FROST
Chapter 92: The Frozen Hour

Chapter 92: The Frozen Hour

Professor Bramble cleared his throat, ever so softly, as if that alone could distract from the psychic intensity radiating off East like heat from a sunlit crystal. "Well, if you look at the, ah, broader context—"

"There was no context, Bramble," East cut in, not unkindly, but very much like someone about to grade a test with a red quill dipped in disappointment. "There was an event, and it was forbidden. Contextually speaking, that makes you all... law-breaking spell hooligans."

Professor Cedric remained silent, the tension in his shoulders betraying the calm he tried so desperately to emulate. Each breath he drew felt strained, as though the air in the chamber had grown thick with suspicion.

He knew for a fact that East already knew what they did—IN DETAILS. He knew it would happen, because if he don’t, he’d never become the Grandmaster.

He knew better than to let fear seep into his expression—guilt was a scent the sharp-eyed Guardian could detect with terrifying precision. And yet, despite his efforts, his brows furrowed slightly, a subtle giveaway that did not escape East’s watchful gaze.

Before Professor Cedric could speak, East had already taken a step forward. His presence, calm yet commanding, reverberated like a quiet thunderclap.

His fingers touched the crystal table with a lightness that felt paradoxical, considering the weight it carried. That single movement—silent, intentional—was enough to stir the room. The professors turned in unison, their eyes widening in alarm, as though trying to halt an avalanche with only a whisper.

They knew what was coming.

"With all due respect, Your Highness," Professor Cedric began, his voice measured yet laced with the tremor of conscience. "I hold you in the highest regard—as my senior, as our prince, and as the grandmaster who handpicked each one of us." He bowed his head ever so slightly, the motion sincere, though burdened with what he was about to confess. "For that, I have always been grateful. However..." His words tapered off as he lifted his gaze, now steeled and resolute.

"We made an oath," Cedric continued, each syllable striking like tempered steel. "An oath not merely written in ink, but etched in our very souls. We vowed to trust one another—not as prince and subjects, not as master and servants—but as equals. Have you forgotten what it means to look your brother in the eye without fear of judgment?"

For a moment, the silence was palpable. Then, East blinked. Slowly. And smiled.

But it wasn’t warmth that curved his lips—it was knowledge. A blade hidden behind silk.

"I remember it clearly," East said, his voice low, smooth, almost reverent. "But tell me, Professor Cedric... Do you know the fundamental difference between God and Lucifer, even though they were both beings of immense, unfathomable power?"

He paused—not for effect, but to study Cedric’s face. The prince’s eyes scanned every twitch, every flicker of doubt, the slight tightening at the corners of Cedric’s mouth, the storm gathering behind his composure.

"God is the origin," East said finally. "The breath from which the universe took its first gasp. The architect of order, the source of light. Lucifer, on the other hand, was only a reflection. A creation. A beloved one, yes—but never the equal of the Creator."

His fingers tapped once, gently, against the crystal table. "Lucifer fell not because he was evil, but because he forgot his place. He mistook admiration for parity. He mistook love for permission. And the moment he sought to stand beside God rather than beneath Him... the heavens burned."

Professor Cedric almost choked and yet he stayed solid on his ground. East’s eyes did not waver from him. "So I ask you, old friend—do you speak to me as a brother in arms... or as a star who thinks he can outshine the sun?"

Professor Cedric couldn’t respond. The words caught in his throat like thorns. His jaw clenched tightly, not in defiance—but in the quiet, suffocating realization that something fundamental had just cracked beneath his feet. He had always believed—no, known—that East trusted them. Trusted him, at least.

Among the professors, Cedric was without question the strongest—both in raw magical capability and in tactical intellect. It was he who East often turned to during the most critical moments, he who had stood at the prince’s side on the Crimson Peak, when the very skies bled, during Periwinkle’s betrayal. He had worn that trust like armor, like a mantle he thought unshakable.

But now... now he felt it unraveling.

He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat refused to ease. His eyes flickered down to the table, to the reflection of East’s hand still resting on the crystal surface—calm, poised, merciless. That hand had once rested on his shoulder with camaraderie, had once lifted him up with praise. Now it stood like a silent verdict.

For a fleeting second, Cedric felt like a boy again—young and trembling beneath the judgment of a god he had worshipped all his life. He could feel the weight of every lesson, every battle, every unspoken bond being reevaluated, redefined, and rewritten in real time.

His silence spoke volumes.

And East—ever the prince of poise—heard it all.

