Cornelius pressed himself against the frost-coated wall outside the studio, his breath forming small clouds in the morning air. Through the narrow window, he could see Elsa's workbench. He had positioned himself here before dawn, before the other scholars arrived for their daily rounds. But the angle was wrong. He could see her tools, the ice blocks stacked in the yard beyond, yet when she worked, her hands disappeared from view. He needed height. The old watchtower stood three hundred paces north, abandoned since last winter's storms damaged its foundation. From the upper windows, he would have a clear view of the entire practice yard. He climbed the tower stairs that afternoon, copper calipers weighing down his cloak pocket. The wood groaned under his boots. Through the narrow slit windows, he could see everything—the ice blocks arranged in neat rows, the place where Elsa carved each morning. He set the calipers on the sill and adjusted their angle markings. When she worked tomorrow, he would measure every motion, every degree of her chisel's arc. His rainbow eyebrows caught the light as he leaned forward. The watchtower was perfect. No one came here anymore. From this height, he could finally see how she breathed life into frozen water, how she made dead ice move. He pulled his hood lower and settled onto the floor to wait for morning.

The apprentice arrived at dawn, still wearing her practice apron. Cornelius was descending the watchtower stairs when she stepped into his path. Her hands had faded to pale gray overnight. The pigment stains that once marked her fingers were gone, replaced by colorless skin that looked like old parchment. She held a canvas board against her chest. The painting showed frost crystals in vivid blues and purples at the bottom, but the colors drained upward into stark white. Even as Cornelius watched, another ribbon of cyan bled away, leaving only blank canvas behind. Behind her in the practice yard stood a tall crystal pillar, its surface fractured with rainbow light—pigment dust leaked from cracks in the ice, staining the snow in brilliant streaks. She had built it overnight. A monument to her accusation. Cornelius needed to deflect. He stepped aside, gesturing toward the compound. "The masters should see this. Whatever illness affects you—" But she moved with him, blocking his path again. Her voice came out steady despite her trembling hands. "I saw you at the steam chamber yesterday. Coming out of Dame Crystalline's storage room. And your eyebrows—they have every color that's disappeared from our work." She thrust the dying painting toward him. "Tell me what you know." He could deny everything. Thirty-one years of academic authority against three years of apprenticeship. But she had marked him with the pillar, had built physical proof where others could see it. The rainbow dust trails led directly to the watchtower entrance. Cornelius looked at his reflection in the crystal's fractured surface—his eyebrows blazing with stolen colors, his unblinking stare fixed on the girl who had cornered him with evidence instead of empty questions. He pulled his hood lower and walked past her without answering. She called after him, her voice carrying across the yard, but he had already made his choice. The transference would need to happen tonight, before she convinced anyone else to look closely at the scholar with rainbow eyebrows who never blinked.

Cornelius locked the door to his quarters and pressed his forehead against the cold wood. The apprentice would talk. She had already built the crystal pillar where everyone could see it. By morning, others would follow the rainbow dust trails. They would ask questions he couldn't answer without revealing everything. He grabbed the dark metal chest from beneath his desk and carried it to the old sunrise shed at the compound's edge. Inside, he cleared the floor and drew a pentagram in charcoal across the snow that had drifted through the broken roof. He placed the chest at the center and opened it—eight vials glowed with stolen colors, each one taken from an apprentice's hands. The ritual required all of them poured at once, creating a pool of concentrated pigment that would draw Elsa's gift toward him like water flowing downhill. His hands shook as he arranged the vials in a circle. Voices carried across the yard before he finished. Through the shed's cracked wall, he saw them—a group of students in pointed hats and winter coats, their gray hands visible even at this distance. They stood near the crystal pillar, pointing at the rainbow dust trail that led directly to the shed. One of them shouted something he couldn't hear. They started walking toward him. Cornelius swept the vials back into the chest and locked it. The ritual needed perfect concentration, needed hours he didn't have. He pulled his hood up and slipped out the back of the shed as the students reached the front entrance. Their footsteps crunched in the snow behind him, but he had already decided—he would hide the chest where no one would find it, then wait for another chance. The transference wasn't canceled. It was merely delayed. And when he finally performed it, he would make certain no gray-handed apprentice could interrupt him again.

Cornelius carried the chest into the old mine shaft where the compound's founders had once dug for blue ice. The entrance was half-collapsed, hidden behind drifts of snow that hadn't been disturbed in years. Inside, the air smelled of stone and frost. He set the chest on a shelf carved into the wall and tried to catch his breath. His hands were still shaking. The photograph slipped from his coat pocket and landed face-up in the snow at his feet—his wife and children smiling back at him, the edges creased from years of carrying it everywhere. He had missed his daughter's tenth birthday to present a paper on structural integrity in ice architecture. The paper was rejected. He picked up the photograph and stared at faces he barely recognized anymore, then set it beside the chest. Next to the stolen vials, the happy family looked like evidence from someone else's life. A broken marble statue stood against the far wall, its face cracked down the middle. Snow had collected in the crevices, making the fractures look deliberate, almost beautiful. Cornelius pulled his certification from his bag—Master of Arts, signed by three academy directors who no longer answered his letters. The elegant calligraphy and gold seal caught the dim light filtering through the collapsed entrance. He had spent eight years earning it. Thirty-one years defending it. And now he was hiding in an abandoned mine with stolen pigment and a plan to rob a girl who had done nothing wrong except possess what he wanted. He tried to set the certification beside the photograph, but his hand wouldn't cooperate. The paper fell into the snow. He left it there and walked back toward the entrance, leaving the chest, the photograph, and the certification in the dark. Outside, wind cut across his face. He couldn't finish the ritual—not because of the interruption, but because he had finally seen what he looked like standing next to his own achievements. The transference was still possible. The vials were safe. But when he thought about performing it now, all he could see was that cracked marble face staring back at him from the dark.