She may as well grab the other one, too. Sorrow's nothing without Sorrow. By now, Janet's used to how magic answers her here; the ice crackles into place to form those axe-heads, frost gilding its way up her arms to her elbows. She looks across the training yard, narrows her eyes at a tree just outside its bounds, then takes a step forward and cleanly flings one of the axes toward it so that it buries itself in the trunk.