The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a faint glow across the stone walls of the chamber. The air inside was warm—unnaturally so, preserved with old magic to shield against the biting cold outside. And yet, Fletz felt cold.
He stood just beyond the doorway, massive shoulders hunched, claws curling and uncurling at his sides as he stared at the frail figure resting atop the bed.
Snow Moon.
Her silver hair—once so radiant, like a banner of light in every battle—was now dull and thin, like threads of mist.
Her skin, pale as ever, seemed almost translucent against the white furs beneath her. Every breath she drew was a struggle, shallow and raspy, like winter wind struggling through a cracked window.
Fletz didn't move closer.
He couldn't.
He had faced death a thousand times. Had crushed skulls with one hand, broken steel beneath his fists, survived winters that would turn armies into statues of ice.
But this.
This helplessness...
