Snowflakes were falling beneath a sky that had no visible clouds.
They didn't drift like normal snow. Each flake moved with purpose, descending in slow spirals, as though obeying an invisible rhythm. The milky-white mist that had gathered earlier thickened and thinned in waves, wrapping the world in a cold, silent glow.
The human-like shape within the mist was still incomplete.
The condensation of that figure had not yet fully taken physical form. Its outline flickered–sometimes solid, sometimes hollow–a sculpture of snow, light, and will still choosing how it wished to exist.
Diala winced.
Both of her palms began to burn with different kinds of pain.
She slowly opened her hands and looked down.
The sigils on her skin were glowing.
On her right palm, the light was searing hot, as if a flame were dancing just beneath her flesh, trying to ignite her bones.
