The Snowy North's Unyielding Blade

When I was eighteen, I was practicing with a saber in the back courtyard when my childhood sweetheart, Senior Sister, ambushed me with a pinecone.

I flicked my blade up to parry. Furious, she attacked again, and our Black Force Finger and Drizzling Blossom Palm techniques clashed. When she fell, I caught her with one arm.

My younger sister arrived just as I was holding her. Her teasing look had barely faded when the steward suddenly turned deathly pale and whispered to Father that Master had been found gravely wounded and unconscious at the back gate.

The lively birthday banquet in the front hall, with its clinking cups and lively chatter, froze over. In Master's palm, which he struggled to open, lay a golden feather marked with a blood groove. Its gleam seared my eyes.