I stood in the vast, blinding whiteness of a void that seemed to stretch on without end. The air was still, and for a moment, it felt as though time itself had stopped. But then, just as quickly as it began, the world shifted, and I was violently spit out into deep, snow-filled ground below. I sank in nearly up to my knees, the cold biting into my skin even through my clothes. Lifting my head, I squinted through the ferocious storm, snow whipping violently around me, the wind howling like some feral beast. The air here was different, colder than Heladon or even the mountains I’d passed through.
Then, in the distance, a faint light flickered, barely visible through the storm. I blinked, trying to make it out, but the snow was too thick, the wind too fierce. It was there, though—just a glimmer, a sign of life. I began to crawl forward, dragging my limbs through the snow, but each movement felt heavy. The snow was tightly packed, pulling at me with every step, as though the earth itself wanted to hold me in place.
My vision blurred and I couldn’t take it anymore. I let my body warm, and the snow around me began to melt away, creating a small pocket of warmth. Above me, an invisible barrier formed, stopping the relentless snowfall from touching me.
With the path now clearer, I forced myself forward, the light growing ever closer, its glow piercing through the storm. As I approached, the shape of a small village began to emerge, its outline faint against the swirling snow.
This wasn’t Heladon, Orerha, Yorothen, or any other land I had known. It felt foreign, lost—an outpost, perhaps, of people long forgotten by the rest of the world. Their homes were small, huddled together against the elements, roofs buried beneath heavy blankets of snow. No banners flew, no signs of allegiance to any kingdom. Just isolation, hidden away.
As I stumbled forward, each step felt like a battle against the relentless cold. Closer and closer, I fell again, my body finally giving in, collapsing face-first into the unyielding tundra. My skin burned with a painful cold, and I tried desperately to summon heat, pushing the fire within me to flare up, to protect me. But something in this place fought back, something stronger, suppressing the energy I relied on, as if I had wandered into a realm that refused to obey the laws of the world I knew.
I rolled onto my back, gasping for air as flakes of ice lodged in my throat, stinging my lungs with each desperate breath. The frost clung to me, biting and invasive, like it was trying to pull me deeper into the frozen earth. Regret hit me hard, the weight of it suffocating. Why had I come here? Why had I left everything behind? The choices I made clawed at me, bitter and accusing, like a chorus of voices reminding me of every misstep, every failure.
I lay there, swallowed by self-pity, a pathetic, sulking wreck in the middle of a frozen wasteland. My vision blurred, the edges of my world closing in. Then, through the haze of ice and sorrow, I heard it—footsteps. Fast, determined, growing louder with each second. The ground under them seemed soft, as if the harshness that battered me meant nothing to them.
Before I could react, strong hands gripped my arms, lifting me up as though I weighed nothing. Two figures dragged me toward the distant light, their movements sure and swift while I struggled to breathe. The cold wrapped itself tighter around me, constricting, suffocating. Each breath became harder, each moment more distant. I felt myself slipping, my consciousness fading until, without warning, the world around me dissolved into nothing.
Darkness took me.
Hours later, I stirred from what felt like the deepest sleep I’d had in years. It was strange—no dreams, no nightmares of endless darkness, no bells tolling in the distance, no voices to torment me. Just a calm, quiet rest.
As I slowly opened my eyes, a small wooden room came into view. The walls were thin but sturdy enough to keep the howling wind and snow outside. It sounded like hundreds of fists were pounding against the wood, desperate to get in, yet the structure held firm.
Beside me, a half-melted candle flickered on a small wooden stand, its flame casting soft, uneven shadows around the room. I sat on a bed that, while narrow and a bit too short—my legs nearly slipped off the edge—was surprisingly comfortable. It reminded me of times long gone, when I had a place to call home. The lack of covers left my skin cold to the touch, but it didn’t matter. I felt... okay.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I took in my surroundings. Confusion stirred inside me. Who had brought me here? Why had they saved me? One thing, however, was clear: Thadomire must have done this on purpose, knowing exactly where I would end up. At least he had enough of his sanity left to manage that.
The room itself was sparse. A small table and chair sat in one corner, barely more than a suggestion of furniture, and a dresser, old and worn, rested against the far wall. Its door hung crookedly, the hinges long since broken off. The entrance to the room was no better, a poorly fitted slab of wood with a chain where a handle should have been. Everything smelled faintly of wood shavings, a scent that, strangely, I didn’t mind.
unning a hand through my hair, I tried to smooth it out, but the strands stuck together in clumps of dirt and grime. I gave up quickly, sighing, and it was then that I looked down and realized my clothes were gone. The leather coat I had clung to—the one thing I actually liked wearing—was gone. Replaced.
