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A daze takes hold of Juliana as she wakes up next to Arven.
They were sheltered in a breezy inn at the foot of Glaseado—the fireplace charred, the shower door rolled open, their belongings propped and strewn around a single armchair. As the night unravelled, so too had their concept of personal space.
She’s a mound upon his chest. Less a bag of feathers as he imagined, and more a living, breathing rock, unbothered by his stifling heat and intermittent snoring. It’s bright around the curtains as she takes him in. Her lips part to rouse him, before he stirs.
“Whoa.” He opens one eye, then both, startling her as he climbs to a sitting position. “Sorry.”
It feels close. Much too close, he thinks, peeling back his arms. She blinks up at him, embarrassed by her intrusion.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, and climbs out of bed.
Arven frowns. He checks himself for morning breath and rolls out the other side to start the fire. He needs it scorching for the bacon and eggs he’d promised, but the flames choke beneath the chill.
“Got everything?” he asks after breakfast.
“Pokéballs, potions, heals… you’ve got the stuff to make sandwiches?”
“Of course. I’m not about to conquer that mountain on an empty stomach.”
Juliana giggles, and he smiles.
“Anything I can carry?” she asks, sizing up the mountain on his back.
“I’ve got it covered.” He stares then snaps out of the trance with a cough. “Did you, uh, want me to carry something?”
“Nope.”
“Then lead the way.”
She feels it’s a sentiment more than anything else. Arven had barrelled through the titans and shielded her from the monsters of Area Zero. The only reason he wasn’t a champion rank trainer was his disinclination for the Pokémon League. A shame, she thinks. His team is nothing to sneeze at.
“We’ll go together.”
“Together.” He nods affirmatively. “Right behind you, little buddy.”
Juliana deadpans.
As their feet touch the slopes, the weight of the task bears down upon them. Glaseado is a colossus on the horizon, its sky verging on overcast, clouds gathering at its peaks. The weather turned yesterday before they could scale it, erasing any tracks that might’ve led them to the rumoured herba mystica.
Remembering that, they refuse to waste another minute. She races ahead, and he chases after her, steps heavy in the snow.
As they move in, so too does the mountain’s icy breath. She steels herself in the gust, and he flinches, covering his eyes. The path is long and steep, but the wind peters out before it can gather into something worse.
Ignoring that, it’s pleasant, Arven decides when surveying Paldea at the halfway point. They stop to catch their breath under the guise of lunch. Juliana frowns with the odd sense they’re being watched, until Mabosstiff comes out to stretch his legs, earning a head scratch and a corner of her sandwich. She catches Arven looking, and his attention snaps away.
Typical, he thinks. Mabosstiff was on a diet, and he’d made that just for her. He packs up with a begrudging softness in his eyes.
They race the sun as it soars high and dips into the sea. There’s not a whisper of the herba mystica. No footprints, no titans, no exasperated trainers scraping their bags for their last healing items. But the weather holds, their plateau frigid and still. They breathe it in, faces flushed, stealing glances in a silent accord.
Juliana feels a jolt when he extends his arm and hauls her over some rocks. Not a minute later, he gasps when he slides and she catches him with her body.
“Oof, sorry. I didn’t mean to crush you there.”
“You didn’t,” she lies, rubbing her shin.
“You’re only small. Don’t be afraid to push me out of the way if I get up in your business like that.”
She reads him with a raised brow, relenting into a smirk.
“I’m not pushing you.”
“You could,” he says with an infuriating grin. “You’ve got my permission and all.”
“Maybe when we’re on flat ground.”
“Good call, there won’t be any more adventures with my little buddy if I fall off a cliff.”
As they near the top, the sky plunges into night, casting the mountain in a purple shadow. The air grows thin and sharp, burning the tips of their noses. They pass twinkling Cryogonal, which sway and call against the breeze. Bergmite gather around their feet in droves, becoming a trip hazard as they shriek, rearing up on their hind legs.
Juliana falls behind to study them, too guarded to let on how they unsettle her. For as long as they don’t mean to attack, she tolerates their presence. Even if the eyes upon them are too many.
Arven is the first to ascend. There’s sweat in his hairline, his steps sinking as he makes it to the top. Puffing, he thrusts out an arm. Juliana latches on, one hand then both, before she’s lifted to the summit. The sign reads:
—Paldea’s Highest Peak—
One of the Ten Sights of Paldea
He stares at her. Then stares out at the world.
