冷.一种深入骨髓的感冒,仿佛能冻结灵魂.
洛伦佐·冯·艾森加德 （Lorenzo von Eisengard） 蜷缩在厚厚的羊毛毯子下,坐在冰冷的轮椅上.壁炉里的大圆木噼啪作响,努力驱散石厅里的阴凉,但热量似乎从未到达他的双腿——那些曾经在训练场上挥舞剑并骑马穿过田野时支撑他的双腿,现在已经化为冰冷的麻木与铅制的沉重感.
这不是他熟悉的身体,也不是他熟悉的世界.
三年前,或者更确切地说,在他的"前世"中,他曾经是林哲,一个普通的图书管理员,在一场毫无意义的车祸中丧生.猛烈的撞击,刺耳的刹车声,然后是永恒的黑暗和痛苦.当他再次睁开眼睛时,他就是这位名叫洛伦佐的王子,身经毒身亡,被困在名为鹰巢城堡的冰冷堡垒中.
每一次呼吸,一股奇异而沉重的寒意从他的胸膛深处散发出来,随着他的心跳而跳动.这不是幻觉.他可以清楚地感觉到它的存在-一个名叫帕格纳什的意识碎片,就像一个卑鄙的寄生虫,深深扎根在他的灵魂中.那场"重病"不仅夺走了原主人的腿;它从古老的深渊中种下了这颗可怕的种子.林哲的灵魂,洛伦佐的碎片记忆,以及帕格纳什的邪恶碎片,在这个破碎的容器中以怪诞的共生关系共存.
"殿下,您的药."老管家汉斯的声音低沉而恭敬,随着年龄的增长而沙哑.他拿着一个沉重的银杯,杯子的边缘冒着草药的苦涩气味.
洛伦佐灰蓝色的眼睛空洞地盯着跳跃的火焰.他继承了原作的记忆片段——宫廷阴谋,骑士训练,以及...对这位老管家根深蒂固的信任.
"放下它,汉斯."他的声音带着一丝虚弱,但语气却令人不安地稳定.
汉斯小心翼翼地把杯子放好.他浑浊的眼睛里带着担忧和恐惧.自从王子"康复"后,他就变了,他的目光偶尔闪烁着令人心碎的幽灵般的光芒.
Lorenzo伸出手,指尖触碰到杯子上冰冷的银色.就在那一刻,一股尖锐的刺痛穿过了他的手指!
一个支离破碎的画面猛烈地映入他的脑海:汉斯弯腰驼背,在一个昏暗的角落里,颤抖的手将一小撮灰色粉末洒进一碗热气腾腾的肉汤中!画面模糊不清,但充满了强烈的情感——压倒性的内疚和绝望的必要性!那个肉汤...这是他在 "疾病" 发作前的最后一顿晚餐!
"看...忠诚的毒药..."帕格纳什的声音,就像磨碎的沙砾,在洛伦佐的头骨里回荡,冰冷而嘲讽."他把你推向了深渊...亲手..."
一股冰河激流瞬间冲破了洛伦佐的理性堤坝.这不是愤怒;那是一种比任何刀刃都锋利的冰冷.他猛烈地握紧了银杯,指关节发白,里面的液体危险地晃动着.一股杀意气息,如实在在的冰气,从他身上散发出来!
"你——殿下?"汉斯踉踉跄跄地后退了一步,被洛伦佐眼中几乎明显的冰冷恶意吓坏了.
洛伦佐深吸一口气,强行压制住了帕格纳什尖叫的破坏冲动.他感觉到他体内的冰冷实体不满地嘶嘶作响,然后才平息下来.他慢慢地松开了手.刺痛消退,可怕的记忆碎片消退.他不能在这里失去控制.
"...这没什么.Lorenzo的声音恢复了平淡,毫无生气的平静,比以前更冷淡."药太热了."
汉斯看起来好像被赦免了一样,匆匆鞠了一躬."是的,是的!我的错!我马上拿个暖和的杯子来!他一把抢过杯子,匆匆走开,差点被绊倒.
Lorenzo闭上了眼睛.中毒...作者:Hans?为什么?国王?他"心爱的"哥哥们?或...即将从冰原抵达的"未婚妻"派系?寒冷从他的骨髓中渗出.帕格纳什的醒来似乎正在撬开被刻意封存的记忆的大门.林哲对前世的分析思维与今世的残酷现实交织在一起,让他比原来的洛伦佐更清楚地看到荆棘王座下血迹斑斑的地基.
