The snowfall persisted without reprieve.

Dawnhaven languished silently beneath winter's relentless embrace, streets carpeted in immaculate drifts that muffled sound as effortlessly as they concealed traces of passage. The town itself seemed suspended in a delicate slumber, shrouded in an indifferent silence that neither invited nor repelled. Aside from the occasional guard, shivering at their posts, the thoroughfares remained untouched, an undisturbed canvas awaiting footsteps that rarely came.

And who could blame anyone for that, really? Someone had been killed, and Elara had been unlucky enough to witness the whole thing.

The handmaiden moved through the quiet, basket in hand, her path dictated by necessity rather than desire. The Seluna temple was not far now, and the linen bandages she carried were neatly arranged atop salves meant for frostbite and deep bruises.

There was nothing unusual about this errand.

And yet, everything about her felt misplaced.

Sleep had eluded her, leaving exhaustion etched in the contours of her face, a tension coiling around her shoulders like a serpent. Nonetheless, she appeared composed as was her custom, but the façade was fragile—like a porcelain doll hastily reassembled, its seams yet unsealed.

Snowflakes drifted down, alighting on the pale silver strands of hair escaping the edge of her hood. They dissolved into droplets almost immediately, denied the chance to linger, crystallize, and weave themselves into her presence. Oddly, she felt no sting of cold against her skin because of them; the usual bite of winter seemed dulled this morning. Perhaps she had simply withdrawn from sensation altogether, lost to the numbness that reached beyond the physical.

Or perhaps it was simply that the frost had already reached her heart and done its part.

Elara wondered briefly if it would ever thaw and beat as it used to.

It was an idle curiosity, one she would not afford the luxury of answering. Not now. Not when there were things to be done, duties to be fulfilled. And so, she pushed it aside—buried it beneath the weight of practicality, as she always had.



Turning onto a secluded road—a modest route winding gently toward the temple precinct—Elara’s stride faltered into an uncertain shuffle before halting altogether, her feet suddenly as heavy as stone. Her breath caught in her throat, a tremulous note breaking the rhythm of her breathing. Her pulse began to ascend, not like the rapid gallop of sudden panic, but the slow, sinister crescendo of anxiety stealthily tightening its hold.

Her chest constricted, the invisible fingers of fear wrapping firmly around her heart, squeezing relentlessly. The frigid air she had barely noticed moments prior seemed to thicken and sour, transforming into a smothering shroud. It was as though winter itself conspired against her, snow pressing insistently upon her lungs, suffocating as surely as a merciless hand.

A memory clawed its way to the surface, unwanted. The rush of movement through the snow, her pulse hammering against her ribs, Amaya’s hand in hers, their breaths coming fast and shallow. The feeling of being hunted. Of knowing that if they faltered, even for a moment, they wouldn’t make it.

And somewhere—near or far, real or imagined—she swore she heard footsteps.

Step by step, the world moved past him, his mind singularly focused as he paid little heed to the blanket of snow beneath his feet, the wooden structures gliding by or the shadows that danced about flickering under the watchful gaze of hanging lanterns.

Beneath the endless, starless night, the world appeared pale, with soft snow gently consuming all of Dawnhaven. Every flake and every snowy surface seemed to draw the very sound from the air, creating a rare, complete silence. There was no malice in the crystalline drops, yet they carried the promise that should he ever stop, they would smother him whole, bury him alive, and remove him from existence without remorse.

This of course was not true, but it sure felt that way. 'Would that really be so bad?'

With a sharp exhale, the single-minded man brushed the snow from his shoulders and pressed onward, his silent steps carrying him forward. His breath coiled in the frigid air as the icy wind bit at his flesh. Always moving, always stalking, his cloak swept over the footprints he left behind, erasing any trace of his passage. In this desolate landscape, he was nothing more than a ghost. The world drifted around him, drawing a solitary figure ever closer. The one he had been tracking had finally paused, and the distance between them was quickly vanishing.

He could feel it, like a sixth sense, a taste on the breeze, a tingle along the back of his neck, a palpable tension in the air. Panic. Fear. His quarry had sensed something amiss, perhaps stirred by its own survival instinct or an untapped sense of self-preservation. Whatever the cause, on a subconscious level, it knew of his presence, it knew of its own impending doom.
A satisfied grin cracked across the predator's lips as his fingers closed around his dagger, and in a flash, the remaining distance between them disappeared.

