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Perrine once had a nightmare about freezing to death.
It was the first winter with the Lark as a group, and they didn’t know if they, a bunch of very young children without adult supervision, could survive on their own.
In the nightmare, there was a blizzard raging outside, making it impossible to get more firewood. Of course, there was no need to get more, as they had stocked up generously the day before.
However, they went through the firewood surprisingly quickly, and soon, there were only a few logs left.
Panic began to set in.
Clémentine said they would brave the wind and snow outside and go get more firewood from the pile they kept in the small shed just off of the side of their cottage. While they were gone, Perrine, Cole, and Kingsley started to hack up any piece of wooden furniture they could- chairs, tables, shelves, even parts of their couch. They tossed it all into the fire, watching it burn, but they were still rapidly running out of fuel, and it was only getting colder. Worst of all, Clémentine had yet to return.
It had been thirty minutes.
Perrine told Cole and Kingsley that they would go find Clémentine, so they suited up in their thickest furs and stepped out into the white abyss waiting outside their door. With one hand on the house to keep it in sight, they began to slowly trudge around its perimeter. They were soon facing the direction of the shed, though they could not see it, even though it couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet away. It took all of their courage to pull their hand away from the house and fully embrace the whirlwind.
They found the shed with surprising ease. Or, more accurately, it found them, as they bumped right into it. Regardless, they had reached their destination with only minimal difficulty, and they peeked inside.
Clémentine was nowhere in sight.
They saw the collection of firewood, chopped by themself the day before, dusted in frost. And they saw the shuffled footsteps in the snow, a telltale sign of someone having been here. But they didn’t see Clémentine.
“Clém?” Perrine had called out, but their voice was quickly swallowed up by the storm. Even still, they tried again, “Clémentine?”
No response, aside from the howling of the wind.
Perrine was worried. Where was Clémentine? Were they okay? They were starting to panic, but they pulled on the reins of their composure and chomped down on the bit, choking back their rising anxiety. They needed to stay calm.
Maybe Clémentine had already gone back to the cabin. Maybe they just missed each other; it wouldn’t be surprising in how limited the visibility was.
Perrine collected as many logs as they could carry and started back toward the cottage. For a terrifying moment, they thought they had gone in the wrong direction, but then the wooden walls swam up through the pelting sheets of white. Home.
They shambled their way to the front door and heaved it open against the wind. Scrambling, they hurried inside.
It was dark. The air was cold and silent. Their own breath formed a cloud in front of their face, even though that shouldn’t have been possible. They were back inside, they were safe, they were all safe.
And yet…they were cold.
The logs in their arms fell from their grasp, clattering to the floor. They began to look around, desperate. Their mind was foggy, and they didn’t know why. Anxiety, they thought. That was all.
It wasn’t difficult to locate their friends.
Cole and Kingsley were huddled together in front of the hearth, but it wasn’t their own desperate need for warmth that had them pressed so close, rather the frost that had accumulated over their bodies, freezing them together in their final moments and making it impossible for them to pull away, lest they tear the skin of the other with them. Their flesh was faded to a horrible blue color, rime clinging to their hair, and their faces… Oh, their faces…
Cole had their eyes screwed shut, tears still frozen on their cheeks as they had been sobbing until their last breath. Kingsley’s eyes, on the other hand, were impossibly wide, glued to the front door, like they were waiting for them to come back.
The fire was burned out into embers. Dead, just like Kingsley and Cole.
Perrine was in shock. How did this happen? Had they really been out in the storm for that long?
They tried to rouse them, but it was futile. They were long gone.
Strangely, they didn’t remember crying. They weren’t sure why. But they did, vividly, remember the terror.
The cold was coming for them next.
Putting the corpses of their friends out of their mind, Perrine scrambled to start a new fire, but they couldn’t feel their hands. Their fingers fumbled clumsily, unable to grasp the match no matter how many times they tried.
Perrine slumped back, panting. They felt so tired…
They thought about Clémentine. They weren’t here, so they must have been outside somewhere still, most likely lost. They liked to think that they were rescued or found by someone, brought into a nice house and given some hot tea, but that was just wishful thinking. They were probably dead. Just like Kingsley and Cole. Just like they would be.
Perrine died, alone and afraid, and it was only after having to sit through and feel the slow torture of freezing that they finally woke up in a cold sweat.
