They said she wasn't a woman anymore.
They said she was winter made flesh.
A Catastrophe.
Toy Crimson followed the priestess down the winding stone path, deeper into the heart of the Pyrehold—the Empire's oldest, cruelest prison. Built beneath the southern mountains and lit by runes as old as sin, it was the only place left strong enough to hold a being like her.
The Winter Witch.
No one dared call her by name. Even whispering it made torches flicker and breath catch in the throat. She was the last of the Catastrophes—elemental titans created, perhaps, for the amusement of primordial beings. Storms had names. Earthquakes had origins. But Lara Frostborn was a myth… with a body count.
Toy's boots thudded against obsidian tile, echoing softly. The deeper they went, the hotter it got—not warmth, but pressure. Like fire soaked into the stone itself, pulsing under the skin. Most men would have turned back. Most had.
The priestess beside him—Fenra, copper-haired and tired-looking—broke the silence at last.
"She hasn't spoken since they locked the collar around her neck."
Toy didn't answer. He didn't ask what the last guard had said, or why none had lasted more than a few days. He'd already heard the rumors. The ones that said one man's hair turned white overnight. Another walked out with frostbite in his lungs. Another begged to stay—said he heard her singing in his sleep.
"She just sits there," Fenra said. "Watching. Listening. Sometimes smiling."
They reached the final threshold: a towering door built of meteoritum and rune-etched stone, humming with old magic. The metal shimmered faintly, not with heat, but with rejection. This was the alloy from fallen stars—the one thing magic couldn't survive.
Fenra placed her palm against the seal. The runes flared like veins in a living thing. "She's yours now," she said.
And then, softer: "If she starts humming… leave. Even if she begs you not to."
The door opened with a sound like mountains shifting in their sleep.
And there she was.
Lara Frostborn.
The Winter Witch. The Catastrophe of the North.
She sat alone on the cold stone floor. No chains on her ankles. No bed. No comforts. Just her body, her silence, and the cursed collar gleaming like a mockery of a crown. Her silver-white hair spilled down her back in waves, and her skin, pale as ice, seemed untouched by heat. Despite the flames in the corners of the room, frost crept along the stones beneath her feet.
She hadn't moved.
She didn't even blink.
But Toy felt it—her awareness. She was watching him before her eyes ever opened.
He stepped into the chamber.
The door slammed shut behind him with a final, echoing thud.
And only then did she look up.
Her eyes met his—pale blue, rimmed with something sharp and ancient. They didn't ask questions. They didn't blink. They studied. Not like a human looking at another, but like something older measuring weight and worth.
"You're not afraid," she said, her voice soft and clear. Like the memory of snowfall in a dream.
"No," Toy said.
"Why?"
He took a moment to answer.
"They don't send heroes to guard monsters."
She tilted her head slightly. "Then what are you?"
"Something that doesn't break."
A long silence stretched between them. Not empty. Not hostile. Just still.
Then her lips moved—just barely. The hint of a smile.
Not warm. Not mocking. Just... alive.
Toy didn't move. He let the quiet settle like dust.
She didn't move either.
And in that strange, frozen space between fire and frost, something began.
Not trust. Not yet.
But recognition.
One broken thing, staring at another.