She follows his gaze to the horizon, where the moon outlines the distant earth. It’s calm and impossibly blue. After combing over the sea, the Casseroya basin, and the valley of Medali, her eyes settle on the pale outline of his silvery hair. She forgets the gathering Pokémon. The bite in the breeze that cuts through her coat. Arven breaks from the scenery and looks to her for what comes next.
His presence is a comfort, a slice of home in a place resistant to their efforts. For a moment, she wonders if she might close the gap between them, but her memory of this morning keeps her rooted.
“Sorry we couldn’t find any herba mystica,” she broaches.
“It’s fine,” he breathes. “Trail must’ve gone cold overnight. Kinda weird we haven’t seen anyone since sundown. But there’s gotta be hope, right? Maybe we’ll find something on the northern descent.”
“Still raring to go?”
“With you at my side?” He scoffs, perching a hand on his hip. “Heh, I’m ready for anything.”
Juliana clasps her braid before speaking again.
“The mountain’s nice.”
“Yeah.” His face brightens. “I-If you’re into that. Feels like the kind of place where you could take any problem and leave it behind. Throw it off a cliff, shout it into the abyss! There’s no one here to stop you.”
She doesn’t need to ask what he’d leave behind.
“What about you?” he asks, eyes downturned, scratching the side of his face. “You must’ve been through some stuff too.”
She tries not to remember his mother’s time machine shimmering to life, rumbling like it means to bury them.
“I’m fine.” Her eyes harden. “As long as you’re safe.”
“I’m safe here with you.”
Arven holds her gaze before watching the ground, shoulders slouched, clearing his throat.
It feels like a moment. The kind of moment she could easily ruin.
Her stare captivates him again, and he drags in a breath as her arms wrap around his midsection. There’s no wall this time. Not after all she’s done for him. He closes his arms around her shoulders, nesting a hand in her hair as she listens to his heart thrumming.
To say he doesn’t think of kissing her is a lie. He can sense her, all warm and soft, snow melting on her cheek. Her hands loosen, and he takes the cue to let go, gripping his neck at the back. A rehearsed gesture. A defeated one.
He won’t ruin the moment, either.
“You, uh, ready to head down?”
“Yeah.” She nods, distracted. “Let’s go.”
Juliana leads him to the precipice, where they find their footing on rocks black against the snow. The mountain yawns beneath, long and steep, its borders jagged and fathomless.
She wonders whether Arven’s hope is well placed—or whether it’s the hope of a hot meal and a warm bed calling to him at the end of the hike. Either way, she won’t complain if they find no trainers, titans, or herba mystica. She’s there for the next hunt. And the next one. For as many attempts as he can muster.
They touch upon the first curtain of trees, dark against the grey, shielding them from the moon.
“You think we’ll find a Beartic?”
“Don’t kid about that,” Arven answers, posture stiffening. “Handling a titan one of those? Not something I’ve ever planned on doing.”
“What about a Cetitan?”
“Psh. We could outrun that thing.”
“Maybe you could.”
“Mabosstiff still thinks he’s a lap dog. I could pick you up and run easily if it came down to it.”
She giggles.
“Really? Wanna put that to the test?”
“I can see you’re tryna get a free ride outta me, and the answer’s no unless we’re in danger.”
There’s something tugging on her like a branch. A feeling. A skitter. Her skin crawls. She combs the trees for movement, footsteps dragging as they plough through the snow. She stops, and Arven stops, nearly tripping on a Snorunt as it chirrups and crosses their path at a glacial pace.
Running. Her mind fills with the thought of running.
“What is it?” he asks, blinking.
“I don’t know.”
There’s a concentrated quiet before she starts walking again. He follows slowly, muffling his steps until they’re out of the trees.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “You don’t need some guy rescuing you or anything—”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“I just think we should walk faster. That’s all.”
“Alright.”
She’s scared?
The thought hits him with the weight of an Avalugg. Maybe she isn’t so indestructible, he muses. He follows her at a brisk pace, wondering how many other times she’d marched through the trees and checked over her shoulders on her own.
They clear the next rocky outcrop, and she stumbles, nearly rolling an ankle before trudging on. He skids over the same spot in his haste to stop and inspect the joint.
“I’m fine,” she protests.