Living life is a lot like playing dominos. Each new day is a new domino set up. And at any moment, any one of those dominos could fall, causing an unstoppable chain reaction until there were no more dominos to tip over. The end of the line. The end of a life.
For Perrine, their first domino fell exactly one year later.
Perrine can’t help but wonder if they’ve done something to enrage Mother Nature.
They’ve always been someone who respects the wild. They don’t litter, they don’t over hunt, and they clean up whenever they see discarded trash. By all accounts, they’re very respectful and kind to the woodlands.
And yet, they’re being punished.
Then again, as seen in their tumultuous childhood, getting in trouble for things they thought they had done right seems to be on par for their existence.
It is—or had been, really—a crisp winter day. Due to the weather, everyone was spending a lot more time inside, and Perrine was getting a bit of cabin fever, so they set out around the afternoon to do a little hare hunting. It was cold but not completely freezing, and the wind was blowing calmly. Overhead, the sky was overcast and grey, breathing out a light snowfall.
Within half an hour, the wind had picked up, and the temperature plummeted, and within forty-five minutes, a blizzard had set in.
Perrine doesn’t panic. They’re well-versed in navigation, and they know their way back to the cottage. There’s no reason to start freaking out.
They start walking, trudging through the snow that is ever so slowly piling higher and higher around their ankles. The wind whistles past their ears, and they almost regret not bringing their mask along with them to protect their face from the sharp gales. No use grumbling about it now.
They keep walking. And walking. And walking. And walking.
Shouldn’t they have made it back by now? They know they hadn’t gone that far. And didn’t they pass that tree once before? Or is it just a very similar looking tree? They can’t tell. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.
They’re lost.
Still, Perrine doesn’t panic. Or, at least, they try very hard not to. Hysteria will do them no good, not in this situation.
They look around, trying to get a grasp on where they are. They know these woods well, and if they can just find a distinct landmark, they will surely be able to right themself and get back home safely.
But there’s nothing. Nothing but an endless whirlwind of white in every direction. Even what they can see, the imposing silhouettes of trees, look the same.
They’re very, very lost.
It has been ten minutes since the blizzard started.
Perine knows they have to keep moving. Sitting still will get them killed. At least moving is keeping their blood pumping, keeping even the faintest bit of heat circulating through their body.
They push on, trudging through the snow, taking one step at a time. Step-step-sink, step-step-sink.
Walking is a struggle. Snow rains from the unforgiving sky like iron daggers, piercing through their fur layers and into the soft, supple flesh beneath, seeking out the heat like a parasite burrowing into a warm body. Their face is bristled with icy needles that slowly press in deeper, deeper, deeper, digging into their pores with every breath they take. Their extremities are, simply put, on fire, a sheer juxtaposition to the winter whiteout all around them.
The cold burns, but not in the way fire burns. It’s different.
Fire is a mindless beast. It assaults the body quickly and without mercy, hounding it like a wolf with rabies. It has no thoughts, just an instinct to attack.
But the cold… The cold is smart. Methodical. It’s an intelligent, efficient killer, and it knows what it is doing.
It knows very well how fragile life is. It slips through your cracks and into your pores and settles deep into your bones where it stays.
Fire can be snuffed out. But what will you do to snuff out the very nature of the wild itself? You can, perhaps, get inside. Snuggle up by the hearth. Put on more layers and cocoon yourself in blankets. But you haven’t defeated the cold. You’ve merely bought yourself a little more time. It’s still there, lurking just outside your protective shell, whether that be the walls of a structure or the fabric of your clothing, waiting. Watching.
The cold has no remorse. It has no heart for you to implore. The cold takes what it wants, and what it wants is the heat that makes life so sweet. And life always, always ends up giving it exactly what it wants.
This blizzard is the hunter, and Perrine is the game.
Game as in prey or game as in a form of entertainment for the cold, dragging out their suffering because it finds it funny…they don’t know yet. Probably both.
It has been fifteen minutes since the blizzard started.
They keep walking.
Keep pushing on.
Keep fighting.
Because this is a fight. A fight against the untamed will of the storm. A fight for their life.
The wind whispers in their ears, Give up, give up, give up.
Aren’t you tired?
They are, by the antlers of the Croon, they are, but they can’t let the storm know that, even though they’re sure it already does. Of course, it does. It just wants the satisfaction of hearing them admit it.
