FROST
Chapter 64: A Magic Unspoken

Chapter 64: A Magic Unspoken

"Oh, god! Not again," Silvermist groaned through clenched teeth, stumbling back just in time as her doppelganger lunged at her with ruthless precision.

The blade of the black spear sliced through the air with a sound that was almost hungry. It missed her torso by inches, but the wind pressure alone was enough to make her hair whip around her face.

The second strike had nearly impaled her—and that was after the first one had already sent her crashing into a pile of rubble, twisting her ankle at an unnatural angle.

She hadn’t even dodged it, not really. She just hadn’t died.

Now every movement sent lightning bolts of pain up her leg, making it almost impossible to stand, let alone fight. Still, she clawed backward across the cracked ground, dragging her stubborn, useless left leg behind her like a broken doll.

Her double stood just a few paces away, posture perfect, not a single speck of dust on the uniform she’s wearing same as Silvermist. Her eyes were cold and it’s screaming death. She pointed the black spear again, the tip gleaming with malicious glee as if it wanted Silvermist to flinch.

"My next strike will be the third," she said with a grin that made Silvermist’s skin itch. "And I clearly reminded you about what will happen after that strike, so then, are you still not going to use your magic?"

Silvermist didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t want to—she had a hundred things she wanted to say to ask—but because she couldn’t.

Her chest rose and fell too fast, not from fear, but exhaustion. Her ribs throbbed where the stone shards had slammed into her, her arms bruised from shielding her face when the ground exploded on impact.

Even breathing hurt now.

The air crackled slightly around them, heat slowly rising from the broken ground beneath her as the aftermath of their earlier blows lingered like ghosts. In the distance, a part of the Cauldron wall collapsed from delayed damage, the rubble echoing like a countdown.

Silvermist’s hand scraped against something behind her—a piece of stone, sharp and jagged. She clenched her fist around it without thinking.

Her double tilted her head.

"No clever words? No last-minute magic speech? That’s not like me," she teased.

Silvermist narrowed her eyes, the pain momentarily drowned out by the rising fire in her chest.

"No," she rasped. "But it’s exactly like me to wait... until you’re close enough."

Her fingers tightened around the rock fragment, and with what little strength she had left, she pulled her weight to one side—just enough to fake a collapse.

But of course, that was a lie she told herself.

She couldn’t even pretend now. Her body refused to play along. The pain in her ankle screamed louder than her thoughts, and her arms were trembling just from holding herself up.

Her back scraped against the broken floor, dust coating her tongue with every shallow breath. The sting of sweat trickling into her cuts only reminded her how alive—and vulnerable—she still was.

All she wanted was to find a way out of this mess. Any way. But how?

She hadn’t even stepped through an actual exit when she escaped the Cauldron. There had been no door. It just vanished. Just pure luck and a sliver of mercy—the borrowed magic of this very woman now trying to kill her.

Fantastic.

If the magic had been a gift, it had long since expired like right away after using it. If it was a trap, well... it was working. Silvermist swallowed hard.

How the hell am I supposed to beat her?

She could barely move without biting her tongue to stop from crying out. Dodging wasn’t even a reliable option anymore—it was more like tripping in the right direction at the right time. She’d been thinking of plans, but the answers weren’t coming. Not fast enough.

The other her still stood there, watching. Smiling like a cat who already knew where the mouse was hiding.

Do I fight her? Seriously? In this condition? With what—this rock and a limping attitude?

Silvermist’s grip on the stone loosened just a little. She hated this. She hated how hopeless it felt. How her chest burned with every breath and her pride stung just as much as her body.

After she thought she had already proven something to herself—now she can’t even defeat the woman who is claiming to be her. What a shame.

Was this her end? Not in a grand execution or a noble sacrifice—just dragged out and broken down in some weird in-between place she didn’t understand?

Her reflection in flesh tilted her head again, taking a slow step forward, black spear lowering like a guillotine.

