The cold of Vaelor wasn't like the cold I'd known before.
It wasn't the kind that crept under your clothes or nipped at your skin.
It was the kind that sank into your bones, that gnawed at your will, a biting, relentless thing that seemed to whisper, "You do not belong here."
The endless stretch of ice and snow swallowed the horizon, jagged peaks tearing into the sky like the broken teeth of a beast long dead but still hungry. The wind was a living thing—feral, howling through the crags and valleys, sharp as daggers, slipping past cloaks and armor as if they weren't there at all.
We moved in silence most days, heads down, pushing forward through knee-deep snow that never seemed to end.
The sun was little more than a pale smear behind thick, gray clouds, offering no warmth, just a dull reminder that it still existed somewhere far beyond this frozen wasteland.
Our breath came out in clouds of mist, curling in the frigid air before vanishing like ghosts.
It was the kind of cold that didn't just test your body.
It tested your spirit.
On the fifth day, we stumbled upon a small town, barely more than a cluster of stone houses huddled against the base of an icy cliff. Smoke curled weakly from a few chimneys, but even the fires here felt half-hearted, like they'd given up trying to fight the cold.
We stayed for one night.
One miserable, restless night in a drafty tavern that smelled of wet fur, stale ale, and hopelessness.
The people there didn't talk much. Their faces were drawn tight with frostbitten lines, their eyes hollow, filled with the kind of emptiness that comes from living in a place that wants you dead.
We didn't linger.
By morning, we were back on the road—or what passed for one—just footprints fading into endless white.
The days blurred after that.
The cold grew worse, sharper. Even the wind felt heavier, like it carried the weight of something older than us, something buried deep beneath the ice, watching.
It was Elaris who kept me tethered.
She never strayed far from my side, her lavender eyes dulled by exhaustion but still holding that spark, that fragile, stubborn warmth she carried like armor.
One night, as we camped in the hollow of a frozen ravine, the fire sputtering weakly against the wind, she slid closer to me.
At first, it was just for warmth.
But then her arms wrapped around me, her face pressed against my chest, her breath hot against the fabric of my coat.
And I held her.
Not because the cold was unbearable—though it was.
But because without her, I wasn't sure if I'd feel anything at all.
Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly as they found the edge of my sleeve, slipping beneath to rest against my wrist where my pulse beat weakly.
"I hate this place," she whispered, her voice muffled against me, raw from the cold.
I swallowed hard, my breath misting the air. "Yeah. Me too."
We didn't need more than that.
The others huddled around the dying fire—Lucian quietly sharpening his sword out of habit more than necessity, Callen wrapped in his cloak, muttering curses about frostbite under his breath, and Alaria lying on her back, staring at the empty, starless sky like she was daring it to blink first.
But no one talked about Rowan.
No one talked about Velka.
No one talked about the Rift.
Maybe because the cold had taken our words, or maybe because survival had become the only thing we could afford to care about.
As the days turned into weeks, we lost track of time.
Footsteps filled with snow, only to be replaced by more.
Hunger dulled to a constant ache.
Sleep came in fits, broken by the wind's shrieking lullaby.
And through it all—Veylara's voice never left me.
"Funny, isn't it?" she'd whisper in the quiet between footsteps. "They cling to you like you're their warmth, but they don't realize I'm the fire keeping you alive."
I didn't answer.
Not because I had nothing to say.
But because maybe…
Maybe she was right.
Elaris tightened her grip around me that night, her breath shaky, her voice soft like a fading heartbeat.
"We'll get out of here soon," she whispered, like she needed to believe it.
I pressed my forehead against hers, my voice low and ragged.
"Yeah."
But I wasn't sure if I believed it.
The cold didn't feel like weather anymore.
It felt like a curse.
And it was waiting to see which of us would break first.
The days dragged on, blurring into a monochrome haze of white snow, gray skies, and the faint rust-red stains from blistered hands and chapped lips. The cold wasn't just a thing we felt anymore—it was a thing we carried. A second skin. A shadow stitched to our ribs.
Every morning, waking up was a battle. The ache in my chest, the numbness in my fingers, the way my breath felt like shards of glass scraping against my throat—it was all part of the ritual.
We stopped speaking as much. Words felt too expensive when your breath came out in clouds you could barely afford to lose.
Elaris stayed close, always. Her warmth was the only thing anchoring me to the idea that I was still human—or something close to it. She'd press her face into the crook of my neck at night, her skin cold but her breath a fragile flicker of warmth against my jaw.
"Stay awake with me," she whispered once, her voice barely audible, cracked from the cold.
I didn't answer.
I just kept my arms around her, as if that was enough.
But the cold wasn't just outside anymore. It had gotten in.
We moved through snow that reached our knees, our hips, sometimes even higher. Callen's shield had frost etched into its metal, intricate patterns like delicate spiderwebs made of ice. Lucian's fingers trembled whenever he unsheathed his sword, though he'd never admit it. Gareth's magic flickered weaker with each day, his fire spells smaller, dimmer, barely enough to keep the frostbite from claiming us.