"Do you see now?" East’s voice broke the stillness once more, soft, nearly wistful. "Even the strongest among us can forget who holds the pen that writes history. Loyalty is not measured by strength, Cedric. It is measured by remembrance. And the moment we forget our places... the entire hierarchy trembles."

There was no anger in East’s voice—only something colder. A truth so ancient it no longer needed to be enforced with fury. It simply was.

Around them, the other professors remained silent and frozen, unsure whether to intercede or step away. The crystal table between them shimmered faintly, reflecting not just light—but judgment.

And Professor Cedric, for all his power, stood there with fists tight at his sides and a silence roaring in his ears—powerless, not because he lacked magic, but because trust had become a weapon he no longer held.

The silence that followed East’s words was deafening.

Not a soul in the chamber dared to speak. Even the soft rustle of cloaks or shifting feet seemed sacrilegious in the heavy aftermath of what had just transpired. The weight of unspoken truths hung over them all like a storm cloud—dense, crackling, ready to burst.

Then, with a calm that was more terrifying than fury, East took a single step back.

He did not offer a closing remark. He did not offer Cedric—or any of them—the dignity of further words. His silence was the statement. He lifted his hand, and without summoning circles, incantations, or gestures common among even the arcane mages, he simply vanished.

A burst of radiant energy rippled outward with a soundless pulse, like the heartbeat of a star collapsing in on itself—he teleported—executed with such mastery, such raw authority, it left no room for doubt.

It wasn’t convenience—it was control.

It was a declaration.

Only beings of immense magical discipline could teleport without whispered command, without visible tether. And East had just done it in front of every professor—without breaking stride, without a blink.

The crystal table trembled faintly from the residual mana left behind. The walls, carved with old sigils of unity and trust, now felt like prison bars. Cold and oppressive.

All eyes slowly returned to the one who remained motionless at the heart of the blow—Professor Cedric.

He hadn’t moved an inch since East’s departure. His broad frame stood tall, but not by choice. It was as if his bones had locked themselves in place, held together by the sheer effort it took to contain what raged underneath his skin.

The flickering torchlight caught the edge of his cloak—just enough to reveal what the others had missed at first.

His hands.

Tightly curled into fists.

Veins bulging along his forearms. The muscles in his jaw fluttered with restraint. His teeth clenched so hard that a slight tremor ran along the column of his throat. Though his face remained still, unreadable, the truth lay beneath the surface.

He was seething.

Not in rage alone—but something deeper.

Betrayal. Humiliation. Pain.

Professor Cedric had stood today not as a peer—but as a subordinate reminded of his place. A creation. A servant. And everyone had witnessed it.

Professor Aerith stepped forward, her gentle voice barely slicing through the quiet. "Professor Cedric..."

Her tone was soft—compassionate, almost maternal. Her fingers twitched as if wanting to reach out to him. To touch his shoulder. To offer some tether of comfort, some assurance that what just occurred could be soothed away.

But before she could close the distance, a firm hand shot out.

Professor Harry.

His expression was grave, his eyes steady beneath the low shadow of his cloak. He shook his head once, curtly.

"Don’t," he said, barely above a whisper. Professor Aerith sighed. She knew right away that this is something to do with pride.

The way Professor Cedric’s shoulders quivered slightly—not with weakness, but with the monstrous effort it took to not react. The way his lips were pressed together, not to hold back words, but the howl of something primal, something wounded. And under his cloak, despite the thick layers, one could now unmistakably see the twitch of his fingers—like claws aching to unsheathe.

He wasn’t just humiliated. He was unraveling.

Not outwardly. Not yet.

But there was a shift. A fracture in the man they all thought they knew. A glimpse of what pride can birth when left wounded too long in silence. Something had been shaken loose. Something ancient and bitter, long buried beneath years of loyalty and camaraderie.

And now, every professor in the chamber saw it—whether they admitted it aloud or not. Professor Cedric was no longer just East’s chosen. He was a storm waiting for direction.

"You shouldn’t have said it like that, East."

Cloud’s voice pierced the tension the moment East reappeared in the chamber.

He materialized with quiet elegance, the space around him folding inward before releasing him with a pulse of silence and residual Autumn scent.

He stood just a few steps from where Theo and the others were still tending to Silvermist, her still form now resting amidst layers of enchanted linens and protective sigils glowing faintly underneath her skin. Her eyes remained closed, silver lashes unmoving against her pale complexion.

