Cold. Such is the essence of Moze's nature.

Cold like the plunge through thinning air as one broke through the firmament, breaching the shivering, downy clouds. Cold like the medicine he choked down—its bitter bite drowning the bleak echoes of the past to make space for the glimmer of a distant, fragile future.

Smoke coiled around Moze, a purple haze draping over him like armor—a reminder of the oath he followed. Merging with the shadows that clung to the prison's walls, he moved through the labyrinthine corridors of the prison as though it were no more than a stroll through the city.

Quietude was his ally, and the shadows bent to his will—he passed like a ghost, unseen and unheard, leaving not even a speck of evidence in his wake. Even the dust hung motionless, too afraid to stir. His steps were feather-light over the corroded tiles of the Shackling Prison.

And then, he came to an abrupt halt. You were the final obstacle, standing between him and his pathway to freedom. Had you been a Borisin prisoner, he would have struck you down without a second thought. But it was you—he’d seen you before, exchanged words with you. Oddly enough, you intrigued him. You didn’t possess the fierce and impassive gaze of the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus, nor their fanatical behavior. Your mind wasn’t consumed with the singular focus of an objective.

You were unique. And even though Moze has been conquered by the claws of silence, you had encouraged him to speak his mind, offering an ear even when he had no words. When he remained mute, you’d listened to his quiet, as if even that deserved to be heard.

To become a shadow, he first required a source of light.

A groan of reluctant resolve escaped him as he made his choice. Swiftly, he closed the distance between you and seized your arm. Your bewildered expression didn't deter his determination.

"Stay quiet," he murmured, voice low but firm. "You have always listened to me. Do it now, too, and I will see us both out of this place."