“Ugh. You’re not fine! And you’re not spraining anything on my watch.”
“Arven, not now. Let’s move.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
He combs the path behind them with a frown, ears straining to hear what she hears. Without the wet crunching of their shoes, there’s little else. The dull, perpetual roar of the slopes. The snapping of twigs as Frosmoth scatter from branches stripped bare. Her breathing. His heart slowing.
“There’s nothing chasing us,” he says firmly. “Look, you’re probably tired, right? Can’t I carry some stuff?”
“I’m not tired.”
She storms ahead, and he falls in line.
Is she over it, he wonders. Was she wanting to go home—to get out of the cold, away from here, away from him? He can’t blame her. Not when they’ve been attached at the hip for days now. Not when she has a family to get back to.
He huffs, shaking his head, when he hears a voice. A cry. High-pitched and faint. Not human, he senses, but human enough to raise his skin beneath multiple layers of clothing. Juliana’s head snaps in his direction, her heart spiking. She knows he hears it too.
They break into a run. A bleary, adrenaline-fuelled run. The slope loses its shape beneath their feet, the air cutting against their cheeks. The wind gathers then hardens into a sleet that seems by all accounts unnatural.
Her voice quivers, a leap ahead. “Arven?”
“Right behind you!”
She checks to be sure. He’s in her shadow, panting, hair billowing, eyes more white than blue.
“Look out!”
Juliana skids to a halt, and he does the same, snatching her arm and kicking up snow in a heap. She feels the drop-off before she sees it. The panic, the dizziness, the empty air warning her of the gap between them and the bottom of the cliff. The cry rings out again, and the ice thickens, forming a screen of hail that closes in over their tracks.
She looks to Arven, her mind seizing. He tears a Pokéball from his belt.
“Scovillain, keep it busy!”
He throws the ball into the cloud at their backs, flinching from the spray of the weather. Flames flash, a dull orange in the night, before the plant gurgles and blinks back to its owner. The hail stops.
“Quick—” he urges. “Anyone to soften the fall.”
She snaps out of it.
“Koraidon!”
Koraidon bellows as it bursts into the sky, its neck craning to take her in—damp, frazzled, and not herself. She makes the leap onto its back, and Arven follows, forcing a dip in momentum. They sail off the ledge, careening down on its long, feathered tendrils.
It’s almost a relief.
Before her heart can catch up, a beam of ice jets through the air and smashes into Koraidon. It roars, feathers collapsing as its tendrils droop away, and she screams. Arven wraps her in his arms as they enter a free-fall. In two seconds, they thud into the powder below.
Juliana is the first up, rolling out of his arms and staggering to her feet.
“K… Koraidon? Are you okay?”
It trills faintly.
A beat later, Arven dusts himself off. His gaze flickers to the heaving dragon, his heart twisting, before he scans the slope above.
“We’ll get it to a Pokémon Centre,” he insists, grabbing her arm. “But now we need to run!”
“I’m sorry.”
She recalls Koraidon with a knot in her stomach.
As they turn to flee, the wind dies and a fog encases them, turning their fear to bewilderment. Their surroundings are motionless without it. There’s only white. A soft, impenetrable white, and a smothering cold to accompany it. The humanesque cry rattles out from all directions, mournful in its clarity.
Arven chokes as Juliana steps in front, his hand failing to stop her.
“Don’t.”
She ignores him.
An impossibly large Froslass floats into the clearing. It bobs like a snowflake refusing to fall, its eyes lowered, its aura malevolent. Juliana tenses beneath its gaze, capturing its interest briefly, before it turns its head at Arven. He recoils, digging a foot in the snow behind him.
The Froslass blinks once, then twirls, waving its sleeves in a dance. It seems happy.
“Keep running!”
She whirls to face him.
“I’m not leaving without you—”
“Do it,” he snaps. “I’ll catch up with you.”
She seethes, curling her fists as he murmurs into a Pokéball.
“Okay, bud. It’s time we repaid our debt. We can do this, I know we can.”
“You can’t face this thing alone!”
“And I can’t drag you into any more danger!” His glare cuts through the weather. “Let me have this. Let me be the one to save you just this once! Or don’t you trust me to do even that?”
A split second is all it takes, his eyes wild, on the verge of battle, her mouth open in disbelief.