………

In an instant, Vellion drove his dagger between two ribs and straight into the heart of his prey. Death was swift for his victim. A consequence of its wandering around town where it didn't belong. Now, at the end of its life, the frail old fox would serve as nothing more than a meal and a source of valuable fur.

…….

Elsewhere, a firm, gentle hand rested on Elara's shoulder as a second cloak was drawn around her body, adding another layer of protection and warmth. "You're ok," a reassuring voice whispered confidently by her ear.

Initially, Elara scarcely perceived the burgeoning warmth.

Her body had long resigned itself to the insidious numbness seeping deep into her marrow, blurring the boundary between the piercing cold and the sudden mantle of warmth enveloping her. Her muscles, however, responded instinctively—imperceptibly leaning into the offered heat like a flower subtly yearning toward sunlight after prolonged darkness.

Still supporting her with a steady hand on her shoulders, Aliseth repeated his quiet reassurance as he moved to stand before her. His dark eyes took her in, and a flicker of concerned curiosity was quickly replaced by surprise as he realized whom he was aiding.

“It, it's you?” he stammered, struggling to capture her attention as their eyes locked.

"You're ok," he repeated, his tone now laced with a subtle hint of relief, his hands giving her a gentle squeeze—the only acceptable display of affection for one of his status in this abstract situation.

"Elara, was it?"

Aliseth wasn’t clad in his Lunarian guard’s armor, although a sword still rested at his hip. Without his cloak, he wore a simple yet slightly elegant teal tunic paired with dark trousers tucked into tall leather boots. His well-honed torso and arms—sculpted by countless hours of swordplay and shield work—had already begun to gather snow, which settled on his exposed skin without hindrance.

Dark eyes, firm and watchful, studied her with an almost startling intensity. For an instant, Elara did not recognize him. Not truly. Her thoughts were sluggish, tangled in the remnants of panic and the weariness that clung to her like frost.

The attack. Steel flashing. Blood on the snow. And him, standing among them.

A trace of raw honesty colored his voice—perhaps relief, perhaps something deeper. His gaze mirrored her fleeting recognition, though contemplation escaped her in the moment. She felt his hands tighten marginally on her shoulders—a subtle affirmation.

And it steadied her.

Not completely. But enough to diminish the tremor in her breath, enough to remind her that she was not where her mind had tried to take her.

Elara hesitated briefly, words snagged within her throat. It was uncharacteristic for vulnerability to manifest so transparently, yet exhaustion dulled her reflexive concealment. The thoughtful resonance of her name in his voice held her rooted, preventing immediate retreat.

“Yes,” she murmured at last, her voice quieter than she intended.

Her fingers, still clenched at her sides, flexed tentatively, reacquainting themselves with sensation. There was a wariness in the way she regarded him now, but not distrust. Just… uncertainty.

Only then did she fully register the heavy drape of the cloak upon her shoulders, the generous warmth permeating its fibers. He had relinquished it freely, exposing himself to the cold. The revelation stirred an unnamed emotion within her chest.

Elara’s gaze dropped to the snow-dusted folds of the cloak, then back up to him, searching for—what, exactly? An explanation?

But she did not ask. Instead, she exhaled again.

“I—” Her voice faltered, not in hesitation, but in unfamiliarity. In the weight of whatever had just passed between them.

She swallowed, then tried again.

“You shouldn’t have surrendered your cloak,” she managed to say at last, her tone bereft of reproach, merely pragmatic acknowledgment.

Yet, despite her words, she made no effort to relinquish the loaned garment.

A quiet moment hovered delicately between them, snowflakes drifting languidly, suspended in silent witness. Then, softly, she added—almost inaudibly—

“…But thank you.”

Aliseth's breath hung in the air between them as time appeared to freeze around them. The falling of snow seemingly slowed, the silent moment stretching out, his intense gaze ever stripping back her words or lack thereof as his eyes remained locked on hers.

"You're ok." He offered once again, a reassuring finality to his words this time. A promise that he would not say it again, that he need not say it again. He said it like the gentle closure of a completed book. It was all-encompassing, speaking on every level.