"生气?怨恨吗?帕格纳什试探道."接受我...把他们撕碎...吞噬他们...我可以把你失去的还回来...以及更多...'
"安静,"Lorenzo 在心中冷冷地反驳道.对付恶魔要付出灵魂的代价.他需要的不是疯狂的力量,而是清晰,真理和粉碎所有阴谋的绝对权威.他的前世知识告诉他,力量是唯一真正的盔甲.
三天后,鹰巢城堡内的气氛变得喧嚣而紧张.
大院子被打扫得一尘不染,积雪堆积起来,覆盖着厚厚的稻草和松树枝.黑色田野横幅上的艾森加德金狮在刺骨的风中啪啪作响.全副武装的守卫,他们的板甲闪闪发光,像冰冷的钢铁雕像一样矗立在墙壁和通往主堡垒门口的小路上.
King Otto von Eisengard, a tall man grown stout, with a thick grey-white beard, stood at the top of the steps before the main keep doors. He wore his finest deep purple velvet robes and a heavy cloak trimmed with white ermine. Beside him were the Queen and Lorenzo's two elder brothers—the burly and arrogant Crown Prince Karl, and the leaner Prince Friedrich, who wore a habitually mild, distant smile. Behind them crowded all the notable nobles and their families, splendidly dressed, faces painted with false expectation and curiosity.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of spices, leather, metal, and a suppressed excitement.
Lorenzo sat in his wheelchair, positioned at the King's side but slightly behind—a place both conspicuous and subtly marked as "lesser." He was swathed in a large, hooded cloak of deep grey, the heavy wool enveloping him, revealing only the hard line of his jaw and thin lips. Beneath the cloak, only he knew of the ghastly, pale bone-like patterns that pulsed like living things, spreading from his heart, silently declaring the horror within. Old steward Hans stood behind the wheelchair, face still pale, avoiding Lorenzo's gaze.
"They come!" a clear shout rang from the watchtower.
All eyes snapped towards the castle's massive, iron-bound oak gates. With a heavy groan of hinges, the gates swung slowly inward.
First came a wave of even sharper cold, as if from the heart of the Northern Ice Plains itself. Then, a troop of knights rode in. Their armor was different from Eisengard style—not the heavy plate common in the South, but intricate suits of tiny, highly polished silver scales that reflected the overcast sky with a cold gleam. Their mounts were exceptionally large and powerful white warhorses, manes thick, hooves striking the frozen ground with sharp clacks. The knights were expressionless, eyes sharp as hawks, radiating an aura of icy aloofness.
Behind them came a strangely shaped sleigh, drawn by four pure white steeds. It had no wheels; its base was smooth, mirror-like metal runners that glided over the snowless ground as if lifted by an unseen force, impossibly steady. The sleigh's canopy was made of some nearly translucent white leather, embroidered with intricate patterns of ice crystals and a snow wolf—the crest of the Ice Realm, Sturmheim.
The sleigh halted smoothly before the main steps. The Ice Knights dismounted in perfect unison, movements crisp as if drilled a thousand times. One knight stepped forward and respectfully drew aside the sleigh's curtain.
A pair of silver-white high-heeled boots, studded with flawless sapphires, stepped onto the cold stone step. Then, a figure emerged.
For a moment, it seemed even the howling wind in the courtyard stilled.
Elsa Sturmhart. Princess of the Ice Realm.
She wore a gown of pure white, seemingly woven from moonlight and new snow, simple yet regal in cut, its collar and cuffs edged with fine silver thread embroidery forming ice crystal motifs. Her silver-white hair was not pinned up but cascaded like a waterfall to her waist, stirring slightly in the cold breeze, a few strands brushing against her ice-sculpted cheeks. Her skin was a near-translucent alabaster, her lips a soft pink. But it was her eyes that stole breath—a pure, glacial, ice-blue that seemed to hold the ancient, unmoving glaciers within their depths. Clear enough to reflect the deepest secrets of the heart, yet deep enough to freeze the soul.
Her beauty was breathtaking, yet carried an inhuman, untouchable chill. She stood quietly, her gaze sweeping calmly over the splendidly attired Eisengard royalty. Finally, those ice-blue eyes paused, for an instant so brief it was almost imperceptible, on the figure swathed in grey, seated in the wheelchair.
In that fleeting moment, Lorenzo felt an intangible cold pierce the heavy cloak, pricking his skin. It wasn't ordinary cold; it was the pressure of absolute mastery over the essence of frost. The Pagnash entity within him stirred, emitting a low growl of greedy wariness.