The Froslass cries, and the shroud around them sucks inwards, draining the light from the sky along with it. Shadow and ice form a blanket around Arven, smothering his scream. He reaches for Juliana. She misses him by hairsbreadth.
When the fog clears, she’s back on the mountain. The calm, quiet, motionless mountain.
In the grey, she thought she’d seen him. Thick lashes fused open in terror. A fanged mouth. His hand closed over Mabosstiff’s ball. All of it, gone in a flicker, along with the ghost.
“Arven?”
She’s sprinting. She’s hyperventilating. She’s straining against her aching body, feet jutting into the uneven ground as she chases up the path. She’s never felt so alone.
“Arven!” she screams.
There’s no answer. Only an orange tie folded by the wind in the snow.
Juliana staggers downhill.
Though she’s no longer running, there’s a weight in her chest pulsing with dread. Continuing feels futile. Without Arven, she’s unable to conjure anything even close to a plan. There’s only fear. Fear, failure, and the treacherous path ahead, draining her with each fumbled step.
She catches the lights of a gym in the distance, winking through snow like a mirage, and wonders if it’s real. She has no idea where she is—if she’s on the outskirts of Montenevera or if that’s the red roof of the southeastern Pokémon Centre cropping into view.
People, she thinks.
People, safety, shelter.
The lights switch off, and panic kicks her feet into gear. She tears off through the night, her body aching where it was fired up before. Climbing over a slope, she follows the closest thing to a path and slides to a stop on the gym’s doorstep. She swells with relief when she recognises the fluffy yellow jacket and striped red scarf.
Grusha’s there, back turned, in the midst of locking up. He searches for the puffing.
“You’re out late.”
“Grusha—” she pants. “I need help.”
“Can it wait until the sun’s up? I’m locking up for the night. You’d better get yourself under cover too. Or don’t. If you wanna freeze out here, that’s your choice.”
“My friend’s missing.”
“Hm?” He stops, key mid-turn. “You dragged someone out here at this hour?”
Juliana cracks. The tears squeeze out and she caves into herself, shaking and gripping her hair. Grusha startles, nearly losing his keys to the snow.
“What happened?”
“We were attacked. Somewhere down the mountain. Past some trees.”
“Wait. Your friend… it’s not some guy, is it?”
“He’s not some guy.”
His silence is deafening. He locks the door with a sharp tug and turns back to Juliana, brow dented.
“You’re not from the area,” he says matter-of-factly. “Even so, there’s no excuse for ignorance. No man who values his life comes out here after midnight. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your friend’s gone. For good.”
“Gone?”
“He’s not the first to go missing. There are others. All men. All young and in the prime of their life.” His tone softens, though it’s no less injurious. “He’s not good-looking, is he?”
“He’s… um…”
“Don’t bother. Your face says it all.”
Juliana frowns sharply, expelling the horror from her mind.
“What about you?”
He blinks once, indignant.
“You’ve been safe all this time.”
“I’m not stupid enough to show my face to the ghost of Glaseado.”
“A Froslass—” she corrects. “That’s what attacked us!”
“Figures.”
“So why haven’t you done anything to stop it?”
“The ghost’s not the only danger up here. There’s the weather, the cliffs, the sort of overconfidence that gets people lost. Take your pick.” He frowns beneath the scarf. “Another thing. Froslass have enclaves. I’d look for Ryme if I were you, this really is more her thing.”
Juliana stares back at him, empty but for the screaming in her head. Grusha sighs, showing no other change.
“But you’re here now. You said this just happened, right? There might be time for your friend if we act fast.”
She pauses, sniffing.
“You’ll help me look?”
“He’s dead without me.”
She watches as Grusha removes his scarf—his eyes calcite blue, his lashes like stars against his cheek. His point could not be clearer.
“Ghost’s not interested in you, remember?”
“Th… Thank you.”
“You can thank me once we find him.”
He hands her a flask, which she accepts with a choke. It’s steel, warm to the touch, the red strap around it embossed with a Delibird. She unscrews the top and detects the dry aroma of piping hot tea.
“Warm up,” he instructs, mouth curving downwards. “I can’t depend on someone whose tears are frozen onto their face.”
Juliana takes a swig. It’s bitter, sugarless, and exactly what her body needs as feeling trickles back into her hands. Grusha watches the change sweep through her with a nod.
It’s no medley from Arven, but it’ll do.
The descent is easier on Koraidon’s back.