Their breath rasps in their throat, sharp and painful, every inhale like swallowing shards of glass. Frost clings to the edges of their scarf, forming tiny crystals that sparkle in the dim light. For a second, it almost looks pretty. But the wind whips at their face, cutting through the moment with a sharp, bitter reminder. There’s no beauty here. Not in this.
Their fingers are numb inside their gloves. At first, there was pain, an ache that throbbed in their knuckles and the tips of their fingers and in the bed of their nails. Now, there’s nothing. Just a dead weight where their hands should be, like they’re losing pieces of themself to the storm.
They know they should stop—find shelter, huddle beneath a tree or a rock, dig a hole and curl inside—but stopping means giving the cold an even greater chance to sink its teeth in deeper. Movement, no matter how slow, is their only defense, the only thing keeping them from freezing in place.
Their father always said they were stubborn, and maybe he was right. Maybe that’s why they keep going when everything in them screams to stop, to lie down, to rest. But Perrine doesn’t trust that voice. They know better. The cold is clever, and it knows how to lull you into a false sense of security.
Sleep, it whispers. Rest. Just for a moment.
But it’s never just a moment.
They glance up, squinting through the blur of falling snow, searching for any sign of familiarity. Anything to remind them of the path they’ve wandered from. Anything to signal that they’re close to home and their family. But the blizzard has swallowed the world whole, leaving nothing but a sea of white, stretching out in all directions. There’s no horizon, no sky, no ground—just an endless, swirling abyss of snow.
A branch cracks somewhere behind them, the sound sharp and brittle, even over the endless howl of the wind. Perrine’s heart leaps, eyes darting around wildly. For a moment, the idea of a predator, something lurking in the storm besides the cold itself, crosses their mind—and they almost welcome it because a predator won’t toy with them like the cold is. But they see nothing. Only the storm, the wind’s wicked laugh ringing in their ears, and the creeping sense that they are very, very small.
It’s been twenty-two minutes since the blizzard started.
They press forward, moving one leg in front of the other in a silent mimicry of walking.
They’re walking.
They are.
They’re just…not getting anywhere.
The cold is winning. They know this. They can feel it, slow and insidious, wrapping tighter around their limbs, sinking deeper into their chest with every breath of icy air they take. Their thoughts are getting sluggish, tangled in the exhaustion that pulls at their eyelids. It’s becoming harder to care about the cold. Harder to care about anything at all.
Much like the dominos, life can be compared to that of a single thread being spun endlessly on a spinning wheel. Every new decision, every new action, every new day that dawns is another inch added to this thread. And at any moment, something can come by and cut it.
Perrine wonders when their thread started off in this direction, the one that led them out into the storm. Did it start on this path the moment they stepped out of the cottage? Did it start days ago? Weeks? Or did it start the second they were born, and they were always meant to face this icy doom?
Fate is a truly fickle thing. Unlike destiny, which is mostly determined by oneself through their actions, fate is an outside force that cannot be stopped. Not everything is set in stone, sure, but the sword never stops swinging over your head. It’ll always be there, on a thread, just waiting to fall.
The cold feels a lot like that sword. Several swords, actually, all of them driving into them with a force so great it nearly brings them down to their knees. They can pull them out, sure, but that will just make them bleed.
Another gust of wind slams into them, and they stagger sideways, catching themselves against a tree. The bark is rough under their glove, but it feels almost unreal, distant. Their hand slips away after a moment, their body swaying as they stand. Snowflakes land on their lashes, clinging like tiny, frozen pearls. They blink, feeling the coldness of them melting into drops of water against their skin. Their breaths are shallower now, each one a ragged gasp.
They stumble. Knees buckle. Their body folds down into the snow, the ice biting into their skin through the layers of clothing as if to welcome them. The cold isn't just a sensation now—it’s inside them. Infiltrating. Claiming. Their bones ache, a deep, searing cold that burns as fiercely as fire once did, but this pain is quieter, more patient. It wears them down, second by second, breath by labored breath.
For a moment, they think about staying down. Maybe if they just lay here, it won’t be so bad. The snow cradles them, blankets them. A small, irrational part of their mind whispers that it feels almost…soft. A part of them that’s tired of fighting.
But that thought sends a bolt of panic through their chest, cutting through the fog of exhaustion, enough to sober them up at least a little from their daze. They force their arms to move, planting their hands into the snow, and push themself up. They’re shaking, their muscles weak and trembling, but they rise. They keep moving because there’s no other option.
