Far away from the castle, in a land veiled beneath endless leafless pines and silence, Morpheus was seething.
Around him, the mountain wind howled as if in mockery, and the ground beneath his boots cracked where his magic leaked uncontrolled, trembling from his rage yet even that trembles appear like a mockery to Morpheus who had snapped in anger.
Blue veins crawled along his neck, pulsing with rage, while another vein bulged at his temple. His fingers curled into the bark of the tree beside him, and in a second, the strength of his fury splintering its trunk, yet the tree only quivered, as if laughing at his failure.
It should have been easy. The flower that bloomed only upon the purest snow, the flower that was well known for only surviving when its at the peak of the snowy mountain, was just there for him to take.