It’s not the best skier according to Grusha, but it’s their only hope of beating the sun. As they glide towards the outcrop of the attack, Koraidon whimpers and flattens its antennae. Juliana gives it a reassuring stroke. She bites her cheek, reliving the beam that struck it down before she’d surrendered its ball to the nurse.
“It’s alright,” she soothes. “I won’t let it touch you this time.”
Grusha winces in the downward breeze, missing the shield of his scarf. It’s the furthest thing from a leisurely board down the mountain, even if their path is blissfully undisturbed.
“What’s your friend’s name?” he asks.
“Arven.”
“I’ve heard that name before.” He hms, nonchalant. “What does he look like?”
“Blonde and brown hair. Blue eyes. Kinda tall with big shoulders. He’s in the year above me at Naranja.”
“Of course he is.”
Juliana detects a scoff over her shoulder and returns a glare.
“What does that mean?”
“Ugh,” he capitulates, expelling air sharply through his nose. “Iono lent me her graphic novels while I was stuck in hospital. Can’t say I was a fan of the senpai thing. You never heard any of this, by the way.”
“Iono? Right. Never heard of her.”
She glimpses a smile.
They near the trees she’d passed not long ago, their branches stripped bare of Pokémon. Perhaps the Frosmoth had migrated somewhere with more to eat. Or the Snorunt had buried themselves too deep to be tripped on by a web-footed dragon. Either way, the shadows of the woods feel colder than before.
“Mind telling me why you risked his life to come here?”
“It’s… kind of a secret.”
Grusha’s expression withers.
“It’s not a secret date, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t. But as far as dates go, you could do worse. There’s a beauty to the slopes not many can appreciate. It’s quiet out here. Unbothered. Wait—” he adds in the same breath.
They pause on the edge of the forest, near the rocks she’d twisted her feet on. Koraidon’s breath unfurls in white, its eyes searching and head piqued. She listens, too, straining to detect the high pitch between the wind’s howls and the numbing absence of Grusha’s voice. The cry ends, and her skin prickles. It’s faint, but unmistakable.
It’s the ghost of Glaseado Mountain.
“I hear her.”
“Me too,” Juliana breathes.
“Is this where it happened?”
“Just down the slope.” She trembles, nudging Koraidon into gear. “You should know it’s bigger than any Froslass anyone’s ever seen. That’s kind of what brought us here… but it was a mistake. It all happened so fast. Now he’s gone because of me.”
“Focus,” he says, tightening his grip. “No reward comes without a risk.”
He’s right, but she doesn’t answer.
Juliana tenses and flattens her body to Koraidon’s back. Grusha copies, and they go faster, flying over the rocks and soaring down to the ledge where everything had fallen apart. They land breathlessly, the cry gone, the snow untouched and unwrinkled.
She isn’t sure he believes her until he steps off the dragon and scans his surroundings with a frantic edge. Once he’s sure it’s not there, he lets out a sigh. But his mouth never loses the frown. Clear of danger, she crunches around in a circle, stopping where she feels the most unsettled.
It happened here.
Juliana holds out Arven’s tie in front of Koraidon. It’s no Mabosstiff, but it sniffs eagerly, pointing its head left, right, then left again.
“This way,” she breathes.
They climb back on, and it bolts, snuffling until it stops at the foot of a cliff. Its head points up, and Juliana peers after it, catching a rocky outcrop some breakneck distance away. The only signifier is a foothold of white against a black slate. Even then, there’s no entrance, no hole in the mountain that could possibly be conceived as a Pokémon’s home.
Grusha dismounts and presses his temple with a sigh. Over his shoulder, Koraidon shakes itself in a puff of white powder then pops back into its ball.
“Ready?”
She blinks.
“I am.”
“Good.” He shuts his eyes, not caring for the crack in his composure. “I’m not looking forward to what comes next.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I’m the bait.”
Ah, she remembers. His removal of the scarf wasn’t for show. She collects herself, admiring him for the nerve. Arven meant nothing to him, after all.
“What should I do? Hide or get ready to attack?”
“If you attack it outright, we won’t find the enclave,” he says mildly. “Just keep your cool. I’ll need you to find me if things go downhill.” His eyes hone into a glare. “My life’s in your hands, Juliana. Can you handle it?”
“I can,” she answers before she can overthink.
