Days went by. The deer finished what they started. Veilheim looked completely different - buried under piles of snow, locked in thick ice. Their steps grew sluggish; inner energy drained out, spread across the ground instead. This moment belonged to Mireille - hers alone. Mireille - Harvey’s sister - was nothing like him when it came to warmth or ease. Her dark caramel fur caught little glow, even in bright spaces; her speckled tan wings stayed shut, tense, built for quick moves. Driven by sharp-edged intent, she handled holy duties like a hunter closing in. Not the ceremony itself but the surge of stolen strength kept her going. The shed antlers, acting as the heart of winter’s power, were rare yet unstable - so fragile they could vanish if touched wrong. Mireille followed her prey far inside an icy gorge, ripped open by one of the biggest stags. It had tucked itself into a hidden crack - its glassy body fading, huge horns fogging up, then snapping like ice. Mireille skipped the last soft melt. Because she wanted crystals at their purest, strongest form. She moved close slow-like. The deer hardly stirred, its gaze faded, the glow inside it seeping into the ground. It began looking like the frozen statue from before - yet what spark stayed behind felt wild, tense, coiled tight. Waiting for the break to happen felt right, yet Mireille moved at her own pace. “Pardon me for being so restless," she said quietly, her tone oddly dull compared to the howling breeze. Mireille's Arcane touch fits just right for handling wild bursts of energy. Though the ice shards held cold enchantments, her power kept them steady - binding one into the other without breaking a rhythm. She stretched out her horn, while a detailed web of purple light formed. Not some soft magic - this was precise, sharp work. Focusing on the spot where horns join bone, Mireille moved carefully so the whole piece came free clean, instead of snapping apart later. She threw the net, pulling the magic weave tight. Then the still deer jerked hard when purple force locked onto its glassy horn core. A piercing squeal - like ice fighting to break free - rang out across the cliffs. Mireille stiffened, focusing hard. Pushing the shed open was risky - those antlers might burst into tiny icy pieces, turning whatever they hit solid in a flash. The struggle wore her out, yet droplets of icy sweat gathered on her forehead - still, she held tight to her goal. Getting the largest yield was key so she could craft the strongest gear. With one last loud snap, the huge crystal antlers broke away. Now loose from the ice-covered deer, they hung in midair, buzzing with wild energy inside Mireille’s magic trap. Glowing bright, they spilled cold bluish light down into the dark cracks of the gorge. She got control fast, turning the huge icy spikes into a tight ball of frozen power. While doing that, she kept everything under wraps without any mess spreading around. Mireille glanced at the stag, no longer wearing antlers. Just stone now, silent after doing its job, soon to fade into the softening ground. Magic had left it roughed up - maybe even wrong somehow - but it worked out fine. She got what she came for. She slipped the thick, buzzing orb into a tough pocket, her eyes already sizing up how much it was worth. These gems’d become handles for famous blades, designs in unbreakable suits, also core pieces in strong cold-season trinkets - yet she’d grabbed the strongest haul this round. Mireille sucked in a sharp breath, cold biting at her chest. That much power forced out always cost something - most times it left her drained or drawing eyes she didn’t want. She slid her hoof gently over the tough bag, sensing the steady pulse of the packed antler ball inside. Heavy - it held pure cold power, dangerous stuff that’s torn apart armies before. Satisfied it was safe, she triggered her escape spell, zeroing in on a hidden exit point far off. Just half a minute without trouble - that’s all she asked. Yet calm rarely stuck around for folks messing with raw, unpredictable power. Mireille’s twisty neck feathers, shaded dark and spotty over her warm brown coat, snapped upright - something heavy had shifted in the air around the gorge. Not just chill, but a spiteful one - an icy presence that felt intentional, sharp with hate. That ghostly blue glow from lingering ice started fading, drowned out by a thick, dull fog-gray taking over. It was already over, she realized, mad at herself for wanting more. The surge of energy from losing the crystal horns lit up the dark like a flare. Up over the canyon, where cliffs touched the thin strip of cold sky, snow started drifting down in heavy, odd swirls. Not really falling - more like collecting, clumping fast, not forming mist, but taking form - a figure dropping slow, built from ice and raw anger. Mireille brushed off the idea of hiding at Arcane retreat. Moving through space with raw energy like this could rip reality open - turning the fragile crystal ball into dangerous fragments real quick. Either she faced the threat head-on or just bolted on foot. The shape dropping down merged fast. Not made of meat - more like packed rime and dark spite, shaped like a bony horse stretched way too high: a Shadow Rime. Glowing dots of harsh green fire served as its eyes, locked dead-on to the swollen ice-caked bag hanging at Mireille’s side. “The harvest belongs to me, tiny filly," snapped Shadow Rime - its tone rough, brittle, like frost cracking beneath deep stone. No time for talk about who owns what; it craved that thick, frozen strength. "You did the hard push; now I take what’s waiting." Mireille tensed up, her speckled wings snapping open - right away shimmering with a slick purple glow. Not about to back down now; that icy wisp wasn't worth tossing aside everything she'd built. “I don't wanna share," Mireille snapped, yanking a sharp, hooked blade from her sleeve - plain steel, yet packed with glowing marks that burn hot enough to fight certain magic forces. "You missed the easy pickings by showing up now, while still jumping the gun on what comes next." The Shadow Rime stayed silent - then struck. Cold rushed out fast, draining warmth from the air while black frost crawled up the canyon stone. Where Mireille stood, sharp spears of ice burst upward, aiming to stab her legs and pin her down. Mireille moved fast. With a wild spin, she used every odd angle of her body, jumping through the fading glow that clung to her patchy feathered wings. She pulled her delicate wings tight overhead while flipping - her blade wasn’t meant for the shadow fog drifting close, but for something solid - the old icy deer figure without horns cracking apart at her back. The statue didn't move, yet it pulsed with heavy magic. Smacking it right now would break every arcane custom, triggering massive retaliation; still, it could work as one hell of a diversion. Using raw force born from anger, Mireille drove the searing blade into the still deer’s side. The moment it hit, everything changed fast. Yet right away, a massive burst of superheated steam blew out - heat slamming into raw frozen force. This blast wiped out the nearby dark ice entirely. While that happened, a blinding roar surged forward, flooding straight into the Shadow Rime. Mireille bolted forward, using the sudden smoky burst. No chance to enjoy the mess behind her. Speed mattered most - she used the raw confusion to slip away. Up the sharp, frozen hill she climbed, her hooves gripping where they could on stone turning slick as ice melted fast. The power-ball pounded hard against her leg, pushing her to flee before magic backlash hit from what she’d done. She carried something valuable, meant to trade - and no random thief popping up after the explosion would take it from her.