A situation where winning was set up to be impossible.
A choice where no matter what you did, someone you loved would be hurt.
That was Erebil's masterpiece — tidy, cruel, and precise.
She didn't break people with a single blow. She broke them by arranging the world so every path forward carried a wound.
Watching Snow suffer over and over was a kind of slow torture.
Each new rumor, every staged scene, every little public slight — it settled into her like frost.
I wanted so badly to snap the whole thing in two, to hunt Erebil down and end her.
There were nights I almost stood and did it, knife in hand, heart racing.
But the truth sat cold and heavy in my chest: attacking Erebil directly would only make the price higher, and Snow would pay for it.
Even in the quiet of her pain, though, I believed in her. I always have. I know Snow better than anyone.
I know how she curls up inside herself, how she steels her hands and keeps walking when the world wants her to fall.