'Powerful vessel... pure frost source...'
King Otto beamed a practiced smile, spreading his arms, his voice booming to break the silence. "Welcome! Noble Jewel of Sturmheim, Princess Elsa! Your arrival brings the brightest star to Eagle's Nest, scattering winter's gloom! The House of Eisengard greets you with the utmost joy!" His words flowed smoothly, laden with exaggerated praise.
Elsa inclined her head slightly, a gesture elegant and distant. Her voice rang out, like icicles chiming together, clear and melodious yet carrying an undeniable coldness. "We thank you for your hospitality, King Otto. May frost's blessing dwell long in Eagle's Nest." Her Common Tongue held a peculiar Northern accent, like the grating of crushed ice, adding to her mystery.
After brief formalities, a grand welcoming feast commenced in the great hall. Long tables groaned under roasted suckling pigs, whole stags, mountains of white bread, tempting fruit tarts, and spiced stews. Huge silver candelabras blazed with tallow candles, illuminating the hall brightly. The air was thick with the rich aromas of food, the fragrance of wine, and the cloying perfumes of the nobles.
Musicians played lively tunes in a corner, but the atmosphere remained subtly strained. The Eisengard nobles, especially the ladies, clustered around Princess Elsa with surface enthusiasm, lavishing her with ornate compliments on her beauty and bearing. Yet their eyes held scrutiny, envy, and a barely concealed disdain—after all, she hailed from the barren, frozen North, considered barbaric by many in the South. The Sturmheim entourage, including the stern-faced female knight-captain Liara guarding the princess, remained silent and watchful, like ice wolves protecting their treasure.
Lorenzo remained an outsider. Refusing a servant's aid, he lingered alone in a relatively quiet corner of the hall, half-hidden in the deep shadow cast by a massive pillar. A goblet of untouched wine sat on the small table before him, its deep red liquid looking like congealed blood in the candlelight. The hood's shadow almost completely obscured his face, leaving only the hard line of his jaw. He observed silently, a hunter lying in wait.
His brothers wouldn't miss this chance to display "fraternal affection." Karl, bearing a huge tankard of ale, swayed slightly with drink as he swaggered over to Lorenzo, his face etched with unconcealed mockery.
"Hey! My dear brother!" Karl's voice was loud enough to cut through the music, deliberately drawing attention. "Hiding here all alone? Like a rat in the shadows? This is your big day! Look at your future bride! Tsk tsk, a real... ice-carved beauty!" He leaned down, his beery breath hot on Lorenzo's face, lowering his voice just enough for those nearby to hear. "Too bad... such a beauty, wasted on a cripple who can't even stand. Tell me, on your wedding night, do you think she'll mind those useless legs? Hahahaha!" His harsh laughter rang jarringly against the backdrop of music.
Noble eyes turned, filled with morbid curiosity and a touch of pity. Friedrich conversed with a Count nearby, seemingly oblivious, but the slight tilt of his head and the deepening curve of his smile betrayed his attention.
The humiliation struck like a poisoned ice dagger. Under the cloak, Lorenzo's hand on the blanket clenched violently, knuckles popping faintly. Within him, Pagnash's will surged like an awakened viper, shrieking, its cold desire for destruction crashing against the walls of his sanity. Lin Zhe's past-life restraint warred fiercely with Lorenzo's present fury in the depths of his soul!
'Kill him! Tear out his throat! Devour his arrogant, stupid soul!'
Killing intent exploded from Lorenzo like a shockwave of tangible cold! Karl's raucous laughter died instantly, choked off as if by an invisible hand. An indescribable terror, emanating from his very core, seized Karl's heart. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins! Color drained from his face, his pupils dilated with abject horror. He stumbled backward, almost dropping his tankard.
At the peak of this murderous aura, Lorenzo's large grey cloak, as if tugged by an unseen force, lifted at its edge!
A fleeting glimpse!
Karl, along with several nobles who happened to look over, including Friedrich, saw it clearly—beneath the deep grey cloak, on the exposed side of Lorenzo's neck, ghastly white patterns crawled across his skin! Grotesque and savage, they resembled ancient, evil runes... or like pulsating bone fissures burrowing deep into the flesh! They radiated a soul-chilling aura of cold and ill omen!
That single glance plunged Karl into an icy abyss. And in the shadows, a smile, colder than the deepest frost, slowly curved Lorenzo's lips. A cripple? What crawled back from hell was no lamb for the slaughter.