Somewhere deep in the storm, they hear a low sound. It’s barely audible over the screaming wind, impossible to tell what kind of noise it is, but it’s there—just at the edge of their hearing. They freeze— haha. Something moves in the white expanse ahead, a darker shape cutting through the relentless white. A tree? No…too large. Too broad. Perrine squints, trying to focus through the blur of snow and exhaustion, but their vision is failing them. It’s hard to tell what’s real anymore.
The shape shifts again, closer this time. It moves like a shadow, fluid and unnatural, like it’s not bound by the same rules as everything else. Their heartbeat quickens, a flicker of panic sparking in their chest, momentarily warming them. They take a step back, instinctively, a moose calf in the midst of a grizzly bear, but their foot catches on a lump, a root or a rock hidden by the snow, and they fall— hard. The cold slams into their body with unforgiving force, knocking the breath from their lungs. For a moment, the world is nothing but a swirl of white and pain.
When they look up again, the shape is gone. Or maybe it was never there at all. Their breath shudders out of them, forming a faint cloud of mist that immediately dissipates into the storm. Their pulse throbs in their ears, the only sound left in the eerie quiet, other than the wind.
For a second time, they rise, but it’s not so easy this time. If it was ever easy to begin with.
It’s been thirty minutes since the blizzard started.
They don’t want to die out here.
That thought is a storm surge in their chest.
They don’t want to die. Not like this. Not alone in the middle of nowhere, swallowed by the snow. They don’t want to die.
But the cold doesn’t care. It doesn’t care about their will, their desire to survive. It just wants their warmth, and it’s getting what it came for.
Rest. Sleep. It’s okay. You’ll be safe.
Aren’t you tired?
“Tired,” sighs the storm.
“Tired…” murmurs Perrine, though they don’t know if the word actually escapes their mouth.
The cold cuts deeper now, a living thing that’s no longer satisfied with simply gnawing at their skin—it digs claws into their flesh, sinking icy talons into the very marrow of their bones. Perrine stumbles again, but this time the snow doesn’t just welcome them—it devours them, pulling them under like quicksand. Their hands hit the ground, fingers sinking into the ice, and they feel nothing. No pain, no cold. It’s like their hands don’t even exist anymore, just useless appendages dangling from their body.
The world around them is dissolving into a blur of white. The wind roars louder, tearing through the trees, whipping snow into their face with such ferocity it feels like an assault of angry wasps stinging their eyes. Their breath is shallow, ragged, each inhale scalding their lungs like fire but cold. Cold fire. It burns through them, hollowing them out.
This time, they don’t get back up.
They push themself against a tree, but that’s all they can muster. They’re just too tired.
Their body has stopped shivering. They’ve read about this—how the body gives up shivering when it surrenders to the cold. That should terrify them, but it doesn’t. Not anymore.
Their lips are bleeding, chapped and brittle, busted open by the sheer force of the wind, but they can’t even lap up the blood because they aren’t able to open their mouth. It’s frozen shut.
They breathe slowly through their nose, and it’s like a knife dragging up through their nasal passage.
The tree they sit against looms above them like a giant sentinel, branches heavy with snow, leaning slightly as if it’s watching with concern. Perrine wishes it could speak, to whisper words of comfort.
“Hold on, kid. Just a little longer.”
But the tree stands silent, a witness to their despair.
They think back to the others, all bundled up back at home, wherever it may be. How long until they notice they’re gone? Have they already realized that they have been missing for far too long and shouldn’t be out in such bad weather? Are they trying to look for them, despite the storm?
Or do they not care at all?
Are they happy to have them gone?
And how would they fare when they’re dead and buried beneath the snow, their body to never be found until the ice thaws? By then, they would have been eaten by some desperate creature, scrabbling to survive in the cold, just as they had been trying to do.
Bones and fur and nothing else to designate them as something that was ever truly human.
Because what is the difference between them and a wolf? Them and a bird? Them and a deer? They all live, they all die, they all fight to survive.
They always felt like they were a resilient person. They’re the oldest- they have to be.
But they are not winning this fight.
Their life is flashing before their eyes, their brain desperately trying to find a way to save itself.
Tears freeze on their cheeks.
They are a living thing already going through algor mortis.
The cold presses in, and Perrine feels…warm.
Wait—
Warm?
No, not just warm. Sweltering.
They’re hot all of a sudden, burning up, and it’s suffocating. All these layers are smothering them. They need to get them off.