She now almost resembles a woman version of Frost—Frost who is nowhere to be found since the Professors infiltrated his sealed chamber.

East and Cloud checked everything, even the remaining magic strands only Guardians can sense from other Guardians and yet, nothing remained as though Frost was never there.

They had no choice but tried thinking that Frost only sealed himself somewhere the Professors couldn’t reach. At this point, they could never leave the Academy in this fragile moment where everything could break when left unattended.

Everything happened all at once—and while East usually welcomed chaos like an old friend, the thought of the apprentices getting tangled in this mess made a vein on his forehead pop so aggressively, Cloud briefly considered misting it.

Theo’s hands moved rhythmically over Silvermist’s body, casting gentle pulses of stabilizing magic. Though her mana had miraculously leveled—its erratic spikes smoothing into a deceptive calm—his instincts warned him this was no reprieve.

It was the hush before a scream.

"The storm’s not over," he murmured, almost to himself, "it’s holding its breath."

East didn’t respond at first. His gaze turned outward, beyond the chamber, toward the arched crystalline hallways where the shadows of movement flickered—sorcerers in hushed coordination shifting into position, their presence hidden, yet potent. They were the secret blades of the citadel, prepared for an uprising, or worse—a betrayal.

They moved like blood through the veins of the palace. Quiet. Ready.

The Lunar King had already been alerted—though there was little comfort in that. He was far beyond reach, deep within the Titan Realm alongside Tim, engaging in a meeting with ancient powers concerning Cecilion—an entity tangled with the origin of the Three Souls.

A meeting not even East could interrupt.

The other Guardians had long since been dispersed across the human realm. The seasonal cycle had begun to show fractures once again, and those few remaining sorcerers who could even summon a whisper of winter wind were barely managing to keep the balance from tipping.

Frost’s absence had left a void, and though the those sorcerers did their best, their magic thinned like morning mist in the face of growing instability.

They were crumbling.

All of them.

East’s eyes, so often unreadable, finally returned to Cloud. The weight behind them made even the air feel heavier.

"I had no choice," he said softly... Finally, voice lined with something unspoken—guilt, or perhaps resignation. "It had to be done."

Cloud’s expression tensed. His eyes—peculiar and pale, like stormlight filtered through frost—gleamed with quiet exasperation.

"And that’s exactly why we need them," he replied firmly. "The professors. The older generation. We can’t carry this burden alone, East. Not with everything rising, not with these souls thing. We need allies. Not more distrust."

East’s response came with no hesitation.

"At this point," he said, "it is more important than ever to know who our allies truly are—before the tides shift any further."

The words hung there, final and grim. Cloud wanted to argue. To challenge. But he couldn’t.

Because East was right.

Trust, now, was a luxury. And if Cedric—East’s most trusted—had wavered, then who else would follow?

Cloud’s gaze lingered on Silvermist as though he were seeing a ghost—one that refused to fade no matter how many times he blinked.

She lay still as if her body were mimicking the calm of sleep but her mana—her soul—was elsewhere. Her pale skin shimmered faintly under the chamber’s low light, and her silver hair now fanned around her like threads of moonlight spun into expensive silk. Even her eyelashes, delicate and seem to be dusted in frost, seemed to glint with a quiet magic.

"She..." Cloud’s voice cracked, his throat tightening with something between awe and unease. "She looks exactly like Frost."

East’s spine straightened, and his head turned slowly toward Cloud. The words echoed in his mind, louder than they had been spoken. He approached, drawing nearer to Silvermist, and for a moment, he forgot his irritation with Cedric, forgot the rising tension among the professors, forgot the storm of political and magical unrest building in the realms.

Because Cloud was right.

Now that he truly looked—looked with intent rather than concern—East saw it clearly. The resemblance was no longer coincidental. With her hair now bleached into pure silver, her skin like snow-dusted porcelain, and her mana cold but impossibly refined, Silvermist looked like she had been carved from the same elemental tapestry as the Winter Guardian himself. Her features had sharpened subtly in the past few hours, her magic growing colder and older, like it was awakening something ancient inside her.

East’s lips parted slightly, brows furrowing with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Frost, the elusive Guardian of Winter, had been absent far too long. He had left without warning, without trace—claiming the Titan realm called to him for matters of the old world. East had respected his silence, had even defended it. But now... looking at Silvermist...

"Frost..." East whispered, stepping closer to her side, almost like a plea. "Where are you?"

His voice was quieter this time, more tender. "This woman needs you so bad."

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