The world was quiet beneath the weight of the falling snow. Each flake drifted soundlessly, settling upon Caelum’s battered body like a burial shroud. He lay sprawled on the frozen ground, his breath weak, his blood staining the white landscape in dark, spreading pools.
The priest knelt beside him, murmuring soft prayers to the gods of mercy. His aged hands trembled as he adjusted the prince’s cloak, though it did little against the creeping chill of death.
“This is a sacred place,” the priest whispered. “If you must die, let it be here, where the earth is pure and the sky is open. The gods will see you. They will know you fought bravely.”
Caelum barely heard him. His thoughts were sluggish, his limbs numb. He had been strong once—untouchable, a prince of steel and shadow—but now he was just a dying man in the snow, far from his kingdom, far from his knights.
Then, footsteps.
Soft, deliberate, crunching against the frost.
From the swirling snow emerged a woman, her figure dark against the moonlit white. She moved with eerie grace, her long, silver hair catching the wind, strands curling like whispers around her pale face. Her gown, black as the void, rippled with each step, the intricate embroidery glinting faintly under the dim light. A heavy pendant hung from her throat—a dark gem encased in delicate gold filigree, resting just above the lace of her high collar.
And in her gloved hands, she cradled a skull.
The priest sucked in a sharp breath.
“No,” he muttered. “Not you. You are cursed," the priest hissed, rising to his feet, retreating from her as though her presence alone was poison. "A bringer of death. A soul collector. You do not belong here." The priest’s voice wavered. "Leave him be. He is passing in peace—"
The woman lifted her gaze, the priest turned and fled. she stepped forward and knelt beside him, the scent of frost and something faintly floral trailing her. Her fingers—cold even through the gloves—brushed his forehead, tracing the lines of pain carved into his skin.