Their fingers, clumsy and frozen, fumble for the buttons on their fur coat, which is now completely soaked from the snow, wresting it off. When they do, the cold lunges, wrapping itself around them, and they welcome it. Anything to soothe this burning heat that has started to boil inside of them.
Perrine slumps back, breathing out shakily.
Tired…
Tired…
Tired…
In their daze, they hear something. It’s that sound from before, the low noise they hadn’t been able to discern. Now, it seems to be closer.
They blink sluggishly once, twice, three times, and when they open their eyes again, there’s someone standing there.
Or, rather, something.
A looming, towering thing of black feathers, a stark contrast to the colorless abyss swirling around them both. The blizzard is like a glittering shroud, wrapping the figure in veils of white. It wears the storm like a dress, seemingly unaffected by its cruelty.
Perrine stares, delirious, and the thing stares back, lucid.
Is this…an angel?
They aren’t religious- never have been. Religion isn’t very present in this region of the meadow, but they’ve heard of feathered creatures that allegedly guard over people and inhabit a higher plane in the clouds.
And now, one has come to take them away.
For some reason…they aren’t upset about it. They aren’t even scared. Not anymore.
They’re just tired.
The figure doesn’t move for a moment, making Perrine believe that maybe it’s just a really weird-looking tree or a hallucination, but then it shifts, barely stirring the snowfall around it. It extends a clawed hand, palm upturned. Beckoning.
Looks like it’s time to go.
With all the strength they can muster, they take the hand.
Yank. Perrine is yanked to their feet, the force of which almost sends them sprawling face-first back into the snow, but they somehow keep their balance. They have no time to say or do anything, however, as they’re being hauled forward, dragged by the black-feathered figure.
It’s hard to keep up. The figure is going so fast. The snow and wind doesn’t seem to impede it at all, every movement made with easy grace. Perrine, however, stumbles and staggers, heaving like a sow as they struggle to simply stay upright.
“Wait!” they cry. At least, they think they do. They aren’t sure. “Slow down! I can’t breathe!”
The figure doesn’t listen. It just keeps moving.
Perrine’s knees wobble. The cold claws at their lungs. Their hand slips from the figure’s grasp, so it seizes them by the wrist, not letting them go.
“Please—”
The world blurs. The cold presses inward. They can’t seem to draw breath.
“I can’t—”
It hurts.
“I’m so tired—”
And then…nothing.
Without warning, everything tilts on a dizzying axis, followed by nothing at all. No forest, no figure, no blizzard or wind or cold. Just…white.
A single domino teeters, its glossy surface catching the light. Then it tips, a quiet gasp escaping its rigid form. It falls, and time slows.
A click echoes—a brief, sharp sound. The next domino leans, its painted face a fleeting smile.
It crashes down, a soft thud against the wooden table. The next one wobbles, uncertain.
A moment of stillness. The air thickens, charged with anticipation.
The chain reaction ripples, an odd dance of color and sound. Reds, blues, yellows—each one tumbles, like leaves falling from a tree.
Each fall feels significant. Each sound, like a whisper in a vast empty room.
It’s hypnotic. A strange rhythm. Almost alive.
One by one, they bow to fate’s call, surrendering to a force unseen.
The penultimate domino shifts, poised to strike the last. It sways, almost falters. Then—nothing. The descent has been halted by clawed fingers.
A pause.
Then, slowly, one by one, the clawed fingers begin to set the dominos up again.
The world is white, and Perrine feels weightless.
Then, the world is green and brown, and Perrine feels heavy.
They stir. They try to open their eyes, but it’s too hard. It’s like their eyelids are glued shut.
There’s movement around them. They can hear voices that sound vaguely familiar, but they’re so far away. It’s like they’re trying to hear from beneath a pool of water. Or from beneath a pile of snow.
“…need another blanket?”
“…more the merrier… tea coming along?”
“…almost done…”
The conversation filters in and out, each phrase like a wave lapping at the shore of their consciousness. There’s an urgency in the air, a quiet but intense energy, and Perrine tries to grasp it, to anchor themself in the moment. They want to respond, to reassure whoever is speaking that they’re still here, still fighting. But the effort feels like reaching for something just beyond their grasp.
Perrine feels a pressure on their chest, something heavy yet warm, cocooning them in an embrace that feels safe. There’s a rustling sound, and the warmth intensifies, wrapping around them tighter, almost possessively. It is a comfort they have been yearning for.
