The Winter Tide Festival ended without letting the Stags go - instead, folks handed out what they’d brought. Mireille stepped into the big crafting room - heat inside came from tamed flames, nothing like the freezing cold outside. Her sphere was in hand. The old Frostmage, already familiar with what Mireille could do, glanced up, surprised by how large it was, also stunned by its strength. “Efficient, sure,” the old stallion said flatly, grabbing the shaky orb with cautious cloven hooves. Still, regular flaking gives stronger spirit essence "Purity is for poets, Elder," Mireille retorted, resting her wings. "Power is for warfare." In the room's far edge, Morgana sorted thick leather bundles, now and then peeking at shimmering crystal bits spread across icy stone slabs. Her eyes stuck to Mireille - quick, sharp movements - one breath caught, sensing cold drive behind holy work. Later on, once the crystals had been sorted and shaping started, Harvey spotted Mireille observing the blacksmiths from behind a safety shield. "Did you see the stag I sparred with?" Harvey asked, his voice still ringing with the joy of the encounter. "It was marvelous! Pure energy." Mireille shrugged, uninterested. "Did you harvest its shards?" "No, sister. I let him go. His work wasn't done yet." "Wasteful," Mireille muttered, though a faint, almost invisible smile played on her lips. She nodded toward the tables. "Look at this. The result of their tireless work. The winter they spread is now captured, controlled." A shape came near, coat dull after hours of meetings. That’s when they saw it - Jasper had arrived. "And I spent three days meticulously carving those beasts, only for them to turn into glorified ice nuggets," Jasper grumbled, though he admired the finished product—a beautifully tempered frost-axe being quenched in magically cooled water. “It paid off, Jasper,” Morgana murmured, moving near, arms full of thick fabric. “Winter had to come - we relied on it. Frost sets the base deep.” Her eyes lingered on the glowing blades, energy pulled straight from the earth’s core. Harvey rested a gentle hoof on his sister's shoulder, shifting things from harsh words to quiet awe. 'It begins with the stags, Mireille - once they move, everything follows.' Cold air, running feet, strange power... it all builds to this.' Mireille stayed close to her gentle but fierce brother, while beside her snapped a sharp-tongued coworker. Around them, cold power pulsed thick in the air, making her inner magic tingle low and steady. Unlike them, she wasn’t amazed - she felt control instead. Still, when she eyed the shimmering blue-violet blades born from antlers she’d tracked down herself, she admitted something quiet: this old way, harsh yet striking, actually worked. Those frozen stags had made it across Veilheim’s edge, so now their spirit would guard the land, waiting till everything started again. Mireille stood there, eyes on the final frost-axe being dipped into water - hisses burst out, curling upward like ghost breath in the cold room. Lights flickered across the blades they’d just made, holding real winter inside them, proof this celebration actually did something solid. The Stags? Loud, full of fire - they weren’t the end result but more like kindling, feeding a power that had been around way longer than anyone remembered. Mireille spoke up, her tone slicing into the relaxed hum of the blacksmiths, then added, time to get ready for what’s coming Harvey gave Jasper a light push using his hoof. "How about another round of practice, young friend?" he said, eyes sparkling with mischief. Jasper snorted, adjusting the intricate frost-runes on his wrist bracers. "Not sparring, Harvey. Testing. The Elder Council wants to see how well these… acquisitions… perform in the field. They’re worried about the encroaching Shadowlands, you know. Wants to see if our winter is strong enough to push them back." Morgana, who had been meticulously polishing a frost-spear with a soft cloth, looked up, her expression serious. "The Shadowlands have been growing bolder. I saw their scouts near Whisperwood last week. They felt… cold, even for them." Mireille stepped away from the arms, her personal drive briefly set aside by common worry. While Veilheim stood on shaky ground, the Shadowlands kept spreading like a stain no one could wash out. “So we’ll make sure our winter hits harder,” she said, tone sharp, cold, unwavering. “Start the tests now - make them taste what trapped seasons can really do.” The next few days felt like messy order. Frost-made weapons - charged with the power of winter stags - went to Veilheim’s best fighters or magic users. Mireille took the biggest axe without hesitation; its grip carved with marks showing strength and rule. Harvey, always looking out for others, picked a shield glowing with steady cold light - one that could guard those at risk. Jasper grabbed frost-daggers - blades glinting like they were alive, moving sharp and quick. Morgana took a frost-bow instead; her hooves rough from stitching hide, the weapon’s string buzzing low under tension. The tests took place out on the open field past the town's shield lines. Old Frostmage was in charge, peering at the gathered fighters with tired but sharp eyes. With a quick tilt of his head, he showed Mireille he noticed what she’d done - no words needed. "The cycle is complete," he announced, his voice amplified by a spell of resonance. "The stags have given their essence. Now, you must prove its worth. Show the Shadowlands that Veilheim’s winter is not to be trifled with." He gestured towards the horizon, where a faint, unnatural darkness seemed to cling to the edges of the world. "The first wave approaches." Just then, the dark got thicker. Out of the dim light came shapes - blurry, wrapped in shadow. These weren't ordinary beings; they slipped out like smoke, bent sideways by unseen forces. Cold followed them, as though summer had been canceled on arrival. Mireille roared, loud and wild - pure fury spilling out. Forward she rushed, weapon flashing like frozen light. A monster stepped in her way, huge with glowing hate-filled eyes. The ice axe slammed down hard, slicing through thick dark flesh. That thing screamed, then melted into stinking black vapor. Harvey flowed forward, smooth as ever - his shield bouncing off dark bolts meant for the others. Meanwhile, Morgana loosed her arrows; they zipped across, striking true, dropping the shadow scouts before they got a chance to regroup. Over there, Jasper darted between fighters, blades flickering like moonlight, trailing cold sparks that scorched the darkness left behind. The fight raged hard - yet the strength of the winter stags surged through Veilheim’s fighters, raw and real. Their weapons hummed with trapped stag-force, icy and alive, driving back the creeping dark. Instead of feeding on fear like before, the shadow beasts shrank from this cold fury sweeping forward. When the final scout melted into darkness, a sour stench hung in the air along with an icy silence. Mireille stayed rooted among the dead bodies, breathing hard. The blade of her axe oozed thick black goo. Yet her stare burned - sharp, cold, full of quiet victory. "See?" she said, looking at Harvey and Jasper, a predatory smile spreading across her face. "This is what power is for. Not for poets, not for philosophy. For victory. The winter tide has been captured, and now, its fury will be unleashed." Harvey, though weary, offered a small, encouraging smile. "And we will wield it to protect Veilheim, sister. Together." Jasper, wiping a smudge of shadow from his cheek, grinned. "Yeah, well, don't forget who keeps the frost sharp, Mireille. Wouldn't want your mighty axe to get dull on those pathetic shadows." Mireille brushed off Jasper’s sarcastic tone, eyes locked on the distant edge of the world. The Shadowlands were coming back - no doubt about it. Still, right now, Veilheim stood secure, its icy heart reinforced, protected because stags gave everything and locals didn’t run from danger. That loop had finally closed. For once, Mireaille sensed a tiny spark - not quite joy, more like sharp contentment - that the strength she took wouldn’t be wasted, but spent guarding the place that raised her. Winter was caged tight. It’d stay put.