I woke to the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling—if it could even be called that.
Cracks webbed across the surface like veins of broken glass, jagged lines creeping into the shadows. Through them, thin shafts of light bled into the room, weak and sickly, struggling against the gloom. Dust hung in the air, shimmering faintly in the pale glow, and each breath dragged in grit and the faint, coppery tang of blood.
Where… am I?
Voices murmured around me, growing louder, sharper. I tried to turn my head, but a searing pain shot through my neck, forcing a choked gasp from my lips. Every breath was agony—my ribs were cracked, my skin stinging beneath layers of rough bandages. Someone had patched me up. But who?
Memories flickered at the edges of my mind, elusive as smoke. How did I get here? The harder I tried to grasp them, the more my skull throbbed, a dull, insistent warning. It was like trying to remember a dream upon waking—fragments slipping through my fingers, leaving only unease behind.
Something important. Something I shouldn't forget.
A flash of white. Cold biting into my bones. The sting of crimson staining snow.
And then—her.
A girl with hair like fresh snowfall, so pale it nearly glowed. Eyes white as a winter sky, empty yet piercing, as if she could see straight through me. Blind, maybe. Or something worse.
Had she saved me? Or was I not safe at all?
The voices around me sharpened. Footsteps approached.
I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep.
A shadow loomed over me—unfamiliar, indistinct in the dim light. A voice spoke, the words rough and guttural, scraping against my ears like a language never meant to be heard. I didn't understand a single syllable.
Where the hell am I?
A cold hand pressed against my forehead, checking for fever. The touch was clinical, detached. Then, a sigh—relief? Frustration?—before the figure spoke again, the same alien tongue filling the air between us.
I hesitated. Should I open my eyes? If this person had saved me, maybe they weren't a threat. But if they hadn't…
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I forced my eyelids apart.
And there she was.
The girl from the snow.
Pale as moonlight, her skin nearly translucent in the weak light. Hair like fresh-fallen snow, spilling over her shoulders in uneven strands. And those eyes—white as a blizzard, empty yet seeing, fixed directly on me despite their ghostly hue. Blind, they should have been. But the way she tilted her head, the way her fingers had found my brow without hesitation… she wasn't.
Recognition flickered in her expression. Or was it something else?
"You," I croaked, my voice raw.
She went still. Then, slowly, her lips parted—but the words that came out were the same incomprehensible sounds as before. Frustration tightened her features. She exhaled sharply, then reached for something beside her—a clay cup, steam curling from its surface.
She helped me sit up, her hands firm but oddly careful, as if I might shatter under her touch. The movement sent fresh pain spiderwebbing through my ribs, but I bit back a groan. The cup pressed into my palms—rough clay, warm against my skin. The liquid inside was dark, swirling with the faint steam of something bitter and herbal.
When she pressed it toward me, the scent of bitter herbs stung my nose. Medicine? Poison?
Her white eyes bore into mine, unreadable. Waiting.
I had a choice: drink, or refuse.
And no way of knowing which would kill me faster.
I hesitated for only a second. Then tipped it back.
It didn't matter. In this state, I was at her mercy anyway. If she wanted me dead, she could've slit my throat while I slept. Why bother waking me at all?
The taste was vile—earthy and sharp, like crushed pine needles and iron. I forced myself to swallow, my throat convulsing in protest. And then—
Her eyes changed.
A flicker, like light passing through ice.
Just moments ago, they'd been clouded, nearly opaque, the pupils faint as if veiled by frost. Now, they shifted. The barest tint of blue seeped into the white, like dawn bleeding into a winter sky. Her gaze sharpened. Focused. Saw me with sudden, unsettling clarity.
I choked.
Her hand shot out, steadying the cup before it could spill. Her other palm pressed flat against my chest, holding me upright. Not a threat—a warning. Don't cough. Don't waste it.
The blue in her eyes pulsed, faint but unmistakable.
I swallowed hard, the aftertaste clinging to my tongue. "What… are you?"
She didn't answer. Just watched. Waiting to see if the drink would be finished.
She took the cup from my hands, her fingers brushing mine—cold, but not unkind. Setting it aside, she studied me with an expression I couldn't decipher. Relief? Concern? Why? I didn't know her. My fractured memories offered no past between us, no reason for her to drag a half-dead stranger from the snow.
Yet here she was. And here I was.
Her lips parted, words tumbling out in that same unfamiliar tongue. Frustration flickered across her face when I didn't respond. She hesitated, then raised her hands between us, fingers weaving shapes in the air. A name—her name.
"Seres… Crone?" I guessed, the syllables rough in my throat.
A nod. Sharp. Expectant.
Your turn.
I opened my mouth—and froze.
My name. It should've been simple. But the harder I grasped for it, the further it slipped away, like smoke through clenched fingers. A pressure built behind my eyes. Flashes erupted—voices, distant but urgent, chanting, calling—
"—Ardyn—"
"—Veythar—"
"—my lord—"
The fragments collided. My skull throbbed. I gritted my teeth and forced the words out, mimicking her gestures with clumsy hands.
"Ardyn. Veythar."
Her white-blue eyes locked onto mine. For a heartbeat, something unreadable passed through them—recognition? Dread? Then it was gone, buried beneath that glacial calm.
She pointed at me. "Ardyn." The way she said it wasn't a question. It was a confirmation.
