It's white as paper; everywhere in sight is covered in cold, white snow. Even the path Syraeth walked upon had frozen—so cold it numbed her already-freezing bare feet.
She hugged herself tighter, trembling more when an unusually strong gust of wind blew through the air. The cold clawed at her lungs, making it hard to breathe as she tried to inhale through the icy air.
"Elva'saen khethur adven'mar," Syraeth murmured through her trembling, violet lips, hoping the spell would at least warm her a little. It did—slightly—but the biting chill refused to let go of her bones.
So she repeated the spell again, voice barely above a whisper, as she wandered through the fog-thickened, snow-drenched forest.
For a while, she had forgotten why she was wandering through that snowy forest in a slightly torn dress, with messy, long white hair and bare feet. For a while, she had forgotten what happened just the night before.
Her thoughts were blank, and she seemed out of touch with reality—aimlessly wandering, mindlessly murmuring that warming spell.
Not until, not so far away from her, she saw silhouettes of men approaching. At first, she didn't pay attention—until a familiar voice reached her ears. That's when she snapped back to reality, and her entire being began to remember the reason why she was running.
"Anyone in sight?" A baritone, familiar voice echoed through the air—enough to send her mind spiraling into turmoil.
It was Adante. It had to be. She would never forget the voice of the man responsible for all the shit happening in her life right now—the man who shattered the fragile peace she and her twin sister had worked so hard to preserve for years.
Her hands curled into fists, and as much as rage burned in her chest, she knew she couldn't win against him—not when he had an entire clan at his back.
With no clear direction in mind, her nearly frozen feet turned left, and she ran—stumbling toward the nearest possible place to hide: a thick mound of snow.
Syraeth knelt down and brushed her trembling fingers across the snow, eyes darting toward the approaching figures. She muttered under her breath, "Vareth'mir solentha kirev'an," her voice barely audible through her chattering teeth.
The snow around her shimmered faintly—like ripples across glass—then settled.
Within seconds, her footprints sank and vanished, replaced by untouched snow, as if no one had ever walked there.
"Find her, alive, no matter what, and bring her to me. You can use force, but do not kill her. She's a valuable one—unlike her sister," she heard Adante say as they walked past her hiding spot.
Syraeth bit her tongue—hard enough for it to bleed—but she didn't mind. It was already numb.
She stopped herself from standing and cursing at the man.
A lot of possible spells ran through her mind—ones that could kill Adante or at least hurt him—but she kept her mouth shut.
She was angry, but she was scared.
She didn't want to die. Not in their hands. And definitely not that way.
She didn't want to die giving those people the benefit of the power she held.
Never.
When she was sure they were far enough, she let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Her body collapsed—drained from all the spells she had cast, and weakened further by her already fragile state, both in body and mind.
Syraeth gripped the small necklace hanging from her neck and clutched it tightly. It was all she had left of her sister. She'd managed to grab it before the fire consumed everything.
She didn't want to die—not yet. But if death came for her today, she hoped the snow would simply bury her and keep her grave hidden forever. She wished for the snow to wash away her tainted blood, so that if they ever found her, there would be nothing left for them to use—only a cold, empty corpse. That way, she could at least die in peace.
Watching the snowflakes fall into her eyes, she let out a faint, broken smile as quiet tears slid down the sides of her face.
Syraeth was tired—sad, disappointed, defeated. She couldn't even do anything to avenge her sister, not even survive. All her emotions piled up into something unbearable, and all she could do was cry. Cry it all out, because everything hurt too much.
Her head slumped to the side. Her vision blurred. She was barely breathing—
—when, in the distance, she saw a silhouette.
Syraeth couldn't see who it was, but the silhouette felt familiar—like someone she'd seen before.
She blinked hard and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady her vision. But when she opened them again, the figure had vanished.
And then, a voice echoed in her mind.
"Nyssa Syraeth..."
Her tears stopped. Her brows furrowed. A slow, creeping dread pooled in her chest—an unsettling weight she couldn't name.
"Child of the defiant blood... born with a power that breaks the balance between realms... your life shall be severed."
And then, a ringing started in her ears.
It was deafening—so loud, it felt like her eardrums would burst.
"Nyssa Syraeth Duskavir... Child of defiant blood... Born with a power that breaks the balance between realms... Your life shall be severed..."
The voice echoed again, tightening around her skull like a vice.
The ringing only grew louder, more violent, as the words kept repeating—over and over—scraping against her thoughts like blades.
"Stop..." she whispered weakly, pressing her shaking hands to her ears. "Please... stop..."
A warm liquid began to trickle from her ear—blood, maybe. She didn't care. Her head felt like it was about to split in two.
"Ahh! Stop!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, giving every ounce of energy left in her. And then she broke down—crying harder than she ever had.
Suddenly, everything stilled.
A cold, clammy hand wrapped around hers—and the ringing stopped. The voice went silent.
Syraeth opened her eyes slowly, painfully.
And was met with a face she never wanted to see again.
Her sister.
Or what was left of her.
The burned skin. The empty gaze. The way her mouth twitched as if trying to form words. It was the same face she saw moments before the fire consumed her.
Syraeth trembled as that face leaned in closer. She shut her eyes tight, paralyzed by fear.
Then a voice—low, eerie, and almost inhuman—whispered by her ear.
"It's her."