In its place, they had dressed me in a thin, brownish shirt that itched terribly against my skin. It was too light for the freezing weather outside, barely more than a rag. The leggings they had provided were equally unremarkable, stopping just above my ankles and tighter than I would have liked. The material felt stiff, uncomfortable. Beside the bed, a pair of boots waited—bulky and long, more suited for the deep snow than anything else I had on. At least those would serve a practical purpose. I’d need them.
My head snapped toward the door at the sound of a knock. It didn’t open. The stranger knocked again, a little more forceful this time.
“Uh... hello?” I finally called out; my voice hoarse.
The knocking stopped abruptly, and I heard the door groan against its frame, grinding slowly as it was pushed open. Whoever was behind it took their time, each inch revealing them bit by bit, as though they wanted to draw out the moment.
A woman stepped through. Long brown hair framed her face, parted neatly down the middle, falling past her shoulders. A scar ran along her chin, faint but noticeable, against otherwise smooth, almost flawless skin. Her bone structure was sharp.
She wore a beautiful set of armor—sleek, black, and fitted perfectly to her frame. Woolen padding peeked from beneath it, a concession to the bitter cold outside. At her side hung a long sword, sheathed but clearly well-worn from use. Yet, despite the warrior’s attire, there was something that caught me off guard: a flower, delicate and bright, clipped into her hair. The petals were white, with a vivid red at the center.
It seemed impossibly out of place. How could she have found such a flower out here, in this frozen wasteland?
I blinked, uncertain of what to make of her until she spoke, “What were you doing in the snow?” The woman’s voice caught me off guard. For some reason, I expected something different, like Vollith’s, but instead, it was normal.
“Lost from Maulin’s group?” she asked.
“I don’t know who that is,” I replied, my voice still raspy from waking. She didn’t press further, but her expression shifted as if she believed me. “What is this place?”
Her brows knitted together in confusion. “You don’t know?”
“Why does everyone keep s—” I stopped myself, redirecting the conversation, “No, I don’t know.”
She tilted her head slightly, her lips quirking into a small smile. “Huh… you’re certainly Masavoran.”
“Masa… How did you know that?”
She shrugged, the smile lingering at the corners of her mouth. “Just do.” She turned, her hand resting on the door. “Everyone in this city is.” And with that, she slipped out, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving me in an even deeper state of confusion.
A city of Masavorans? I’d spent so long believing I was the last of my kind, and now, out here in the frozen wasteland, I find they’ve been hiding? The absurdity of it made me want to laugh, though nothing about this situation was remotely funny.
I glanced over at the small wooden table beside the bed. There, resting among the meager furnishings, were a stack of paper, a pen, and a bottle of navy blue ink. The thought of venturing outside to meet this so-called “city” of Masavorans felt overwhelming. Too soon. Too much. I needed time to gather my thoughts, to process.
Sebastian had once told me that writing helped him calm down when the world became too much. Maybe it would help me too.
With deliberate, slow steps, I made my way to the table and lowered myself into the chair. The pen felt weightier than I expected as I dipped it into the ink and pressed it to the paper. But what could I possibly write? Then it came to me, clear as day.
I wrote about the attack on Chepstow when I was a boy, how the village was razed and my life shattered. I wrote about my time with the Faust family, where I was manipulated, belittled, and psychologically broken. Dolion and Vesperus—two sides of the same coin, two faces of deceit. I wrote about The Sovurn, Ikevine, and Elias—how our paths crossed in ways I barely understood.
I wrote about my horse, Irmina, and how I wished I had spent more time with her before I left her behind. I recounted King Chlodovech’s reign of terror and Vondor’s mysterious, disturbing magic. I spoke of Vollith and Othonar, their twisted words and Llythyrra. Ever absent from the chaos of the world.
And finally, I wrote about Dunstan and Odessa. Two names I couldn’t leave off the page, two people I honored in my own clumsy, broken way. The story wasn’t well-written, nor was it coherent. My handwriting was sloppy, the words often coming out bitter or frustrated. But it didn’t matter—it was an escape.
If I succumbed to this eternal winter, at least this would remain. Someone might find these pages one day and know what happened to me. And maybe, just maybe, they’d understand how the world broke me.
ns 15.158.61.12da2