She tested my name first—"Ardyn?"—as if weighing its truth on her tongue. When I nodded, she exhaled sharply, then began gesturing with urgent precision. A sweep of her hand toward the crumbling walls around us. A tap to her own chest, then mine. A mimicry of walking fingers, followed by a questioning tilt of her head.
Where are you from? Who are you?
I opened my mouth, then shut it. How do you explain amnesia with gestures?
My gestures grew increasingly desperate—hands clutching at my temples, fingers splaying in empty confusion. Seres watched, her pale brows knitting together. After a long moment, she waved a dismissive hand. Enough.
A new gesture: fingers brushing lips, then an open palm extended toward me. Hungry?
Before I could respond, she stood in one fluid motion. As she turned, I caught the frayed edges of her tunic—threadbare fabric worn translucent at the elbows, the hem stitched and restitched until the original shape was lost. The cold didn't seem to touch her.
When she returned, steam curled from a clay bowl cradled in her hands. Watery rice, the kind reserved for invalids. My fingers trembled as I reached for it, but the first twinge of movement sent fire lancing through my ribs. The bowl nearly slipped from my grasp.
Seres caught it without a sound.
Her hands were steady as she lifted a spoonful to my lips. There was no pity in the act—only the same detached efficiency with which one might mend a broken tool. Yet when the warm gruel hit my tongue, something in her frost-pale eyes flickered. Not of recognition, kindness maybe?
The rice tasted of nothing. But it was the first real warmth I'd known since waking in this ruin.
The whispers came first—soft, hesitant murmurs that prickled at the edges of my awareness. Then, movement. Five small figures crowded the doorway, their silhouettes framed by the faint, golden light seeping in from whatever space lay beyond.
Two stood closest—a boy and girl with matching jet-black hair and dark, watchful eyes. The boy stood half a step ahead, his shoulders squared, his gaze sharp as a blade as it swept over me. Every line of his body spoke of quiet vigilance, his arm brushing protectively against the girl beside him. She peered around him, her expression less guarded but no less intense, her fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve.
Next to them, a boy with unruly purple hair shifted restlessly, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the wooden doorframe. His bright eyes darted from me to Seres and back again, as if he were already concocting some wild story about the stranger in their midst.
Behind him, a girl with soft blue hair lingered, half-hidden in the shadows. Her gaze was distant, unfocused—not avoiding me, but looking through me, as if she saw something else entirely. The way her fingers twisted absently in the hem of her tunic made her seem lost in thought, or perhaps in some dream only she could see.
And then there was the last—a boy with hair the color of fading embers, bright and unruly. Unlike the others, he didn't hesitate. He grinned, wide and unbothered, as if my battered appearance was nothing more than an exciting twist in his day. There was something infectious about his energy, something that made the tension in the room feel lighter, even as the others remained wary.
Seres turned, her pale eyes narrowing as she took in the small audience. A single word left her lips—sharp, commanding—and the children stilled. But they didn't leave. Instead, they stared, curiosity outweighing caution.
And I stared back, wondering who they were—and why they looked at me like I was something between a puzzle and a ghost.
Seres' pale eyes flashed with irritation as the children's excited chatter filled the small room. She snapped a single, sharp word that silenced them instantly, then motioned with an impatient hand for them to enter properly.
The siblings came first - the black-haired boy stepping forward with careful dignity while his sister hovered just behind his shoulder. The others crowded in after: the purple-haired boy practically bouncing on his toes, the blue-haired girl moving like a shadow, and the orange-haired one grinning as if this were some grand game.
Their voices tumbled over each other in that unfamiliar tongue, each eager to be the first to speak to me. Seres pinched the bridge of her nose, then held up a hand. When she spoke, her tone carried the weary patience of someone who'd given this lesson many times before.
One by one, they stepped forward:
The black-haired boy placed a fist against his chest. "Ethan," he said, his voice steady. His dark eyes never left mine - measuring, assessing.
His sister mimicked the gesture with smaller hands. "Mia," she offered, her voice softer but her gaze no less intense.
The purple-haired boy nearly tripped in his haste. "Kai!" he announced, beaming as if we were already lifelong friends.
The blue-haired girl hesitated before raising delicate fingers to her heart. "Luna," she whispered, her voice like wind through bare branches.
Lastly, the orange-haired boy gave an exaggerated bow. "Nico!" he declared, as if presenting himself at some royal court rather than a crumbling sickroom.
The weight of their expectant stares pressed against me. I swallowed, then touched my own chest where the ache of my wounds still pulsed beneath the bandages.
"Ardyn," I said. The name felt strange on my tongue - both familiar and foreign, like a half-remembered song.
A beat of silence. Then Kai gasped dramatically, Luna's eyes widened, and even Ethan's stern expression flickered with something unreadable. Nico opened his mouth to say something, but Seres cut him off with a look.
Seres made a shooing motion. "Senn, Kesht," she said firmly. The children groaned but obeyed, filing back out the door. Mia paused in the doorway just long enough to give me a small, shy wave before disappearing after the others.
The room felt strangely empty without their energy. Seres turned back to checking my bandages, her expression unreadable. Outside, I could hear the children's voices growing fainter as they moved away, their laughter mixing with the sound of wind through the cracks in the walls.
No mysterious glances. No unspoken recognition. Just children being children - curious about a stranger, then moving on to whatever game or chore came next.