The Heavenly Hero Returns

Chapter 21: The Frost That Does Not Mourn Melting Tears

The Academy Courtyard – A Gathering for the Dead

The sky hung overcast above the academy courtyard, gray and indifferent, mirroring the students standing below. The official memorial service for the fallen had begun.

Candles had been placed in careful rows. A table bore the names of the six lost students, their weapons or personal belongings placed in front of their respective markers.

The students of the elite class stood gathered in small clusters, murmuring in low, restrained voices. Some stood in uncomfortable silence. Others spoke with bitterness—frustration, regret, and lingering blame curling into their words.

Edgar stood apart from them all.

His back was straight, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, his posture so rigid it looked as if he might snap in half if he allowed himself to move.

His rival, Roland, was dead.

______

Edgar – The Hollow Victory

"You'd be dead weight without your magic, Edgar."

Roland had said that to him once, sneering after beating him in a sparring match. It had infuriated him. It had pushed him to fight harder.

It had made him better.

But in the end, Roland was better.

And now, Edgar would never get the chance to prove otherwise.

They had always been equals. Even when one won, the other pushed back harder. That was the way it had always been.

And then, when it mattered most—Roland had fought for him.

Edgar should have been able to hold his ground. He should have been strong enough to not need saving.

But in that moment, Roland had made the choice first.

Roland had stepped in.

Roland had died.

And Edgar had lived.

It should have been a victory.

Instead, it was a defeat that would never be undone.

______

The Frost That Does Not Mourn

Hannelore stood at the edge of the gathering.

She did not approach the candles. She did not kneel before the names of the fallen.

She simply stood there, observing.

She had seen grief before.

She had witnessed noble funerals, ceremonies honoring the dead, the rituals of mourning. She understood the process of it—the way people were expected to act, the way the living carried their loss like an obligation.

But she did not understand the feeling of it.

Her father had told her once: "You must remain cold. Your ice will only stay strong if you do."

"Warmth melts what makes us powerful, Hannelore. Do not let it in."

Her mother had reinforced it. "The colder the mind, the sharper the magic."

It had made sense to her as a child.

It made sense to her now.

And yet—

She looked at Edgar.

He stood near Roland's marker, rigid and silent, his hands curled into trembling fists. His eyes were dry, but his whole body looked as if it were barely holding itself together.

His magic crackled around him—lightning, unstable, sparking just beneath his skin.

Hannelore watched him for a long moment.

What does that feel like?

She knew the answer academically. She could list the physical symptoms of grief. But she had never felt them.

Grief was not something she had ever allowed herself to feel.

She could not afford to.

______

The Prince Who Grimaced

There was one other who had not stayed long at the memorial.

Prince Alistair von Aurelius.

He had stood silently at the beginning of the ceremony, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.

But when the names were read—his lips had tightened. His jaw had clenched.

He had grimaced.

And then, he had turned and left.

No one questioned it. No one whispered behind his back.

Because Alistair had an excuse.

He was the prince. He could not afford grief. He could not afford weakness.

That was simply how it was.

But Hannelore?

She was not a prince. She was not heir to an empire. She had no throne, no duty that required an unshakable mask.

And yet—

She had not grimaced. She had not clenched her jaw.

She had felt nothing.

And the others noticed.

______

Edgar Breaks the Silence

"You're just going to stand there?"

Edgar's voice was sharp, but it wavered at the edges.

Hannelore tilted her head slightly, regarding him. "Yes."

Edgar turned, his expression twisted in something between frustration and disbelief. "That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"Would you like me to say something?" Hannelore asked, tone as even as always.

His jaw clenched. His hands tightened further.

"Roland is dead," Edgar snapped, his voice raw. "He was your classmate. We fought beside him. He died in front of us."

Hannelore regarded him for a long moment before answering. "Yes."

Something in Edgar cracked.

"Is that all you have to say? 'Yes'?" His voice rose. "That's it? You don't care at all?"

Hannelore blinked. She processed his words carefully.

Did she care?

She searched herself for the answer and found—nothing.

Not because she didn't want to.

But because she did not know how.

"I do not understand why my presence here requires an emotional reaction," she said at last.

Edgar looked at her as if she had struck him.

"Because you should care," he hissed. "Because Roland died, and you're standing there like it means nothing."

Hannelore tilted her head slightly.

"Would it change the outcome if I grieved?"

Edgar stared at her, disbelieving.

"Would it bring him back?" she continued.

His breath shuddered. "That's not the point."

Hannelore didn't answer.

Edgar stepped closer. His lightning snapped in the air, raw, unstable.

"How can you be this cold?"

Hannelore stared at him.

And for the first time, she told the truth.

"Because I have to be."

________

The Cold That Protects

Hannelore did not look away from Edgar's expression, from the burning frustration, the helplessness, the grief barely being contained beneath his tightly wound anger.

She could not explain it to him.

She could not explain that if she let herself feel too much, if she let warmth in, then she would lose control. That ice only formed in the absence of heat. That her power—her magic—demanded distance.

She could not tell him that she was afraid.

Because she didn't know if that was even true.

Edgar exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He looked at her like she was something foreign, something unnatural.

"You really don't feel anything," he muttered.

Hannelore hesitated.

"I do not believe I am capable of feeling in the same way you do," she admitted. "I was not raised to."

Edgar looked at her for a long moment, then scoffed, turning away.

"That's pathetic," he muttered under his breath.

For the first time, Hannelore's chest tightened.

She did not know why.

__________

Final Scene: The Memorial Continues Without Her

Hannelore did not stay much longer after that.

The words lingered—not Edgar's grief, but his disappointment.

She told herself that it did not matter. That it did not affect her.

But her magic was colder than usual that night.

And for the first time in a long time, she was not sure if that was a good thing.