ALATAR'S POV;
At first, I thought the cold had dulled my senses. The numbness in my limbs, the biting air in my lungs—it was all too sharp, too real. Then I looked down at myself, and for a moment, I didn't understand what I was seeing.
This wasn't the hollow wisp of a soul I had expected. I wasn't some drifting phantom, untethered and formless. No… I was solid. I was here, flesh and bone, though not as I remembered. My body—my body was whole. More than whole.
My arms looked leaner, my shoulders broader. Every line of me was honed, refined, as though my flaws had been carved away and left in the dust of my past life. Slender, yes—but there was power there too, coiled beneath the skin like tempered steel. I touched my chest, half afraid it would vanish like smoke under my hand, but the surface was firm, warm even beneath this frozen air. Unnaturally perfect.
I caught my reflection in a jagged shard of ice rising from the snow. The face that stared back at me wasn't the one I remembered from Earth. My eyes—black, but not empty—held flecks of gold that shimmered faintly, and now… yes, there was something else. A faint tinge of blue threaded through them, subtle yet unmistakable, as though frost had taken root in my gaze. The souls, I realized. Their residue. Their essence mingled with mine.
My skin gleamed darker than I recalled, a deep brown that shimmered with vitality. But it was not smooth, not unmarked—ashen-gray lines coiled across my arms and shoulders like faint smoke, like inscriptions burned into me by something ancient. They pulsed faintly when I breathed, shifting just enough to remind me they were alive. Not tattoos. Not scars. Something written into the very marrow of me.
I straightened, and only then did I grasp my height—taller, taller than before. Six and a half feet, at least. I loomed, not in menace but in sheer presence, and the thought struck me: I looked like royalty. Not the gilded pretense of a crown or robe, but a deeper sovereignty, a shape molded by unseen hands. Sculpted not by chance or time, but by will. By design.
For the first time in years—perhaps ever—I felt something stir in me. Not fear. Not sorrow. It was recognition.
This is me now.
Not the man who had lived and bled on Earth. Not the shadow who wandered between lives. This—this form, this presence—was something else. Something greater. And whether it was gift or curse, I could not yet decide.
I flexed my fingers slowly, as if they might dissolve into mist at any second. But they didn't. They moved with fluid precision, each joint obedient, every twitch controlled. My hands looked sharper than I remembered—longer, steadier, the fingers tapered like they had been crafted for both elegance and destruction.
I drew in a breath. The air burned my lungs with cold, but it was invigorating rather than painful. My chest expanded, my ribs rising with strength I had never known. Even the simple act of breathing felt… powerful. Alive.
I shifted, intending to take a step forward—only to realize there was no crunch of snow beneath me. No resistance of ground at all. I looked down. The frozen landscape stretched endlessly below, and my feet weren't touching it.
I was hovering.
Not by effort. Not by thought. Simply was.
For a moment, I laughed under my breath, the sound startling in this silent world. It felt absurd. All those years of walking, stumbling, dragging myself forward—and now, without even meaning to, I was above it. Weightless. Untethered. I tilted my body forward, and without resistance, I drifted across the air like a leaf on an unseen current. It was clumsy at first, but the sensation was undeniable. The ground was no longer my master.
I caught sight of the markings again, faintly glowing as I moved. Ash-gray lines rippled across my arms and chest, shifting ever so slightly, like smoke trapped beneath the skin. They surged when I breathed, alive with a hidden rhythm. There was power there—I could feel it, restless and deep—but for now it lay dormant, coiled like a serpent unwilling to strike. Decorative, perhaps. Or waiting.
I ran my hand along one, tracing the curling shapes. The surface felt no different from skin, but when my fingertips lingered, I swore I could sense something pulsing beneath. Not blood. Not muscle. Something else.
I hovered there, still staring at my reflection in the ice below, a man unrecognizable and yet familiar. My body was mine, but remade—reborn into something regal, terrible, otherworldly. I could not yet decide if it was a gift or a cage.
But one truth burned clear.
I was not weak anymore.
I clenched my fists and flexed my arms, curious. The muscles moved beneath the skin, taut but effortless, like cords pulled tight and ready to spring. There was no strain, no weakness, only a deep and steady hum of vitality that wasn't mine alone. For the first time, I wondered: what can this body do?
I lowered myself carefully, tilting downward until my boots brushed the snow. The ice gave way beneath me, crunching underfoot. Solid. Grounded. Yet when I pushed against it—just a little harder than I should have—the snow burst outward in a spray, scattering like dust caught in the wind. My hand, half-buried in the frost, left not just an impression but a crater where the surface collapsed.
The realization sent a thrill through me. Strength—real strength—flowed in every motion, waiting to be tested.
I inhaled, bracing, then drove my fist into a nearby mound of ice. The sound cracked sharp against the silence, echoing across the frozen expanse. Shards scattered, glittering like shattered glass as the mound collapsed into rubble. I stood staring at the ruin of it, my breath rising in pale clouds. Not even pain lingered in my knuckles. Nothing. Only the lingering echo of force still alive in my arm.
I laughed again, though softer this time. Not in arrogance, not quite—more in disbelief. This body was mine, and yet it wasn't. I shouldn't be capable of this.
The markings along my arms shifted faintly, though they remained cool and still, as though amused by my testing, humoring me. Decorative—for now. A script of power waiting for a language I didn't yet know how to speak.
I turned my attention skyward again. The weightlessness tugged at me, a subtle invitation. So I pushed off the ground with a careful bend of the knees. I rose—not like a bird or a sudden leap, but with an even, steady drift. My body tilted forward, and though clumsy, I moved. The cold air rushed against my face, sharp, cutting, real.
It wasn't effortless. I could feel my body resist, the balance awkward at first, as though my instincts lagged behind the reality of flight. I dipped too low, corrected too sharply, spun once without meaning to. Yet it was effective. I learned quickly, adapting with each motion, until I was gliding just above the snow, weaving between jagged rises of ice.
The freedom was startling. No chain of gravity, no pull of earth. Just me and the air, uncertain but alive with possibility.
And then, as I steadied in the open sky, my eyes caught something on the horizon. Beyond the line of mountains—peaks jagged like broken teeth—there was light. Faint at first, then flickering, dancing in colors against the gray sky. Not the cold pallor of this frozen land, but something warmer, alive, beckoning.
I hovered, breath caught in my throat. Whatever that was, it did not belong to this silence.
I would test more later. For now, I needed to see those lights.