An odd glow emanates beneath his eyes then quickly vanishes.
“Let’s get this over with.”
Grusha pushes back his hair and removes his gloves and coat, draping them over a nearby rock. He must be freezing cold, she thinks, baring himself to the elements like that. Instead she finds herself distracted by him—his pale, lithe beauty, the subtle curve of his back above his hips.
“What were you doing when the ghost found you?”
“Talking, I guess.”
“Then let’s talk.” He takes a deep breath, hands curling around the rock. “What are your plans after graduation?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Leaving it short, aren’t you? I figured you’d be somewhere on the League roster.”
She smiles at the bluntness of his tone.
“I don’t waste time lying to people. But you’re strong enough to make it work. La Primera’s taken an interest in you, which is more than I can say for some of the others. I’ll give you a hint, too. She’s not planning on being here forever.”
“What about you?” she asks, curious.
He scoffs, devoid of emotion.
“I’m not about to open a rink and teach kids how to skate.”
“It’s much easier making them cry, isn’t it?”
“Heh. You’re quite funny, Juliana. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“I could hear it some more.”
Giggling, she notices a change in the breeze. Grusha bristles, his pupils narrowing.
The wail of the Froslass tears through the night, buffeting them with a familiar hail. The ground and air turn white, and it materialises before them in a shroud. It’s as big as she remembers, the trees behind it rendered to shrubs in its midst. She seizes, her body paralysed with fear, anger, and the knowledge of what will happen to Grusha if she fails him, too.
“So you’re the ghost,” he says flatly.
“Be careful! Don’t let your guard down!”
The Froslass dips its head to inspect him, twirling in half-circles as it floats on the breeze. Its piercing eyes don’t leave him. Juliana might as well be invisible.
“Well, what are you waiting for?”
Its songlike cry rips her heart into her throat. She knows what comes next.
The shadows around them twist and distort, stretching out of rocks, mounds, the tiny crevasses left behind by their shoes. Their silhouettes get sucked into the vortex then gather into a dark orb that quivers on the verge of exploding. She snatches Grusha’s gloves to follow the trail once he’s taken, her heart racing beneath the storm.
With the dark to shield him, the corner of Grusha’s lip rises.
“I’m not so easy.”
Scarcely a flash emits from his wrist before Cetitan crashes into the snow, its roar shaking pebbles off the cliff and blowing Juliana’s hair backwards. The shadow ball surges then erupts, spraying shards like bullets in a dome of burning cold.
Before the ice can touch him, Cetitan shoulders the hit and shakes it off with a near inaudible rumble. It answers with a stomping earthquake that heats and cracks the ground beneath the Froslass, spraying upwards in a torrent of hot, scalding dirt. The sound unleashes an avalanche from a distant lower slope.
Cetitan is fast, she thinks. Faster than she remembers, swimming over the terrain like a Finizen in the sea. Her first thought is to tell Arven they’d have more success outrunning a Beartic.
The Froslass screams and wails, staring at Grusha with wounded eyes. It flinches away before it floats to the foothold in the cliff above and phases through the rock. Grusha doesn’t smile, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He’s won.
“Did you see that?”
“The rocks?” she answers, squinting. “I’ve got just the thing. Gardevoir! Teleport!”
There’s a stale air to the grotto, choking her nostrils as they wander inside.
Juliana had felt the cliff face with her hands, prickling the moment they phased through. Grusha had barely lifted an eyebrow. With his coat and gloves pulled firmly on, he strode inside, his Rotom lighting the way cased in an Altaria cloud.
She senses the ground lower as they tread deeper, the walls sheer, cut from rocks and glacial sheets of blue. The dripping within grows louder.
“What’s the plan now?” she whispers.
“We finish it off,” he says at a normal volume.
“And if Arven’s still missing? What do I do then?”
“He’ll be here… if I know anything about Froslass.”
She drops the subject.
The path widens into a cavern with crystalline finish, her mind calling to a memory she quickly buries. In the pause, Grusha’s trepidation becomes apparent. His footsteps slow, his breathing follows. His phone’s flash reaches around the room, illuminating it in rays of blue and white. But there are dark shapes the light refuses to pierce through.
Men, Juliana realises.
Men contorted, gasping, cowering in fear, their arms raised, their mouths open, their eyes resigned. A dozen or so, all frozen solid.
