Shhh… crunch… The snow was wrong.
Too soft. Too deep. Too quiet.
Leon's face pressed into it, cheek numb, mouth full of ice that tasted of nothing. He jerked upright, gaspp… heart hammering against ribs like a trapped animal.
Darkness stretched around him—not the choking black of the basement, but a vast, endless twilight. The sky above was indigo, pricked with stars that hurt his eyes to follow, arranged in patterns unfamiliar, sharp, cold. Thin ribbons of green and violet rippled across the heavens, silent, mournful, like sighs of a dying kingdom.
He was alone.
His hands scrabbled in the snow. Rags from his sleep lay stiff with frost. The concrete floor, the oil lamp, Kell, Mara, Jey—all gone. Only snow, endless snow, draped over ruins half-buried in white.
A voice spoke inside his skull. Not sound, exactly. Memory imposed from outside.
First Ordeal commencing.
Realm: Echo of the Mourning Kingdom
Objective: Survive until the final bell tolls
Warning: Death here is permanent
The words lingered, then dissolved like breath on glass.
Leon staggered to his feet. His legs shook violently. The cold here was different—bone-deep, gnawing, clean. No coal smoke, no stench of unwashed bodies. Only faint pine and iron.
Whish… crackle… He turned slowly.
Ruins rose around him. Black stone veined with white marble. Half-collapsed arches crusted in ice. Spires leaned at impossible angles, their tops lost in drifting snow. Statues lined a grand avenue—figures in ancient armor, faces scraped away as though by deliberate malice. Empty helms stared at nothing. In some places, snow was stained dark—frozen blood, preserved centuries.
It had to be a dream.
But frostbitten fingers, lungs burning, blood flaking black beneath his nose—too real.
He pulled his hood up and walked.
The avenue stretched ahead, lined with statues frozen in unnatural poses—some kneeling, others clutching their throats, a few reaching skyward as if pleading. Snow filled their open mouths. At the far end, through haze, a palace loomed—immense, broken-crowned, towers like shattered teeth.
Bootprints followed him, then filled behind him. No other tracks. He was alone.
Hours passed—or minutes. Time was slippery. Twilight remained eternal. Only auroras shifted slowly, mournful, like sighs of the lost.
A rusted shortsword lay half-buried beside a fallen statue. He pried it free. Iron corroded but sharp. Hilt wrapped in rotted leather. Better than bare hands.
Whoosh… The wind rose. Snow fell thicker, sideways, blinding. Shelter became urgent.
Ahead, a grand hall yawned—columns toppled like felled trees, roof partially intact. He stumbled inside, grateful.
The interior was vast, beautiful in ruin. Frescoes covered walls: a crowned king seated on white stone, subjects kneeling. Tears of blood streaked marble cheeks. In the final scene, the crown lay shattered; subjects clawed at their own faces.
Leon's breath fogged in front of him. He moved deeper, seeking a corner.
Click… grind… His boot struck something.
Snow spiraled upward. Shapes formed—translucent warriors, pale, indistinct, carrying spears of ice. Frost Echoes. They moved with glacier-slow inevitability.
The nearest turned its empty gaze.
He ran.
Hallways twisted like mazes. Fallen beams blocked paths; ice slicked the floors. Sword clutched awkwardly. Behind, Echoes followed, silent except for the whisper of snow reforming around wounds that never lasted.
You left them to freeze…
They called your name… and you walked away…
Memories rose unbidden: a woman's hand through the blizzard, a child's voice lost to wind—things he did not allow himself to remember.
He burst into a side chamber, slammed a half-intact door. Barred it with a fallen beam. Echoes pressed, slow, inexorable.
Chest heaving, blood fresh from his nose, steaming black.
Another corridor beckoned. He limped—one spear grazed his thigh, freezing flesh instantly.
The chase carried him to a throne room. A broken seat remained, dais split. Snow drifted high. No other exits.
Echoes poured in—five, six, flickering half-solid.
Whispers overlapped: Alone… always alone… better to sleep in the snow…
He raised the shortsword. Useless. They would reform forever.
Despair settled heavy as cold.
His shadow on the wall lengthened unnaturally. One Echo lunged. He swung—blade passed through mist, scattering snow that reknit instantly. Another spear aimed at his heart.
Something inside him snapped—not fear, but deeper grief, wordless mourning for all he had lost.
Shadows answered. They thickened, pooled, rose like living ink. Darkness wrapped him coolly. Spear passed through air.
He was elsewhere—ten paces away, half-crouched in deeper gloom. Echoes paused, blind.
The voice returned, quieter:
Soul resonance detected.
Aspect fragment awakening: Mourner's Shade.
He felt it: hollowness in his chest, something carved out, filled with night.
Echoes drifted past. He slipped between them and fled through a cracked side arch.
Corridor descended to a crypt. Sarcophagi lined walls, carved with weeping king. He collapsed beside one, ripped strips of coat to bind the thigh wound. Blood soaked dark, smoking.
Silence returned, broken only by ragged breaths.
Dong… Far above, a bell tolled once—deep, mournful, vibrating through stone and bone.
One.
Leon leaned back against marble, eyes closed. Shadows lingered longer than they should.
Opening them, faint light filtered through a high window. Across snowfields, a figure in dark cloak moved—white hair whipping, sword flashing red, shattering a massive Echo. Frozen shards exploded outward.
Farther still, a soft golden glow pulsed once, like a heartbeat, then vanished behind ruins.
Others. Others were here.
Snow fell thick, silent. Deeper in the ruins, something vast stirred. Low weeping rose on the wind—not human, not beast, but ancient beyond words.
Leon pulled his hood lower, gripped his rusted sword tighter, and stood.
The Ordeal had only begun.