He spoke for the panic attack, for his cloak that she wore, the current interaction they shared, and the incident from before. It was reassurance, compassion, forgiveness, trust and truth all rolled into one. And, of course, within the vibrations of those simple, strong words, a hint of soothing psychic magic reverberated through the still air.

Hands slowly releasing her shoulders and sliding down to her elbows. Twisting to stand by her side, he offers out his arm in a gentlemanly fashion.

"Where are you heading?" He enquired, boldly insistent she take it and accept his escort. It left clear on his face his intention and desire to speak with her.

She drew in a breath.

This inhalation unfurled within her more freely than its predecessor. Gradually, subtly, the iron band constricting her chest loosened its merciless grip, the serpentine tension coiled tightly at the base of her spine unravelling thread by delicate thread. It wasn't a dramatic release, merely the faintest lifting of oppressive weight, yet sufficient to keep her anchored, preventing an inward retreat. Just enough resilience seeped back into her bones to sustain her upright stance.

Aliseth had positioned himself at her side now, one arm extended in a gentleman’s gesture, his intent unmistakable.

Elara knew instinctively she ought to decline.

It wasn't pride or protocol urging restraint, but the sheer unfamiliarity of dependency. Of leaning. It was a foreign concept, uncomfortable like an ill-fitting garment. Nevertheless, she found herself inexplicably rooted in place, her resolve wavering slightly beneath the allure of support. Her gaze slipped downward, absorbing the solidity of his outstretched arm. The cloak upon her shoulders retained the subtle imprint of his warmth, a quiet contradiction to her determination of solitary strength.

Her fingers twitched, hovering between refusal and acceptance.

Slowly, cautiously, Elara lifted her hand and rested it with the gentlest touch upon his proffered arm—hesitation still apparent, a subtle tremor betraying her tentative acceptance.

She swallowed.

“I am headed to the temple,” she murmured at last, her voice softer than intended, like a confession spoken into the cold.

Then, a quiet inhale. A decision.

“Shall we?”

He gave a slight nod, waiting patiently until she was ready before beginning to walk. His gaze lingered on her, just beyond the border of what was necessary, his stoic demeanor betraying nothing of the thoughts that stirred behind his eyes. But there seemed to be a thread of relief that she accepted his company.

He moved beside her with practiced grace, close enough to support her if needed, yet careful never to brush against her. He glided through the snow like a dancer, reading her movements and intentions through their touch.

The first few paces were surrendered to the silence of the snow and the bitter chill of the air. Then, at last, he spoke. Aliseth was not a man known for doubt or hesitation, yet now there was a quiet uncertainty in his voice as he searched for the right words.

"You care for her... don't you?" he said, flicking a glance toward Elara. "I mean, it's more than just duty to you. I saw it on your face that night."

He hesitated for a second.

"You... you were very brave. Are very brave." He added softly.
His words drifted into the cold night, carried away by the wind as he tilted his head back, eyes closing for a moment. A faint tension flickered through his body, and a subtle twitch crossed his eyelids.
Then, with a heavy exhale, he opened his eyes and pressed forward, shaking off the weight of a memory that threatened to pull him under.

Once more, he surrendered to the quiet of the barren street. Step by near-silent step, Dawnhaven passed him by — snow, shadows, and forgotten dreams buried beneath the endless white.

Elara had envisioned many inquiries following the onslaught—some blunt and others cloaked in sympathetic kindness. Yet, this particular query had escaped her foresight entirely.

It was a simple question. It was a dangerous question.

Her fingers curled slightly where they rested against his arm. There were a thousand ways to answer—she could dismiss it, evade it, offer a polite deflection and retreat behind duty’s impenetrable walls. It would be the expected course. The safest.

And yet…

Elara’s gaze remained forward, fixed on the path ahead, but her grip betrayed her wavering.

“She is my charge,” she said first. The response of a handmaiden. Of someone who had rehearsed this answer a thousand times over. But the truth, unbidden, rose just behind it.

“She is also—” Elara hesitated, caught in the space between what could be spoken and what must be left unsaid. Her voice, when it came, was quieter than before, as if to name it too clearly would strip it of its sanctuary. “Someone for whom I would willingly surrender my life—not from obligation, but of my own volition.”

