[center][img]https://i.postimg.cc/rFqmKNsx/Orion-Nightingale.png[/img][/center][hr][right][sub]Location: Frostmoon Lake
Mentions: Sya ([@PrinceAlexus])[/sub][/right][hr]
[indent]The snow around Frostmoon Lake lay thick and untouched. Orion walked silently, his dark cloak sweeping behind him. Wind tore across the frozen shore but left his clothes undisturbed. Snow fell gently now—no longer sharp, just soft and dull as dust. The lake stretched under the gray sky, still but not frozen, its surface black and glassy. It reminded him of a lake from his childhood. He’d named it Brightwater, though it had no true name. That southern lake had rested between sunlit mountains under Aurelia’s endless summers. To him, it had seemed enchanted, even holy. He’d believed the sun god turned its waters to gold each dawn. 

Here at Frostmoon, there was no sun. No warmth. Just cold stillness, beautiful but hollow. A grave for what was lost.

But even graves demanded respect, and Orion had work to do.

He hadn’t stopped at the inn after leaving the post office. His body, though hardened by years of survival, hummed with a quiet ache. It wasn’t thirst for blood or hunger for food. It was deeper—an ancient, clawing need for life itself. Over time, he’d learned to feed that hunger without causing pain. Mostly.

He followed the edge of the woods where twisted bushes clawed through the snow. These plants were survivors, stubbornly gripping the frozen earth with roots that dove deep, hunting for hidden pockets of warmth. Orion knelt by a cluster of shrubs swallowed by white, sweeping his gloved hand to clear the snow. Then, bracing himself, he pressed his palm to the icy ground beneath.

The energy transfer began sluggishly. A faint thread of shadow seeped from his fingers into the earth, winding through the roots. The plants shuddered but held back, their leaves trembling as if afraid. Slowly, their strength trickled into him—uneven, reluctant, like water dripping through a cracked cup. His skin warmed a little, and the knots in his shoulders loosened. But a chill lingered at the base of his spine, sharp and unshakable, like a splinter of ice.

When he withdrew his hand, the shrubs lay brittle and gray, drained but peaceful. No pain. No struggle. Yet Orion’s hunger still gnawed at him, quieter now but unsatisfied. A prickle of unease crawled up his back. [i]Not enough[/i]. He shoved the thought aside. Dwelling on weakness was dangerous.

Orion trudged farther along the trees, boots sinking into the snow as his eyes swept the ground. He scanned for movement, for color—anything that defied the endless white. Near a cluster of jagged rocks, he spotted it: winter grass clinging to a shallow slope, its frost-coated blades brittle and yellowed. The sight was almost pathetic, but survival often was. He knelt, brushing the snow aside with stiff fingers. This time, he didn’t hesitate. His palm met the frozen soil, bracing for the familiar pull.

The energy, this time, came in rough waves, sharp and grating. The plants resisted—roots thrashing, blades jerking back—as if the ground itself rejected him. The connection strained, threatening to snap. Heat flashed in his fingers, hot and sudden, then faded to empty numbness. Orion pulled his hand away, shaking it as if flicking off an insect sting. The grass lay wilted, partly drained but not dead, its remaining blades clenched tight. It had broken free. Defiance. Something so ordinary, yet stubborn enough to survive.

He breathed out slowly. His breath fogged the air. His face stayed blank—years of practice made sure of that—but tension crept back into his shoulders, knotting his neck.

Not enough. Not right. This mirrored the previous day’s failure: his shadows flickering out mid-fight while others defended themselves. He’d blamed the cold then. Blamed exhaustion. But twice now, his power had wavered.

Patterns warned of danger. Patterns meant traps.

Ignoring the unease, Orion stood, brushed snow off his knees, and walked to the lake. It sprawled ahead, silent and vast. No wind. No hint of sunlight to mark the time. The world felt frozen, as if holding its breath. He swept snow from a flat rock and sat, eyes fixed on the water.

The cold seeped into him now, but it no longer stung. Not like the early days, when his veins still burned with mortal warmth. Back then, the cold had been an enemy—a thief stealing sensation from his fingers, his lips, his heart. Now, it was a companion. Predictable. Honest. His hands rested loosely—one on his knee, the other gripping the boulder’s edge. His fingers no longer ached, but they felt distant, as if part of someone else’s body.

He stared at the lake’s black-glass surface, watching snow vanish into the dark. It shared only its shape with Brightwater, he realized then. That lake had pulsed with life—sunlight glinting, dragonflies darting, boys laughing as they jumped from rocks.

Frostmoon didn’t laugh. It waited. Silent. Uncaring. Did it see him as he truly was—not alive, not dead, just….existing?

Orion exhaled slowly, and the breath turned silver before fading. He did not often allow himself to dwell like this. But here, in the hush of snow and silence, the memories crept in with the cold. Aurelia. His son. Evangeline. The boy’s laughter, his stubbornness. He missed it all. 

He had not written the child’s name in the letter. He couldn’t.

It was honestly enough that he’d written at all.

His hand drifted to his coat pocket, fingers brushing against the folded paper tucked safely within—the one he had received, not sent. Sya’s letter. As odd as it was, it had steadied him more than he cared to admit. She had seen through him in ways few ever tried to. Her words had been a bit unhinged, but they had also been heartfelt. Part of him wished he could respond in kind. Part of him feared she’d see too much if he did.

The wind shifted directions. 

Then, a sound. 

Soft. Delicate. The crunch of snow under something small.

Orion turned.

A white fox stepped from the trees, its fur matted with frost. Thin ribs pressed against its coat. It moved slowly, like it wasn’t sure it belonged here anymore. It paused at the edge of the clearing, ears twitching. Hungry. Wary. But not scared.

It took a step forward. One paw, then another, until it stood near the lake’s edge, just a few feet from Orion. Its eyes locked onto his, bright and unflinching, and in them, Orion saw no fear.

Only a question:

[i]Which of us is the predator[/i]?

And the answer waited quietly beneath his skin.[/indent]