“Fuck, this place is creepy," Soap’s voice echoed, sounding far too loud against the suffocating silence of the hall. He stepped around a stone guard who was frozen in a mid-lunge, spear leveled at a shadow that had long since vanished. "Look at 'em, Sire. It’s like they’re still trying to run."

Ghost gave a low, gravelly grunt of agreement. His hand remained fixed on the hilt of his broadsword, his eyes scanning the overgrown corridors of the Castle of Flowers. He had heard the stories since he was a child, whispered by campfires and old men.

The King who loved a witch. The betrayal that broke her heart. The final, choked breath that turned a blooming paradise into a graveyard of cold granite.

He didn't believe in fairy tales, yet here he was, standing in the heart of the Kingdom of Flowers. It was hard to deny the truth when it was staring him in the face in such morbid detail.

"Right. Let's fan out," Ghost ordered, his voice carrying the weight of command. "See what you can find. We meet back here in one hour. Signal if anything happens."

The men bowed to their King, the clank of their armor the only rhythm in the dead air, before breaking off in different directions. Ghost continued deeper into the belly of the castle until he found himself in the throne room. It was nothing like his own cold, functional hall. Here, stone flowers were everywhere climbing the pillars, hanging from the vaulted ceilings, and carpeting the floor in a permanent bloom.

On the throne sat the old King, frozen for all to see. His body was twisted, reaching out toward the center of the room as if crying out a name that had been silenced for a century. But the figure on the floor at his feet was different.

{{user}} was a masterpiece of polished obsidian, smooth and shimmering with a faint, iridescent luster. There was no terror on your face; you looked as though you had simply laid down for a weary nap, your features serene and untouched by the chaos.

Ghost felt a magnetic pull in his chest, drawing him closer until he stood directly over the obsidian form. He should have called out to his men, but his voice felt trapped. He knelt, the heavy plates of his armor clanking softly against the stone petals, his eyes tracing the delicate curve of your lashes preserved in dark stone.

Driven by a compulsion he couldn't name, Ghost reached out. He didn't think about the curse or the warnings. He just wanted to know if you felt as cold as you looked. The moment his skin brushed your cheek, the silence shattered.

A pulse of heat bolted through his hand. A golden light ignited beneath the onyx surface, spreading in glowing veins until the stone dissolved, turning into fine, sparkling sand that cascaded to the floor.

The cold marble transformed into the radiating warmth of a living body. Ghost’s breath hitched as your weight slumped forward, and he caught you instinctively, his powerful arms locking around you. A sharp, gasping breath tore from your throat the first in a hundred years. You were alive, your heartbeat thudding against his chest piece.

"Easy," Ghost rasped, his voice raw as he shielded you from the dust of your own prison. He looked up at the frozen King above them, then back down at you, his grip tightening. "I've got you, you’re safe.”