A confession in the cold. Nothing grand, nothing embellished.

Elara exhaled slowly as if the admission itself required release.

The second question lingered still. Bravery. She did not feel brave. She felt weary as if she had been holding something together with hands that had long since begun to tremble.

“I don’t know if bravery is the word,” she murmured at last. “I only know that fear does not change what must be done.”

Her lashes lowered before she turned slightly toward him.

“And you?” Her voice bore no harshness, merely quiet contemplation. “You were there as well. You stood and fought when others fell. Would you name yourself brave?”

As Aliseth continued to walk, he listened intently but did not push or pry. He gave space for Elara, for her words, for her emotions and her thoughts, glancing sporadically towards her with soft nods and gentle eyes.

It was only after she returned a question his way that the faintest curl formed in the corner of his lips, admiring her wit to turn his compliment around back at him. It was at least five long steps later before he eventually replied, looking out into the endless white as he spoke.

"Someone once told me, bravery is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to act despite of."

He let that settle in the air around them, inviting a moment's silence as he took a few more steps.

"I could not be brave, because there is nothing I fear."
He replied matter-of-factly, with a sudden deadpan, pompous, arrogance. But it was the playful smirk he threw Elara’s way that gave his ruse away. A lighthearted attempt to lighten the mood. If only a little.

"No." He said more solemnly with a sigh, looking down at his feet buried in the snow.
"I was not brave, nor was I fast enough to act.
My lady...."

The snowfall still persisted without reprieve. (and Elara still has his cloak)

Aliseth stopped dead in his tracks so his next words might be given in earnest. Forcing himself to look her in the eyes as he draws forth the courage and admits his failure with all sincerity.

"My lady, please forgive me. I failed you both. I am dreadfully sorry."

Elara also drew herself to an abrupt standstill, noting the shift in Aliseth’s expression—his eyes, so composed moments ago, now seemed to hold an unspoken burden. She also observed how his breath ghosted into the chill air, laden with a heaviness the frost alone could not justify, as though carrying the quiet lament of someone who had condemned himself long before voicing his regret.

Failure.

She had never been permitted the luxury of lingering on failure. Her family had built their lives upon resilience, adaptability, and the dignity of perseverance emblematic of Lunarian tradition. Mistakes were acknowledged candidly yet swiftly set aside, never permitted to become definitive markers of one's identity. And in the cold silence of Dawnhaven, she saw in Aliseth’s expression something dangerously close to self-condemnation.

And she understood it far too well.

“You are not the only one who wishes things had been different,” she murmured gently, devoid of reproach or dismissiveness. “You believe you failed, and perhaps I do as well.” A pause, brief but significant.

“When I was younger,” she continued, voice thoughtful, distant, “my mother imparted to me that failure was never the absence of success, but rather the absence of understanding. She taught this truth through healing, through magic, through the very essence of life itself. It has been a belief I've tried to believe in.”

Elara exhaled slowly, the warmth of her breath curling into the air before dissolving into the night.

“I have tried to believe in it….” she repeated, softer this time, as though saying it aloud was an affirmation she herself still needed to hear.

She tilted her gaze upward, watching the snowfall in a moment of quiet contemplation. “But belief does not always come easily, does it?” Her lips curved, not quite into a smile, but into something wry—something caught between understanding and resignation. “I do not pretend to know the shape of your grief. Nor would I presume to lessen it. But I do know that if failure alone was what defined us, neither of us would be standing here now.”

She shifted her gaze to him again, earnest intensity softening her features as she studied his countenance. “Tell me,” she said, her voice gentle but unwavering. “If our places had been reversed—if I had been the one to fall, and you had been the one left standing—would you call me a failure?”

Her query was neither accusation nor hollow rhetoric, but rather a sincere need to illuminate a truth she sensed he already held, yet refused himself.

“Because I would not. I would call you what you are—a man who fought, who stood, who did not turn away even when faced with the unbearable.”