Silvermist’s thoughts went quiet.

She wasn’t ready to die. Not like this. Not when she hadn’t even figured out what the hell this version of her wanted. Who even is she? Where did she come from?

Was she a memory? A curse? A projection of everything Silvermist hated about herself wrapped in flesh and vengeance?

Before she could settle on a thought, the woman threw her head back and laughed—a sharp, villainous sound that bounced off the walls like the cackle of a lunatic who had waited way too long for this moment.

"We haven’t even started yet, and you’re already about to die?!"

Silvermist opened her mouth—maybe to bite back with a snarky retort, maybe to scream—but she didn’t get the chance.

In a blink, her double was gone from where she stood—reappearing right in front of her like a nightmare flickering into focus.

Too fast.

Silvermist barely had time to flinch before a backhand struck her clean across the face.

It wasn’t a hit—it was a detonation.

The sound echoed like a thunderclap, and her body was flung across the hall. She didn’t even know where her limbs went; her world blurred into light, sound, and pain. Her back slammed into the stone wall with bone-rattling force, sending cracks spiderwebbing in every direction like the entire wall had just gasped.

Stone dust filled her lungs. Her vision blinked in and out, flickering. The impact left her frozen, stuck between the urge to scream and the inability to even breathe.

For a split second, she just hung there against the wall—body limp, blood dripping from her mouth, eyes barely able to stay open.

And still, her double stood there, unbothered, grinning as if she hadn’t just hurled a version of herself like a sack of grain.

"Oh no," she cooed mockingly, "was that too much? You looked so fragile I got carried away."

Silvermist’s body slid down the cracked wall with a painful scrape. Her legs are no longer cooperating that she dropped face first on the ground.

Silvermist had used the spear twice. But hers was never like this. Never this refined. Never this controlled.

The version she summoned was rough—crystal clear and jagged, like it had been carved out of frozen glass under pressure. Beautiful, yes, but unstable. A weapon born out of nowhere, not precision.

And after that, she did try summoning it secretly, but nothing. No matter how hard she tried, how desperately she reached inside herself, the spear seem to have vanished.

So how could this woman—this twisted, arrogant echo—summon it so effortlessly? Wield it like it belonged to her?

If she really is me, Silvermist thought bitterly, then why does she have all the parts I can’t control?

Silvermist drew a deep, painful breath, her ribs protesting with every inch of air she dragged in. Her legs wobbled beneath her, but she pushed herself up anyway—shaking, bleeding, but not broken. She wouldn’t let herself be.

Seeing her struggle, the woman burst out laughing.

"Hahaha! Pathetic little human," she taunted, voice dripping with venomous glee as she watched Silvermist rise only to stumble again, like a marionette missing half its strings. "Why don’t you just stay down and let me take over your consciousness?"

Silvermist froze.

Consciousness.

That word.

Something about it struck her harder than the stone wall she’d been slammed into. Is that what’s this really about? This woman—this thing—wasn’t just here to hurt her. She was here to become her.

Take her body. Her mind. Everything.

"After all," the woman continued, slowly approaching like a predator closing in on her cornered prey, "you’re just a weak..." Her heels clicked against the stone. "Weak... weak little human."

She came to a halt in front of Silvermist, who now sat on the ground, head bowed, hair veiling her face like a curtain. She looked every bit the defeated soul. Silent. Motionless. Done.

The woman grinned. Her black lips twisted with triumph as she raised her spear above her head, relishing the moment. "Victory is mine—"

But the strike never landed. Her breath hitched. The sound of metal stopping against flesh, but not piercing it, rang out, sharp and final.

Silvermist’s hand had shot up without warning, catching the black crystal spear mid-strike with her bare palm.

Still seated. Still not looking up.

The woman’s voided eyes wobbled in disbelief as she stared at the sight—Silvermist’s fingers clamped around the shaft of her weapon steady and firm.

"What...?" she whispered.