She weaves through them, recognising soft and angular features, chiselled jaws, dainty hands, painted and natural nails, burly and slender frames. Hair long, short, and curly. Eyes clear, dark and staunch. Lips full and small. All unique. All beautiful to behold.
Grusha taps her shoulder, and she squeaks, clutching her heart.
“Blonde, you said?”
She nods.
Before she can form the words to respond, the room shakes, releasing a row of heavy icicles from the ceiling. Grusha yanks her out of the way. As it crashes around them, the Froslass cries and rises up from the floor in the centre of the room, its eyes a hot red that blurs with each movement.
“New plan—” Juliana cuts in, her head spinning. “You distract it. I’ll set them free.”
“You have that many ice heals?”
“I do.” She adores the look of disbelief on his face. “Arven’s insistence.”
“Fine.” He sighs. “I’ll cover you.”
They split at a run.
Grusha isn’t as fast as he’d like to be—hail crashing after him in a barrage before an ice beam almost catches him in front. He winces and ducks behind one unfortunate trainer, and the beam arcs over, freezing in a wave that nearly touches the ceiling.
Just as Juliana thinks it’s got him cornered, his Beartic smashes the ice away with a bluff of air and lunges into a bite. On impact, the Froslass wails and shrinks away. It raises its sleeves, charging an attack that fogs up the cavern.
She hurls a ball in their vicinity.
“Skeledirge, stop it!”
She doesn’t need to issue an order before it shrouds itself in flames, unleashing its own eerie cry. The temperature plummets until fire smacks into the ghost from behind, breaking it of its concentration. Grusha meets her eyes from across the room. She detects relief.
Heals, she reminds herself.
Her bag is full of everything—soda pops, antidotes, potions and ethers. She claws through it until the red bottles catch her eye in one of the looser compartments. Seizing one, she whirls around, squeezing the trigger at the nearest statue.
There’s no time to study who’s behind the ice as it melts away, dripping, cracking, and liquifying into the floor. In its place, a trainer with feathery blue hair falls to his knees and catches his breath. As he looks up, Juliana sharpens into view.
“Can you fight?”
He assesses her, then spots the battle over her shoulder—his awe converting to a mixture of alarm and rage. He hobbles to his feet, casts off his cape, and unclips a Pokéball from his belt.
“Zweilous, go!” he cries hoarsely.
She dashes to the next one, a trainer with spiked auburn hair and hawkish yellow eyes who emerges gasping.
“Talonflame!”
“Flamigo!”
“Weavile!” shouts the next trainer. “Night slash!”
Soon, there’s enough Pokémon to surround the Froslass, who cries and screeches, shaking the cavern with its fury. Its lair is a chorus of dark pulses, high kicks and bursts of flame. Grusha steps out from his cover, leading the captives with the precision they lack from slumber.
“You, heal the party.” He takes out an orb. “And you, follow my lead.”
The room glitters with the aura of terastallization.
Arven, Juliana panics, dodging another wave of ice.
There’s one captive left, one at the centre of the room beneath the Froslass—hunched, swaying, burning with hatred for its hard work undone. She prays it’s him and runs for it. It’s too dangerous to leave him in the crossfire where a blast might shatter him to pieces.
Grusha spots her running and presses his forehead.
“Hold your fire.”
“But we’ve got it on the ropes!”
“I hate repeating myself. Hold it.”
Juliana smacks into the statue, grabbing it to steady herself.
She’s afraid to look up, but she does and covers her mouth. Her stomach twists upon seeing him—the horror and beauty of him. Silent, still, moulded to the will of his captor. He looks so young like this. His cheeks smooth, his hair lifted. Her hands feel like lead as she fumbles around for the spray.
“Don’t worry, Arven” she murmurs, cupping his face with a hand. “I’m getting you out of here.”
The Froslass shrieks, raising every hair on her body.
“I won’t let you shatter, even if I have to carry you.”
She brandishes the spray, coating it over his hair and face, ignoring the cries for her to move as the ghost cloaks itself in a cold, dreadful power. She’s felt it before. The final charge before a great cataclysm blows them all out of the cavern.
Arven’s hands crack. Next, his shoulders. A line splits down his face and the casing around him shatters, raining down his hair in chunks of white. He blinks in a scatter, finding her shoulders, pulling her into a hug that he collapses into.
“Juliana! Little buddy! I can’t believe you found me—”
“Get down!”