Aliseth couldn't help but offer a small smile of appreciation. Elara was perhaps the first and only person who didn't seem to blame him for Abel's death and the whole ordeal. While she couldn't erase his guilt, she definitely managed to ease its burden. It was a scar far from healed, one he would carry for quite some time yet.
The focus she kept redirecting his way left him feeling somewhat uncomfortable and exposed. He wasn’t used to such scrutiny, not like this. With an unspoken request to move forward he reached out to take her arm and, without another word, he guided them back into motion, their steps once again falling into sync with the quiet rhythm of the snowy streets. The cold air curled between them, but the warmth of her presence lingered at his side.

"Tell me, Elara…" he began, glancing sideways at her. "How does one get blessed both with the beauty of youth and the wisdom of age?" He enquired, before allowing a follow-up question to slip from his lips on a softer breath. "You surprise me, you're not what I expected of a handmaiden. Is this your life's choice?"

Another deceptively simple question. And yet, when had she last considered it in earnest?

The cold bit at her skin, though it failed to breach the deeper chill nestled in her chest. For a moment, Elara said nothing, her boots pressing imprints into the pristine snow as they walked. She did not offer him immediate answers, only silence—thoughtful, weighty, the kind that carried far more than its absence of sound implied.

Then, at last, she exhaled.

“Choice is an interesting thing, isn't it?” she murmured. “It implies a moment of true agency. Of standing at a crossroads and selecting a path, knowing—believing—you had the freedom to walk away from the others.”

She turned her gaze forward again, but something distant lurked in her eyes—a reflection of thoughts long buried and only now unearthed.

“I entered the Princess’s service willingly,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But willingness is not the same as choice. I do not regret the path I have walked, but I wonder sometimes… if it was truly my own to walk.”

Her voice softened, not quite wistful, but something akin to it. “ Aliseth, isn’t it? You surprise me as well, ” she admitted, tilting her head slightly. “I did not expect you to ask such a thing.”

Nor the sincere compliment he had offered.

Elara had meant to continue, to let the words roll forth without pause—but then his earlier remark caught up to her, and something in her composure wavered.

Her steps faltered for a moment, almost imperceptible, but she knew he would notice. A warmth crept into her cheeks, subtle but present, a quiet betrayal against the otherwise unshaken coolness of her expression. She was no stranger to being called beautiful; it had followed her in whispered admiration and courtly pleasantries alike. And yet, she had never quite known what to do with it.

Aliseth's remark was distinctly different. No artifice laced his voice, no hollow flattery designed solely to charm. It was stated plainly, simply, as a truth irrefutable. Perhaps that honesty was precisely what unsettled her—the genuine nature of his observation demanded nothing in return.

“B-but… what did you expect of me?” Her fingers tightened briefly, subtly flexing in an effort to disperse the warmth suffusing her cheeks. “In my capacity as a handmaiden, that is.”

As Elara spoke, Aliseth nodded ever so slightly with contemplative understanding. Also politely affirming and acknowledging his name.
As with nearly every time Elara finished speaking, Aliseth's lips pressed firmly in what could only be the beginning of an involuntary smile. He was finding it an ongoing effect of her presence that was growing harder and harder to deny.

That same smile flourished a little more, like a warmth against the cold, as he effortlessly adjusted to her faltering step and conveniently looked away as her pale cheeks began to flush with a hint of red. In his diverting glance, his eyes happened upon an old torn spider web glimmering in the curve of a young tree.

"People always refer to choice like a fork in the road." He said musingly. "But I find it to be more like that web." Pressing his lips together he let out a soft 'hmm' as he searched for a better explanation. "Actually more like walking on thin ice." His voice filled with certainty at his new analogy as he looked down to his feet in the snow as if he could see it now.

"With every new step we take, no matter how lightly or small, we cause cracks to splinter out from our touch. Each of these is a new set of choices or paths, each filled with untaken possibilities. Often, we don't even see the many choices that surround us... and even more often" his words slowed as the air felt heavier on his tongue and his tone dropped ever so slightly.

"We are blind to the paths that lead us to the thinner ice, the paths of change, the uncomfortable choices that hide the greater rewards because deep-down we all fear the risk."

He wasn't sure when it happened, but while he was speaking, lost to thoughts, his gaze had once again returned to and locked upon her face, having drifted down from those oceanic orbs, along her petite nose and now resting on her soft alluring lips...