And Alaria…
Alaria didn't complain. She never did. But there was something hollow behind her sharp grin now, something brittle. She walked with her eyes fixed ahead, her daggers tucked away because steel was useless against the kind of enemy we couldn't stab.
On the twelfth day, we found what looked like an old outpost buried beneath the snow—just the jagged tips of its roof peeking through like broken bones. We dug our way inside, collapsing into the hollowed-out wreckage.
No one spoke.
Elaris sat beside me, her body trembling, and for the first time since Vaelor's cold swallowed us whole, I saw fear in her eyes. Not the fear of death—we'd danced with that before.
No, this was different.
This was the fear of disappearing.
Of becoming just another body buried beneath the ice, forgotten by time.
I reached for her hand, fingers numb and clumsy, and she gripped mine like she was afraid I'd slip through her fingers if she let go.
"She's afraid of losing you," Veylara whispered in my head, her voice soft and sickly sweet. "But she doesn't realize she already has."
I clenched my jaw, trying to ignore her, but her laughter curled around my thoughts like smoke.
"You feel it, don't you? The cold isn't what's killing you. It's the emptiness. The weakness. But I could fix that."
I didn't answer.
Because maybe she was right.
That night, as the others slept—Lucian with his arm draped over his face, Callen's breath ragged from exhaustion, Gareth curled into himself like a dying flame, Alaria pressed against the wall, her eyes closed but not asleep—I stared at the decaying ceiling, feeling the Rift pulse faintly beneath my skin.
Elaris shifted beside me, her breath warm against my collarbone.
"Do you think we'll make it?" she whispered, her voice fragile in the dark.
I didn't lie.
"I don't know."
She closed her eyes, leaning into me, her fingers tangled in my sleeve like she was afraid I'd vanish if she let go.
But I wasn't afraid of disappearing.
I was afraid I wouldn't.
We kept walking.
Day after day, through snowstorms that swallowed the sky, through winds that screamed like dying gods, through ice that cracked beneath our feet like thin glass over black water.
Lucian collapsed once, falling face-first into the snow.
Callen pulled him up, cursing through gritted teeth, but Lucian didn't argue. He just kept walking.
Gareth's magic flickered out on the fifteenth day. His hands trembled, and when he tried to summon a spark, nothing happened. He stared at his palms like they'd betrayed him.
Alaria didn't say anything. She just kept moving, her shoulders tense, her jaw clenched.
Elaris grew quieter, her warmth fading little by little, until even her touch felt like a ghost of what it used to be.
"They're going to die."
Veylara's voice slithered into my mind again, but this time it was softer—almost tender.
"And you'll watch them, one by one, because you're too stubborn to admit you need me."
I clenched my fists until my knuckles cracked beneath the weight of frozen blood and brittle skin.
But I didn't answer.
Not yet.
Because even though I felt the truth in her words, even though the cold was eating me alive from the inside out—
I wasn't ready to let her win.
Not yet.
But the cold didn't care about my pride.
It just kept taking.
And I knew, deep down—
It was only a matter of time.
The sixteenth day was when the cold stopped feeling like a sensation and started feeling like a presence.
It was no longer just the sting on our skin or the ache in our bones. It was a voice—soft, persistent, whispering with the wind, telling us to lie down, to rest, to just let go.
And for a moment, I almost listened.
We stumbled through the snow, our shapes hunched, shadows of who we were. Lucian's steps dragged, his sword strapped loosely to his back, forgotten. Callen's shield was gone, left behind when he collapsed two days prior, too heavy to carry anymore. Gareth's lips were blue, his breath shallow, each exhale a fragile ghost against the endless white.
And Alaria—the one who always moved with grace, with purpose—was barely upright, her movements sluggish, her usual sharp eyes dull and unfocused. She didn't crack jokes. She didn't curse. She just… kept walking.
Elaris's hand clutched mine like a fragile tether. She was shaking, her head resting against my shoulder as we trudged forward. I could feel the faint, erratic beat of her heart against me, slowing more each hour.
"They're dying."
Veylara's voice was a whisper in the back of my mind, but it felt louder than the howling wind.
"You know it. I know it. And all because you refuse to let me help."
I gritted my teeth, forcing my legs to move. Each step felt heavier than the last, the snow pulling at my feet like hands from the grave.
Ahead, the horizon was just more white, stretching into forever.
No end.
No escape.
Until—
A faint, dark line.
Distant. Almost unreal.
I squinted through the blinding glare of the snow, my breath ragged. It wasn't another mountain. It wasn't more ice.
It was land.
Not ice, not snow—earth.
The next continent.
I tried to speak, but my throat was raw, my voice barely more than a rasp. "There…"
No one reacted.
Elaris's head drooped against my chest, her knees buckling. I caught her before she hit the ground, her body too light, too fragile.
Lucian stumbled and fell face-first into the snow. This time, he didn't get up.
Callen dropped to his knees, trying to crawl forward before collapsing, his breath coming in harsh, shallow gasps.
Gareth simply crumpled beside him, his hands still twitching like he was trying to summon magic that wasn't there anymore.
Alaria didn't fall. She just… sat down. Quietly. Like she'd decided walking wasn't worth it anymore.
"See?" Veylara's voice was almost gentle now. "They're breaking. But you don't have to."
