Fionn reeled back again, commanding another icicle into existence before flinging it towards Olve with the precision of a master archer.

Olve was cocky, but he was certainly not an idiot. Fleet as he may be, he didn't have the time to react to jump out of the way, and doing so would only put him off-balance, all but ensuring his defeat. From this distance, there was only a tiny, negligible chance that Fionn would miss his attack.

That's all Olve needed.

Olve focused, and blinked. His power was now active. He wasn't quite certain himself what it was, be it magical, divine, both or neither, but that didn't matter to him. Olve cared about results, and the results of his power were of dire consequence. When Olve opened his eyes, the world had stopped. The dim colour the stars gave him had faded to grey and the air bore the cold, not of the night nor Fionn's magic, but of sheer nothingness. The stars in the sky faded to black one by one, the trees in front of him crumbled to dust, and the ground gave way to endless darkness beneath him. All that remained in this world of his was himself, the statue of Fionn, and a white line Olve stood upon.

This line stopped directly behind him, as it always does, and stretched in front of him for boundless miles of sprawling white branches. Each branch broke off into two, five, one hundred more, spanning from here to the end of time. This line goes by many names, depending on who you ask. Fate, destiny, luck, chance. Olve called it fortune. By using his power, Olve could choose whichever path he wished reality to follow, provided the path existed in the first place. He looked ahead, scanning the branches for the fate he wanted; the one where Fionn missed.

He found his path, the ninety-seventh path out of two-hundred and twelve. Olve stepped over the threshold, and watched endless myriad timelines crumble from existence. He blinked once more.

The ice once more missed its target. Fionn stared at his hands, utterly perplexed. He had missed shots before, but a non-moving target, just a few yards away?

"I suppose you weren't there for this particular lesson, but let me explain to you what I told Auðr."

Olve walked towards Fionn again, halving the distance between them.

"Fortune is on my side. It always will be."

Olve shut his eyes, and spread his arms wide.

"Try. Hit me with your best shot, I'll be waiting."

Fionn could have broken his teeth from clenching his jaw. He widened his stance, and used his rage to fuel his magic. Ice crawled up his fingers to his wrists, growing in size and power, the air swirled around them, growing ever closer to the biting winds of Fionn's home.

Olve never had any formal training in magic, for that matter, he didn't even know for sure if it would help him. What he did know however, is that magic requires focus, willpower, and clarity of thought, in order for a spell to function as it should. Powerful spells cast without these may result in a miscast, which, in the very best case scenario, will harm the mage in question.

"Are you, perchance, irritated?" Olve questioned, knowing full well what the answer was.

"SHUT IT!" Fionn snapped, confirming the known.

Fionn lurched forth, ready to push a raging blizzard straight into Olve's chest. As he did, Olve subjugated chance with a single blink. Fionn's spell was cast with focus and willpower, but was tainted with bitter anger. Path four-hundred and twenty-six out of two-thousand, seven-hundred and eighty-one; the outcome in which Fionn's spell miscasts.