Aliseth quickly cleared his throat and regained his composure as he turned away, standing tall once again.

"Sorry m'lady, I deviate from your question. I'm not sure exactly what I expected, but it certainly wasn't you." His words, although mysterious, held an unmistakable compliment hidden within, said with a soft admiration.

She ought to have brushed past the words—ought to have turned the conversation elsewhere. And yet, without glancing at him, Elara found herself wondering… what exactly had he expected? What had he seen in her before?

What had changed?

And why, against her better judgment, had these words nearly slipped from her lips?

But another thought surfaced before she could bury it:



Elara had left before answering. She had stepped away, pulled herself back into the silence because she hadn’t known what to say—because she had not wanted to be seen. Not like that. Not as something fragile, something to be cared for. And now, here was Aliseth, staring at her in a way that felt entirely too familiar.

Amaya's scrutiny still burned within her memories, coupled with Flynn’s words that had encroached upon spaces she had once confidently occupied. Amaya had permitted it, had yielded ground willingly, and now—was Aliseth similarly reshaping her identity, encasing her within confines she had neither created nor consented to?

Elara compelled herself forward, her fingers shifting against the cloak's fabric in rejection of these silent implications.

“You mistake me, Sir Aliseth,” she might have said, her tone poised, carrying just the faintest hint of distance to make it all seem like nothing at all.

But she held her tongue.

Instead, she walked on, gazing forward, as though the moment had already passed.

“We are almost there,” Elara said after some time, her voice restored to what it was before.

Although near imperceivable, Aliseth felt it, more than he could physically rationalize, the mood had changed. A new regret layering itself upon the many he already wore.

He gave a pleasant nod, its meaning obscure, as in his mind he saw the many choices, the many possible words, splintering off from his every step.

In the end, he followed a familiar path and remained silent. Allowing his thoughts to focus on the road ahead as a tension slowly began to infiltrate his muscles.

Slowly the town started to fade away behind them as they reached an all too familiar stretch of road leading to the temple. A single long path encroached on either side by a shadowed forest where even the sporadic lantern light dared not tread. It was hours later but the air still had an unnatural feel to it, as if tainted by the lingering effect of both death and magic.

Despite the eerie silence, Aliseth felt as though he could still hear the screams and commotion echoing off the nearby trees.

The snow had long covered the blood and footsteps but in his mind, he saw through the soft coating and bore witness to the carnage that was no more.

He did his best to keep stride, to be a pillar of support for Elara, but also he did not hide from his face the myriad of emotions that plagued him.

Then he saw it, or what remained. The ice sculpture, its jagged edges dulled, a soft snow covering its wilted form, but there it was, standing like a grave marker, a stark reminder.

“It hasn’t melted.”

The words emerged involuntarily, slipping softly past Elara’s lips without her conscious bidding.

For a moment, she wondered if she had spoken aloud at all, the snowfall’s hush swallowing the syllables whole. But no—the tension that coiled subtly in Aliseth’s stance confirmed he had heard her.

And yet, the fact remained.

Why hasn't it melted?

Why hasn’t time erased this, as it erases all things?

Intellectually, Elara understood the rational explanation. Merely a day had elapsed since the incident, and the air retained its bitter edge, the frost relentless in its hold upon the land. Practically, logically, the frozen figure had no cause to have diminished, no reason for her anticipation of its disappearance.

But logic held little sway over hope.

It was magic. A thing summoned into existence, shaped by will and intent. Not natural. Not real. And if it wasn’t real, then surely it should have faded, dissipated like a half-remembered dream upon waking. It should not still be here, standing in defiant, crystalline silence.

It should not retain power over them still.

She understood that time eroded all things eventually, smoothing and washing away memory like sediment. Yet, she still detested that this remained defiantly intact.

Because, with it, so did the weight of that moment.

She felt, with acute certainty, that Aliseth carried the memory too—probably in the exact visceral manner she did, etched deeply into sinew and breath, woven into the fabric of his presence.

A thought flickered at the edge of her mind: What does he see when he looks at it?

Elara’s fingers flexed around the handle of her basket. Then, without turning, she spoke again.

“Strange, isn’t it?”

