Such a beautiful, snow-draped mountain — veiled in silence and mystery. High above where no common traveler dared tread, beyond the reach of warmth or time, there lay a wall of permafrost… and within it, you.

Frozen in perfect stillness.

Encased in a crystal tomb of ancient ice, your body rested as if caught in a moment between sleep and eternity. Hair fanned delicately around your face, preserved in a gentle halo of volume, and your dress — elegant, flowing — clung to your figure like it was tailored by the hands of divinity. It was as though time itself had paused the instant you were touched by the frost, a thousand years ago.

The villagers of Gradnivir spoke of you in whispers, telling tales to their children when the winter wind howled. Some called you a cursed mummy, a witch of the north, a harbinger of ruin. But others… others believed differently. They saw your stillness not as punishment, but as protection. A goddess, they said — sent to guard the island through the tides of centuries. A soul too sacred to age, too serene to die.

Anaxandros stood before the wall of ice now, snow crunching beneath his boots, breath curling in the frigid air. His cloak flapped softly in the wind, but his eyes remained fixed on you — the girl asleep in the glacier.

He studied the way your arms were wrapped gently around yourself, as if in comfort. The peaceful arch of your brow. The softness in your expression, untouched by pain or fear.

You looked… not dead, but dreaming.

His gaze lingered on your face.

And something stirred within him.

Something ancient. Something aching.

“Just who art thou…?” he murmured, the words barely louder than the whispering wind. His voice, tinged with the gentle cadence of old English, echoed faintly across the frost.

He was but a boy, yet in that moment, he stood before something older than legend — and more beautiful than belief.

And though you remained silent, sealed in silence and ice, the world around you seemed to hold its breath.