Nine years after Catroyn's departure from ice skating, it was only expected that her siblings would dominate the rink and lead the family honour to continue their success as the best in the country. 

Russia had always been one of the many countries that excelled on the ice and though there were hundreds, if not thousands of individuals who contributed to the country's reputation, the Voronkov family were Russia's pride and joy. They were the jewels of the crown that was planted on the king's head. It was expected that those within the family were to transcend through competitions and exceed past their limits.

Especially the children.

As Catroyn had retired, a few years later, the two older sons and twins Alek and Luka had followed their sister's footsteps into resigning and the only champions of the family left was Dmitri, Slava and of course, to join them in the league, the youngest child, Irina. Between the six siblings, their name was branded and decorated with trophies and medals, printed and engraved into plaques and walls in countries they've performed in. Their names were worldwide. 

Irina rested her chin against her palm before her head collapsed against the counter of the rink, "I'm tired." She muttered.

"We haven't even started yet," a red haired teenager chuckled.

"I'm fifteen and still young Mila, there's a reason why you're ranked third in the world."

Mila scoffed and cooed, "And there's a reason why you're already in the World Championships at such a tender age." She adjusted her skates and lifted her sleeves, "Who knows? If you practice hard enough, perhaps you'll just be good enough to surpass Mi Le Maistre. After all, she won the championships when she was only seventeen."

"I'd have to live on the ice to be like her," the teenager scoffed.

"Silence both of you," a gruff and thick Russian accent projected through the rink. A slightly plump yet tall man from the entrance revealed his figure behind the shadows and observed the two skaters on the isolated rink. He raised his barely visible eyebrows in displeasure and crossed his arms, "I assume the others are presumably tardy."

"Viktor and Georgi are probably late and Yuri's most likely hiding in a closet somewhere to avoid practice," Mila shrugged and ruffled the blonde's hair. 

The elderly man tossed his black trench coat against the edge of the rink and clutched his hands, leaning over the gate with a strict glare, "If I cannot trust a person to be barely on time to practice, how do I trust a skater to land with precision and perfection? The answer is you cannot. You cannot even trust that person to step foot on the ice."

Irina rolled her eyes and tied her hair back into a messy bun, "I don't think punctuality will get us first place in the World Championships Yakov."

"It is still a start," he argued.

"We need to remain on top of our level," Irina crossed her arms. "Mi's probably not complaining about this right now." 

Yakov exhaled an exhausting breath, "Both of you are very talented, one of the best students I have ever taught throughout my career," he grunted in his usual stubborn tone. "Unfortunately, both of you are barely close to the stage to Miss Maistre's elite level of skating. Between first and third, second has already fallen off the top of the cliff and is still at base."

Yakov Feltsman was somewhat a peculiar coach, a stern and no nonsense man who was considered old fashioned yet almost philosophical. His lectures were compared to one's of a preacher's speech, enthusiastic and inspirational. Little did his students know that his snarky and stubborn tone hid a secret fatherly pride. Although he was harsh if not insulting at times, like many parents, his only intentions were to guide the youth to the correct and most successful path. 

Irina yawned, "Thanks for the encouragement Coach."

Yakov clapped, the echo of his ageing hands smashing against each other were still able to boom and demand silence from any sound that had dared to utter even a single breath that could be heard.

"You both need to start climbing up the cliff until you can finally see Miss Maistre in the sky."

And with that, practice had commenced.

Indeed Russia was once the finest country that was formally best known for their athletes' ice skating, both elite and novice. However, it was the final year of Catroyn's career that a new era of skating had been abruptly yet gracefully introduced into the world. It was the year where a legend had plastered its mark on skating's names and a soon to be legacy had been blessed among the Earth. Unfortunately, it was not in Russia.

Mi Le Maistre was a part French, part Japanese, twenty six year old female ice skater who had reign through the World Championships for five consecutive years. A woman who never failed to surprise the audience and judges with intense routines and advanced techniques as well as her natural ability to perpetually outshine her opponents. A prodigy at three years of age before transitioning to an icon at twenty six, it was because of her that France had been in an unbreakable position of the top ranks for nine years. 

She was undeniably compared to Viktor Nikiforov for their similarities yet there was something greater that shone onto Mi that captured the world's eyes. 

Irina could vividly remember the previous year's performance in Shanghai. It had seem like the world had stopped its function to pause and watch the pulchritude of Mi's grace and refinement effortlessly drift across the scratched and supposedly shattered surface of the ice. She was a glorious figure to watch and practically an honour to view. Music was mere accompaniment to her display than a lead, it was as if her charm manipulated it to serve her every movement.

But the more Irina observed, her surroundings became more transparent, her logic sharpened and her realistic nature slapped her. The shiver of amazement had transitioned into a raging flame that scorched through her body until it consumed every inch of her confidence that had pulled her through her career.

Mi was better, there was no doubt that she was better and she was the main factor that could potentially abrogate her debut. As a child, Mi was her reason and motivation to endure the strenuous and arduous six hours of practice back then. Yet as her world grew and became more hungry for victory, the will to try her best diminished and instead, her need to maintain her country's honour was at stake. They no longer gently pushed her, they demanded victory.

So after hours of failing her landings, failing to conquer her jumps, listening to the snickering mockery of the late-coming snakes she dared to call rink mates and the occasional silent cussing from Yakov who tried his best to maintain his patience. Irina was evidently on the verge of reaching her physical and mental limit.

She latched her slender fingers on the cool metal railings on the edge of the rink and forcefully swiped the sweat streaming down her face as she softly panted for air. She clenched her hands into a fist and cursed herself for her errors.

"Dammit," she snarled and beat the railing. "Dammit," she repeated. 

"You cannot enter into the championships like this Irina," Yakov scowled. "A skater must have endurance, patience and concentration."

"I am concentrating," Irina raised her voice and slammed her fist against the bars. "Just give me some time to get it right. I'm not my siblings and I'm not Mi."

"I'm not saying you are," Yakov reassured. 

Mila placed her hands on the blonde's shoulder only for it to be aggressively slapped away by the latter. She pulled away and sighed, only the end of training would be enough to soothe her drained mind.

Yet it was not about the dislike of training nor was it the people who witnessed her blunders.

Irina was a mere teenager but she was stepping onto a war zone. A battle to outshine a legend for her debut and it was predicted that she would actually prevail and claim back her country's glory, there was no doubt about it. 

It was expected from a prodigy after all.