Crack… crunch… The snow never stopped.
It fell in slow, relentless silence, layer upon layer, as if the sky itself had forgotten how to do anything else. Gray flakes drifted through the fractured spires of Aethelgard's outer district, settling on rusted iron, shattered glass, and the hunched shoulders of anyone foolish enough to linger outside. The wind carried a bite sharp enough to split skin, but warmth was a luxury no one here could afford.
Leon pulled his hood lower and pressed on.
Crunch… scrape… His mismatched boots tore through frozen slush, every step echoing faintly in the hollow streets. Buildings leaned like ancient, weary men, facades scarred by frost and time. Pre-Cataclysm brickwork peeked through collapsed walls, geometric patterns no living eye had ever deciphered. He didn't look up. The sky was always the same as it had been his entire life—ashen, unyielding, sunless.
Eighteen years. He had never seen the sun.
A narrow alley swallowed him. His boots scraped hidden ice; the air smelled of coal, boiled roots, and faint iron—blood, someone's nose had finally given out. Common.
At the alley's mouth, four guards passed, silhouettes framed in heavy coats, rifles slung. Swish… swing… plink… Lanterns cast golden arcs that vanished in gray seconds. Leon flattened himself against the shadow. They didn't stop. They never did unless there was coin or flesh. He had neither.
When their steps faded, he moved on.
The breach in the inner wall yawned ahead: a crack wide enough for a thin person. Beyond lay the forbidden ruins—skeletal remains of pre-Cataclysm Aethelgard, picked clean decades ago but still holding scraps for those willing to crawl through the frost. A loose pipe, copper coil, shard of insulated glass—anything tradeable for bread or coal.
Scritch… scrape… Leon squeezed sideways through the gap. The wind hit like a blade, unrelenting. Snow stabbed his cheeks. He adjusted the scrap sack over his shoulder and pressed forward.
The ruins stretched like a frozen graveyard. Hollow buildings gaped at the gray sky; floors collapsed into snowy chasms. Long clawed tracks scarred the powder—frost wraiths had passed here. He avoided them. He had seen their victims: frozen statues of people who had screamed once, mouths agape, skin glittering blue-black.
He moved through upper floors, leaping gaps, climbing broken stairs. His breath came steady. Hands numb in threadbare gloves, he pried window frames, tested doors, sought anything loose. Today was lean—just a handful of screws and a cracked porcelain insulator. Enough for half a loaf.
Thunk… rattle…
By late afternoon, the sky darkened toward black. Time to return.
On a third-floor landing, Leon paused. Below, the inner city glowed faintly—electric lights behind high walls. The Veiled Ones lived there. The Awakened. Those who had come back from the Spell with power in their veins, coin in their pockets. They no longer felt the cold.
He spat. The spit froze midair.
He descended carefully, slipping through the breach again, trudging toward the basement he called home.
The entrance was hidden behind a rusted washing drum. Inside, a single oil lamp burned low, shadows flickering across cracked concrete. Three others were already there:
Mara, hunched over a fire barrel, coughing red into a rag, fifteen years old and already wasting away.
Kell, sprawled on blankets, sharpening a shiv, sixteen, loud, always dreaming of the Spell.
Jey, barely ten, clutching a rag doll, sleeping despite the cold.
Leon dropped the sack beside the barrel. Clink… Screws rattled.
"That it?" Kell asked.
"That's it."
Kell snorted. "Better than nothing. Old Tully gave me two roots for a gear cog yesterday. Said another kid got taken—south sector. Screamed 'Mueor' till he vanished."
Mara rasped, "They always scream it… like it's carved inside their skulls."
Leon said nothing. He ladled thin soup—boiled snow water and root scraps—and ate, tasting nothing.
Later, when the others slept, he lay on his rags. The building creaked. Wind moaned through broken windows. Somewhere far, a frost wraith howled—a mournful wheeooo… raising the hairs on his neck. Sleep refused him.
A drop of blood hit his cheek.
Black in the lamplight. Another drop. Steam hissed where it touched the concrete.
And then… the whispering.
At first, just the wind. But the voices grew closer, threaded through the walls and into his skull. Soft, sorrowful, insistent:
Mueor… Mueor… Mueor…
Leon sat up. The basement seemed empty, but the air pressed down like snow piling through the ceiling. Another drop of blood fell, smoking longer this time.
The whispering rose into a chorus—ancient grief older than the city, older than the winter.
Come.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came.
The snow rose around him, silent and impossible, curling like a tide.
Crack… shhh… The floor beneath him fractured, glowing pale blue.
The world fell silent.
And the snow swallowed him whole.