The ensuing silence stretched, one heartbeat, then another, elongating the interval until it bordered on discomfort.

Finally, Elara shifted, turning just enough to cast a sidelong glance at Aliseth, waiting.

"I know it's white, but I see blood."

He replied softly. His voice only audible because of the sheer silence that surrounded them. His breath was heavy as he stared at the unnatural monument that shouldn't exist. Its presence was an abomination, yet it was also a display of the princess's power.

"She did this."

He added without explanation, eyes still glued to the structure.

"I see a body without a head, I see the ice breaking beneath my feet, I see futures changing and being taken away. I feel the cold of that magic permeating my very bones."

"I see all the 'choices' not taken."

He walks forward slowly through the snow and tentatively raises an outstretched hand towards the ice.

"What about you, what do you see?"

He asked in return, before adding another question.

"It is a personal question and you do not have to answer. What is your greatest regret?"

His fingers slipped through the cover of snow as his palm pressed against the cold smooth ice. His eyes portray thoughts that were a million miles away, extending beyond the mere recent couple of days. Only Elara's voice would draw him back to the present.

She did not immediately answer. Instead, she followed the movement of his outstretched hand, watching as his fingers pressed against the ice’s smooth surface.

What did she see?

“I see what remains,” she murmured, her gaze drifting across the ice’s surface. “I see the questions left unanswered. The things we were too late to change.” A quiet exhale, barely there. “I see permanence, where there should be none.”

She turned her head just enough to glance at him. His hand still rested against the ice, the distant weight in his eyes betraying the question that lingered between them.

An intensely personal question.

Her greatest regret.

Elara had never fully voiced it—never granted it the permanence of open acknowledgment, least of all to anyone who wasn’t Amaya. She could have easily deflected, smoothly diverting his attention as she had before. And yet...

“My mother lay dying,” she began, her voice subdued. “We had all been summoned to her bedside, each of us aware that the end was imminent.”

She paused—not from uncertainty, but to allow the gravity of remembrance its rightful place.

“I found myself paralyzed outside the door,” she admitted. “Fearful of witnessing her decline, fearful of confronting a change I knew would fracture something fundamental within me.” Her lips pressed together, holding back the smallest tremor of sorrow.

“I told myself I needed a moment. Just one. I remained outside the door, listening to my father’s voice, to the small talking of those who were already there. I believed—” She inhaled deeply, “—I genuinely believed that time would grant me mercy.”

Her lashes lowered gently, shielding her gaze as it settled pensively upon her fingers lightly clasping the basket's chilled handle.

“But death offers no patience for the timid or hesitant. I learned that the hard way. And grew from it.”

An extended silence stretched gently between them, laden with a quiet acceptance she had borne privately for years, never entirely relinquished nor fully expressed.

“I was too late.”

Aliseth was taken aback by her reply, he was unprepared for such vulnerability and raw honesty. He felt the full weight of every word, every pause, every breath. The implication of her truth was unmistakable. With his hand still resting on the sculpture, he turned to face the handmaiden, giving her his undivided attention, hanging on to every word. That single moment had undoubtedly shaped her core, defining the woman she had become. He found himself at a loss for how to respond to such a monumental truth. It wasn’t something to fix or compete with, nor was it meant to draw attention or elicit sympathy, it was simply a fact of her life, as heavy and painful as it was, it was a glimpse into her soul.

Instead of trying to fill the silence, he honored the weight of the moment and echoed her own words: "Death offers no patience."
Stepping away from the frozen sculpture, he left his handprint behind. The ice glistening and slick in the shape where it had melted to his touch. Clenching and unclenching his cold fingers he watched the warmth come back into them before looking up at the sky.

"Death offers no patience,"
he muttered once more as if those words were tipping some invisible scales in his mind. Suddenly, a new question spills from his lips.

"Do you recall what it was like to gaze upon the rising sun? To witness the birth of a new day, its golden rays reflecting off dreamy white clouds against a brilliant sea of blue? I remember the idea, the concept, the words... but I can no longer envision those gorgeous hues of pink and blue in my mind."