She drags him to the floor with all her might as the trainers unleash their attacks at once. The Froslass flails and screeches, swaying at an uneven keel. There’s no fight in it anymore—its eyes half closed, its movement slow.
Arven staggers to his feet, his hair lightly singed from the onslaught. He helps Juliana up with one arm and tosses a ball with the other. He doesn’t bother looking as Mabosstiff smashes into the spirit and crunches it out of existence, its body disappearing beneath each bite.
“You alright?”
“I’ve been better,” Juliana answers, letting him inspect her for injuries.
The trainers cheer in the background, roaring and clapping their hands in victory. Some take the opportunity to rush to the exit. Others stop, hunched over their phones, eyes flooding at the messages that come through. It’s been weeks. Months. For some, over a year.
Grusha treads lightly towards them, the cavern around him a husk. Juliana greets him with a smile.
“You defeated the ghost of Glaseado.”
“Yeah. I’d better text Ryme,” he answers, tapping into his phone with a yawn.
Arven crushes Juliana into another hug once he’s sure he won’t break something. She knits her arms loosely around his neck, tightening her hold once she’s sure it won’t break reality.
“Y… You came back for me.”
“Of course I did. I couldn’t leave this mountain without you.”
“Nobody’s ever done that. Gone looking for me, I mean. Thank you.” He sniffs. “Thanks… for not leaving me behind.”
“You’re welcome.”
It isn’t her voice. He releases her and looks up, glancing between Grusha and Juliana with a searching frown. His tone prickles.
“Who the hell are you?”
“They call me the sub-zero shredder,” Grusha answers, knowing the exact response it’ll invoke.
“I’m gone for a minute and you’re hanging out with some guy who shreds?”
Juliana pinches the bridge of her nose.
Arven cuts the herba mystica before crushing it into a paste drenched with basil, cheese and a delicate oil. At first glance, it appeared to be a dead root in the heart of the cavern. But beneath the kitchen light, its leaves are lustrous and shimmery, splendid like the dark half of the moon. It seems almost a shame to consume them.
Juliana sits at the bench, cradling her head in her hands. They’re back at the inn, walled up in a suite they’d bickered over until the dragon tamer took the bill.
Grusha’s offer was a lounge in the gym until a respectable eight o’clock in the morning, but Arven declined on the basis there was nowhere to cook. She knew it was more to do with the way he folded his arms and scoffed in the gym leader’s general direction, but she kept that to herself.
“He’s not usually like this.”
“He is,” Grusha answered. “You just don’t see it.”
Not one for hugging, he offered a fist bump before flying away on Altaria. It was unceremonious. Just as soon as she’d gotten used to seeing his face, he concealed it once more beneath his scarf. She hoped they might be colleagues someday, but she kept that to herself, too.
“I can’t believe you were frozen.”
“Enough of that.” Arven frowns, sprinkling a dash of salt. “This whole thing was my idea, remember?”
She watches him work with pursed lips.
“Is this what you wanted?”
“I was talking with Clavell.” He pauses before cutting the bread. “He wanted to go about introducing me to some other professors. But honestly? I’d rather test it out myself, especially after all we went through.”
“As long as you’re happy.”
“I am. How many people got a best bud who’ll bring them back from the dead?”
She resists the urge to get up and poke the life back into him.
“You weren’t really dead.”
“Eh, maybe not. But I was gone, and you faced your fears to get me back. You don't do that for someone unless… y’know. They mean a great deal to you.”
Her stomach knots with want as he sets down a plate between them. It’s a freshly made baguette with herba mystica pesto and prosciutto. She takes one half, and he takes the other, waiting with a smile.
“To your good health.”
“And to yours,” she answers before wolfing it down.
The flavour is unique—umami, he decides, like dark olives or seaweed harvested at Relicanth depth.
After that, they linger by the window, watching the slopes pale in the morning sun. Before she can open her mouth to admit how chilly it is, he wraps her in his arms, and she nestles gladly against them. She shuts her eyes, and he rests his chin on her shoulder, breathing all of her in.
“Are we together?” she mumbles, delirious from the lack of sleep.
“Together?” he utters back after a pause, his blush scalding against her skin. “Don’t be stupid. ‘Course we are.”
Ecstasy floods her veins.
Whatever good the mystica is, it’s nothing compared to this.