The green and brown of their surroundings begin to materialize in blurry shapes—a ceiling overhead, rough walls made of timber, the flickering glow of a fire casting long shadows. It feels like a sanctuary, a stark contrast to the chaos of the storm outside.
But just as quickly, the images fade, slipping away like sand through their fingers. They feel a faint pulse of urgency beneath the surface of their hazy consciousness, a flicker of fear that they might drift away again, back into the icy grip of the blizzard.
“…Perrine?”
The name reverberates in the stillness, a gentle whisper breaking through the fog. They cling to it, to the familiarity of the voice that beckons them. It’s warm, inviting. But who is it? They try to respond, to call out, but their mouth feels heavy, and their voice has vanished into the ether.
“Perrine, can you hear me?”
They struggle. They kick and fight and claw until they can utter out a single thing: a low groan. It’s not much, but it’s something.
And it’s heard.
“Perrine…”
“Are they awake?”
“Shhh. Hang on. Give them a moment.”
Gradually, a shape emerges through the veil of their mind. It shifts and blurs at the edges, but they catch glimpses—a silhouette with yellow hair, a flash of pale skin, the glimmer of eyes that hold a depth of understanding. A gentle hand brushes against their cheek, and they lean into it instinctively, but it’s not enough to fully pull them from the murkiness.
“There you are,” murmurs the voice. “It’s going to be okay. You’re back at home. We’ve got you.” They look over their shoulder, calling, “Cole, can you bring the tea?”
“Got it,” says a second voice.
A moment later, there’s something pressing to their lips, and the first voice is gently coaxing them, “Drink, love.”
They do. Something hot fills their mouth, spills down their throat, and warms their belly. It tastes vaguely like mint.
“Good, very good,” praises the first voice. “You’re doing so good. You’re going to be just fine…”
There’s suddenly a sharp prod in their side. “Are you alive?”
“Kingsley!” hisses the first voice. “Quit that!”
“I’m just making sure they’re not dead!”
“They’re not!”
There’s a second poke, followed by another scolding remark from the first voice, and Perrine lets out a little “Euuhhhhh…”
Silence.
Then, a snicker. “What was that? Hehehe, that was the silliest thing I’ve ever heard from them!”
Perrine, attempting to speak, continues to make an assortment of sounds in their struggle that can only be described as “baby moose calf that wants milk noises.” If they weren’t so dazed, they definitely would have been humiliated by it.
“Shh, shh, shh,” hushes the first voice, cupping their face. The hands are so warm. “Don’t speak, okay? It’s alright. Just rest.”
Rest. That sounds nice.
They nod sluggishly, their head leaning back. They drift off to the soothing sensation of hands stroking their head, lulling them into a state of peace…
Sometime later, Perrine awakens, slightly more cognizant. They look around and realize they’re in their living room, on the couch, and the hearth is burning. They’re bundled up in what seems to be every single blanket in the house. Cuddled around them are Cole, Clémentine, and Kinglsey, all asleep.
Outside, the window howls.
They’re…alive. Safe. Warm.
To their right, Cole stirs, their dark eyes fluttering open. “Perrine…?”
“Cole?”
Cole shifts, sitting up a little more. “How are you feeling?”
“Warmer,” Perrine says. “ Better. What… what happened?”
“You were brought here, half frozen,” Cole tells them. “We were so scared… You hadn’t come home, and then you finally show back up like— like that. I’m just glad you’re okay.” They reach out, tugging Perrine’s head closer so they can press a kiss to their temple. “Don’t ever scare us like that again…”
Perrine leans their head against Cole’s. “I won’t.”
Somewhere on a snowy hillock, looking down at the whiteout below, a pair of figures stand, unimpeded and unaffected by the cold.
“I thought you were all about the cycle never being broken,” says the Enkindled. “So do enlighten me: why didn’t you let the child die?”
Rime forms a deathly mask over the Croon’s skull, and when it breathes out, plumes of white billow into the air.
“Well?” The Enkindled pokes it with a skinny finger. “Does this not ruin the order you speak of?”
“No,” the Croon rumbles. “Their death would unbalance the scale.”
“Are you saying the child is chaos?”
The Croon shakes out its whole body, much like how an animal would when it’s wet. Icicles are dislodged from its antlers and spray out like daggers. The Enkindled raises a hand to shield its face.
“Rude.”
“Order can’t live if chaos dies.”
“So I’m right, then.”
“…”
“You can let me be right for once.”