I clenched my fists, the Rift stirring beneath my skin, hungry, waiting—like it could feel the moment my will would snap.
But it wasn't pride holding me back anymore.
It was fear.
Because if I let Veylara in again, I wasn't sure there'd be anything left of me to come back.
But as I looked down at Elaris—her face pale, her lips trembling, her breath weak—something cracked.
Not in my bones.
In my heart.
I couldn't lose her.
I couldn't lose any of them.
"Just a little," Veylara whispered. "Just enough to keep them alive."
I closed my eyes.
And I let her in.
The Rift surged through me like a black tide, not consuming me this time but anchoring me. My body grew lighter, stronger, as if the cold no longer mattered. My vision sharpened, the dull haze of exhaustion burning away like mist in the morning sun.
I wasn't whole anymore.
But I wasn't broken either.
I moved without thinking, lifting Elaris into my arms. Her head lolled against my chest, her breath faint.
Then I turned back for the others.
Lucian's body was too heavy to carry, but the Rift answered, twisting reality, making the impossible possible. I felt a shift, like gravity itself had bent to my will, and I pulled him to me without touching him, the space between us collapsing until he was cradled against my other shoulder.
I did the same for Callen, for Gareth, for Alaria—gathering them like fragments of a life I refused to lose.
The Rift didn't care about the cold.
It devoured it.
And I walked.
Step after step, through snow, through ice, through the endless, frozen hell that had tried to take them from me.
Until finally—
Earth.
Real, solid ground beneath my feet.
The snow thinned. The wind lost its bite.
And the cold, for the first time in weeks, let go.
I collapsed to my knees, the Rift fading, leaving me hollow and shaking, but I didn't care.
Because they were breathing.
Weak. Broken. But alive.
Veylara's voice coiled around my mind one last time before she slipped back into the dark corners of my soul.
"See? You needed me. You always will."
And for once—
I didn't argue.
The moment we crossed the threshold from ice to earth, the world seemed to shift.
The howling wind faded, replaced by the faint rustle of brittle grass poking through patches of snow. The ground was no longer an endless, frozen sheet but solid, uneven dirt, dark and damp beneath our feet. The cold was still there, lingering like a ghost, but it had lost its teeth.
We didn't waste a second.
Lucian, still pale and trembling, managed to push himself up with a ragged breath. His fingers shook as he fumbled for the flint tied to his belt. "Fire. We need—" He coughed, the sound raw and painful. "We need to get a fire going."
Callen didn't argue. None of us did.
I laid Elaris down gently beside a cluster of rocks that provided a little shelter from the wind. Her face was still pale, her breath shallow but steady. I brushed a stray lock of her silver hair from her face, my thumb lingering against the cool skin of her cheek, needing to feel that she was still there.
Lucian's trembling hands managed to strike a spark, and Gareth, despite his exhaustion, muttered a weak incantation under his breath. The ember caught, flickering to life, and for the first time in what felt like forever, warmth began to creep back into the world.
The fire grew quickly, the flames licking at the dry twigs and branches we'd scavenged. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
We huddled close, letting the heat sink into our bones, melting away the frostbite that had been creeping into the edges of our souls.
For a while, no one spoke.
The crackle of the fire was the only sound, a fragile, beautiful thing against the backdrop of silence that had hung over us for days.
Then, finally, Lucian broke it.
"Where the hell are we?" His voice was rough, but there was life in it again—a spark trying to fight its way back.
Gareth rubbed his hands together, staring into the flames. "We crossed Vaelor's border. We should be in Drak'thul now."
The name hung in the air, heavy, as if the land itself was listening.
Drak'thul. The Shadowed Valleys.
A land whispered about in taverns and old tales, filled with misty canyons, bioluminescent caverns, and things that moved in the dark. A place where even the shadows had teeth.
Alaria, her voice softer than usual, added, "I'd rather take my chances with the shadows than go back to that frozen hell." She shivered, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her usual sharp edge dulled by exhaustion.
I didn't say anything.
I couldn't.
Because while the others focused on where we were, I was still thinking about how we got here.
I could still feel the Rift thrumming faintly beneath my skin, like an aftershock, a distant echo of the power I'd let loose. And Veylara's voice, though quiet now, was a weight I carried alongside my own thoughts.
But then Elaris stirred beside me, pulling me out of it.
Her hand reached for mine instinctively, her fingers cold but still holding onto something real. I shifted closer, letting her rest her head against my chest, her breath warm against my neck.
She didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
Her body pressed against mine was enough. The rise and fall of her chest, the faint flutter of her heartbeat—it was proof that she was still here.
Within minutes, she drifted off, her breathing evening out, her face finally softening from the tension she'd worn for weeks.
I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her closer, feeling the warmth of the fire seep into both of us.
The others talked quietly around the flames—about Drak'thul, about where we'd go next, about supplies and maps—but their voices felt distant.
All I could focus on was the way Elaris felt in my arms, the fragile weight of her, the way her fingers curled slightly against my chest even in sleep.
For the first time in weeks, my heart felt something other than fear.
It felt like hope.
Weak, fragile, but there.
And that was enough.
For now.