And then, Silvermist lifted her head, slowly—eyes no longer filled with fear or pain. Only fire.

"You talk too much," Silvermist rasped, still gasping, but no longer helpless.

Slowly, she pushed herself up to stand—her fingers still locked tight around the spear’s shaft. Her legs trembled beneath her weight, but her grip never wavered.

She raised her head, blood trickling down her forehead in steady rivulets, trailing over her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. Her gaze locked with the woman’s.

The woman’s expression faltered.

Then twisted. She tried to wrench the spear free, gritting her teeth—but then froze. Right before her eyes, her black crystal spear began to change.

The color dulled, then shimmered, then cracked apart as if shedding a false skin—until the jagged, shadowy weapon was replaced by a clear, prismatic version. Gleaming like it had been carved from starlight.

Silvermist’s spear. It finally heard her pleas.

"You said I am you and you are me," Silvermist muttered, her voice low and steady despite the blood pouring down her face. "But do you know the difference between us?"

The woman hissed, trying once again to rip herself away, but it was too late. The spear no longer answered her. With a growl of frustration, she let go and leapt back, landing in a crouch as she stared in disbelief.

The once-black spear now shimmered in Silvermist’s hand like living ice, glowing faintly with power.

"The difference between you and me..." Silvermist raised her chin, eyes blazing, "...is that I’m real."

She took a step forward, dragging the tip of the spear against the ground, letting it scrape and spark.

"And if you think you’re gonna take over my body and my consciousness," she said, lifting the weapon, blood and sweat mixing on her skin, "then guess what, bitch..."

She pointed the spear straight at her doppelganger. "Over. My. Dead. Sexy. Ass. Body."

"Shit shit shit," Silvermist screamed internally—though it may have leaked into a whisper because someone definitely looked.

She had no idea how she did it.

None.

Zero.

Zilch.

Nada.

And yet here she was, standing like a victorious gremlin after pulling off something vaguely heroic.

She was internally giddy. Practically doing backflips in her brain. So proud of herself she could’ve printed her own certificate and framed it. Even though, realistically, she wasn’t entirely sure what she did.

All she knew was that the knock-off version of her—discount eyeliner and all—was just staring, looking more shocked by Silvermist’s move than Silvermist herself.

Honestly, they were both confused, but at least Silvermist was confused with style.

The other her suddenly scoffed, lips curling into a sinister smile as she laughed—a sound sharp and jagged, Silvermist had to brace herself right away.

"You really want to know the difference between you and me?" she asked, obviously mockery. The air around her pulsed with malicious energy as she twirled her fingers, and just like that, another black spear materialized in her hand, its blade crackling with dark energy, more sinister than she had earlier which was now in Silvermist’s hands.

"It’s like the difference between the one who leads and the one who carries the weight." Her grin widened. Her sharp fangs glinted against the flames around them.

"One clear answer." She slammed the butt of the spear onto the ground, and the earth splintered beneath it like it feared her.

"Intrinsic magic!" she hissed. "In order for someone to enhance mana, they need to have innate magic; otherwise, what else would they amplify? Kill or be killed. Strike or be struck. That’s what molds people with magic. That’s the essence of becoming an apprentice like yourself!" Her voice grew louder, more unhinged, echoing unnaturally through the battlefield. "Deep within our bodies lies the innate will to slaughter anything that stands in our way in order to become more powerful."

She raised the spear, pointing it directly at Silvermist. "You may have powerful magic—but you can’t even hold it without trembling like a leaf in a hurricane! You don’t even have the instincts, no hunger to win, you don’t belong in this world. You are weak. Pathetic. A moth pretending to be a dragon."

Silvermist’s hands balled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. Her lips quivered, not from fear—but from the cruel sting of truth. Everything the other her said... cut deep. Too deep.

She had barely survived back in the Cauldron. And it wasn’t because she was brave or skilled. It was because this woman—this twisted mirror of herself—had lent her mana. It was borrowed strength. Not hers. Not earned.