walk through and give them answers. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice carried a quiet weight. "If it’s about her again," she said, her tone edged with resignation, "I won’t be surprised anymore, Mila."

She finally turned her head, meeting Mila’s gaze. There was no panic in Adeline’s eyes—only exhaustion, the kind born not from physical exertion, but from mental and emotional erosion. "We haven’t seen her since the simulation," she said, and the words hung in the air like a verdict. "Sebastian isn’t saying anything. West isn’t saying anything. Ezekiel isn’t saying anything. And now..." She gestured vaguely around them. "Now we’re here. Summoned without explanation."

Mila let out a sharp exhale, then leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her fingers threading through her pink curls. "That simulation was supposed to be just a routine," she muttered. "But I guess... it brought something out of her we’re not supposed to know."

Adelle let out a slow, weary sigh—the kind that seemed to take with it the last fragments of her patience. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her boot tapping a restless rhythm against the polished floor of the Grand Celestial Auditorium.

The silence was beginning to press in on her like a vice. She shifted in her seat, finally deciding she’d had enough of the agonizing stillness and was just about to glance over at Ezekiel, maybe to whisper some sharp remark or even drag an answer from his closed-off expression—when her gaze shifted the wrong way.

Or perhaps the right one.

Her eyes locked—accidentally, involuntarily—with Amethyst.

For a single breath, everything seemed to still. The whispers, the shifting seats, even the soft rustle of the enchanted banners lining the auditorium walls—all of it faded into the background as Adelle met that gaze.

Amethyst’s eyes were utterly blank. Not cold, not angry—just void of anything remotely human. Emotionless, depthless, as if she were not looking at Adelle, but through her, past her, into a space beyond comprehension.

And yet, somehow, that impassivity said more than any outburst ever could. Her body was still, unnaturally so, as if even the subtle rise and fall of breath had chosen to pause in anticipation.

Adelle felt her throat tighten. She blinked, half-hoping it might break the connection, but Amethyst didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just stared. There was no expression on her face, no indication of mood, but Adelle knew better than to be fooled by the surface.

This was Amethyst, after all. She dislikes Silvermist so much that if she didn’t see her in times of trouble, she’d assume right away that it’s Silvermist’s doing again.

And right now, her gaze alone screamed one thing louder than any words ever could—WHERE IS THAT WOMAN?! WHAT DID SHE DO THIS TIME?!

Adelle swallowed. She didn’t need a psychic bond, didn’t need to use her talent, or divine intuition to know what that look meant. If none of the Guardians appeared soon—if this prolonged, inexplicable silence continued even a moment longer—Amethyst would not hesitate to act. She would rise from her seat, step into the center aisle, and demand answers in the most direct and fearless way imaginable.

Finally—after what felt like a small eternity brimming with unanswered questions, restless movements, and unspoken dread—he arrived.

There was no rustle of autumn leaves announcing his presence this time. No gentle cascade of petals drifting down from the ceiling. No sweet scent of lilacs trailing behind him. None of the usual theatrics that so often accompanied East’s arrival and his usual laughs—annoying laughs by the way.

He simply appeared—one blink and he wasn’t there, the next, he stood at the center of the auditorium, precisely beneath the grand skylight, his boots silent against the gold-veined marble.

Gasps caught quietly in a few throats, but no one dared speak. The hush that followed wasn’t forced—it fell naturally, like the air itself had been flattened by his arrival.

East’s presence had always carried a certain brilliance to it, a light-hearted energy that made him feel less like a god and more like the sun after a storm. Students often whispered fondly about how the air seemed to warm when he smiled, how laughter followed him like a second shadow. His robes usually carried a subtle shimmer, and his eyes—sharp as they were—always glimmered with mirth, curiosity, or mischief.

But not today.

Today, the man who stood before them was not the Grandmaster of Moonstone Academy, not the eccentric and beloved Guardian of Spring known for his poetic speeches and impossible riddles.

Today, East stood cloaked in quiet authority, his back straight, his expression unreadable. His robes were darker than usual, a deep, earthen green that mirrored the forests after rain, and they hung heavily from his shoulders like a mantle weighed with purpose.

His eyes—once sparkling with life—were now steeled, distant. Not cold, but distant, as though he had just returned from some place the apprentices could not follow. His usually tousled hair were damp at the tips, as if he’d walked through a storm no one else had seen.

Adelle felt it immediately—the shift. Not in power, no, for East had always radiated that effortlessly. This was something else entirely.

This was restraint.

Contained energy.

A storm, folded neatly behind a composed face.

Even Amethyst, who had remained unmoving the entire time, tilted her head at his entrance, as if reevaluating him—reading something she hadn’t expected.

East let his gaze sweep across the room slowly, deliberately. No smile. No friendly quirk of the brow. Just a steady look that settled briefly on each face before moving on.

When his eyes passed over Ezekiel, the fire mage gave the faintest nod. East returned it—not in greeting, but in silent acknowledgment.

He didn’t speak at first.

He didn’t need to.

The silence surrounding him felt intentional, purposeful. Like he was giving them time to feel the weight of his presence without any of the sugarcoating.

And they did.

Adeline clenched her hands in her lap, and even Mila stopped fidgeting.

East finally spoke, and though his voice was calm, it carried across the chamber like a bell struck in the heart of night.

"Thank you all for waiting."

And just like that, the true meeting had begun.