Unable to conjure that image, greeted only by a blanket of snow and a backdrop of darkness, he turned his gaze back to Elara and stepped closer.
"Only now, I regret not spending enough time appreciating them while… well" His words trailed off, hanging in the chill air, not needing to be said. Then his thoughts resumed, heavy with memories and regret: "I remember when oceans were blue, a thing I never imagined could be taken for granted." He let out a sigh. His thoughts slowly leading to a conclusion but getting stuck along the way.

"I have fought my whole life, Elara. I'm tired of fighting. I... I think I just want to enjoy what I have left while I still can." He hesitated, as if an apology hovered on his lips, before speaking again: "They say she can fix this—that it is prophecy. If so, then why hasn't she? Why delay, dragging it out? People are suffering and dying... and for what? I will keep my word until my last breath, but... Elara, who am I serving? Our savior or...?" His voice failed to conceal his inner conflict. He was torn, divided—questioning those he served was not a quality of those in his line of duty, and he knew it was unfair to burden Elara, who was already suffering in her own way. Yet, he had to know, who it was that he, much like Elara, had forfeited their lives in service to.

“Is she worth it? Does she deserve it… All those paths not taken, the choices…
All the choices never made?” There was a hint of sadness in his eyes as he looked upon her now.

Elara had always perceived people like Aliseth as figures shaped irrevocably by conviction and duty— warriors whose strength, valour, and very essence were pledged unwaveringly to an ideal surpassing personal ambition. Yet now, he stood before her, voice tinged with vulnerability, questioning the merit of their collective sacrifices.

A man who had spent a lifetime fighting was asking if it had been for nothing.

A query neither posed lightly nor answered easily.

“She is no deity, Aliseth. Nor has she ever aspired to be one,” Elara responded calmly, her voice clear and devoid of misplaced reverence. Her gaze ascended gently, meeting his, seeking meaning within the solemn depths of his troubled eyes. “Nevertheless, she remains our beacon of hope. Both of them do.”

Yet, was hope alone sufficient?

Could it possibly sustain them?

Slowly, her attention returned to the sculpture before them—an unmelted relic of frozen anguish. The persistent preservation of the past was undeniable, resistant to forgetfulness or release. How many such reminders would they be forced to confront before the final chapter was etched into history’s cold annals?

“I offer her my trust,” Elara continued quietly. “Not from blind obedience, nor obligation dictated by prophecy, but from witnessing the sorrow she carries—the torment embedded in her heart from the immense burden placed upon her.”

She paused, throat tightening with restrained emotion.

“You wonder if she merits such loyalty?” she queried rhetorically. “That answer eludes me. But consider this—never once has she demanded our lives, yet we willingly give them.”

Another contemplative pause stretched gently between them.

“If my faith does not rest with her, Aliseth, where else should it reside?”

'In yourself.' was his reactive thought, but the words never made it past his lips.

"She might not demand our lives, but she holds them all in balance." He replied softly as he joined her one last time in looking at the pillar of ice.
"And there are those that are giving it."

'How long until he too was counted amongst them?'

Already Aliseth had started to close himself off from that sudden spill of vulnerability. He was backstepping, retreating. It was evident in his voice, that subtle change, composing itself as before. It was in his face, as it solidified once again chasing the emotion from its surface. His rigid posture returned as internally familiar walls fell back into their allotted places.
However, it was always his eyes that betrayed him. In them, there was a tired sadness, a loss of identity, purpose and a lack of faith. He had been searching for an excuse but found nothing in Elara's words.

He was about to say more, he looked ready to continue on to the temple when suddenly his head snapped to the side and his hand fell to the hilt of the sword on his hip. He stared intently out into the darkness of the forest, silent, alert, searching.

Elara remained silent initially, carefully observing Aliseth as the burden of his unspoken thoughts visibly tightened around him, constricting him like invisible armour.

When his head suddenly jerked aside, however, his hand swiftly grasping the familiar hilt of his sword, her breath momentarily halted in surprise.

Elara possessed no weapon to draw; instead, her eyes intently tracked his gaze, peering warily into the shadowed reaches of the forest.

“What is it?” she asked softly, voice edged with cautious tension.

Instinctively he put her to his side and behind him, taking a step towards the sound that set him alert.

The snow continued to rob sight and sound of his senses allowing whatever was out there, whatever was watching them, to get far closer than it should.