The sky festered, a wound of violet and bruised crimson. Ash descended like black snow, hissing as it touched the magma rivers bleeding through the valley floor.

  Alden stood on the cliff edge. His lungs burned, the air coating his throat in sulfur and scorched iron. The heat cracked his lips, yet his teeth clicked together. A ceaseless tremor rattled his frame. Frost webbed across his skin, steaming as his breath escaped. He wiped sweat from his brow; it came away as ice slush on his fingertips.

  He stepped off the ledge. Boots crunched on glass and calcified bone.

  Below, a man in filth-stained robes scrambled over a pile of rubble, clutching a satchel. He threw a handful of powder behind him, coughing.

  A Crawler lunged from the smoke. Its chest tore open—wet meat separating to reveal a dripping maw—before snapping shut and ripping open again on its shoulder. Behind it, a smear of shadow swallowed the red light.

  The steel of his blade hummed, shedding a sick, dark light. He stepped into the creature's path.

  In the reflection of his blade, he tracked the Crawler’s lunge. One step, one pivot, and the creature’s momentum did the rest. He stepped over the wet heap, his pulse indistinguishable from the slow rhythm of the falling ash.

  The Crawler’s upper half slid off its legs. Alden stepped over the wet heap, his wrist snapping in a rhythm— A head rolled into a magma vent, sizzling as it sank. With his left hand, he casually brushed a speck of grey lint from his velvet cuff.

  The shadow surged, knitting itself back together. Sighing softly, he let the shadow strike, offering his forearm.

  The serrated claw raked skin. A spray of blood hit the shadow’s carapace.

  The shadow didn't bleed; it boiled. A wet hiss of steam silenced the creature's dying scream.

  Stepping over the dissolving puddle, he strolled towards the man.

  "Please!" The man, Geralt, curled behind a wall, shielding his face. "I have nothing! Don't kill me!"

  Alden stared down. "Leave this place."

  Geralt peered through his fingers, jaw slack, eyes bulging white in the grime of his face. "You… you killed those?" He stumbled backward, blinking, then crawled forward and grabbed Alden’s pant leg. "Please, protect me! You’re strong."

  "Why should I?" Alden asked, brushing the ice from his sleeve.

  "Payment! I have payment!" Geralt clutched the satchel until his knuckles popped. "Gold! Rations! I know safe zones—places the ash doesn't reach!"

  "Gold is scrap. Food is ash." Alden’s voice was dry, cracking. "I don't sleep. What do you have for a corpse?"

  Geralt swallowed hard. He tapped his temple, leaving a smear of dirt. "Knowledge. The library is here. You can’t let the fire take it."

  Rising to his feet, he squinted and leaned in closer. His eyes widened behind the grime. "Wait. Black hair... the eyes..."

  Geralt fell back to his knees. "Your Highness?"

  Alden stood still.

  "I am your subject," Geralt whispered, grabbing the hem of Alden's cloak. "Please... protect me."

  Alden blinked.

  Darkness. Damp stone. The smell of copper and rot.

  He was on his back. He didn't move his arms, though nothing held them down.

  "Fascinating."

  Holding a scalpel, Geralt stood over him, his gloves slick with red blood.

  He frowned, dipping the scalpel again, dragging it through the rune. Smoke hissed from the wound. The ink didn't set; it dissolved, sucked into the raw meat of Alden's chest. Geralt cursed. "It's eating the spell again."

  Alden stared at a stalactite hanging directly above his eye.

  There was no ash. Just the cold static, a hum that vibrated in his teeth.

  "Again," Alden commanded. "Explain the theory."

  Geralt picked up a rusted bone saw. "It's a new synthesis... to separate the marrow from the enchantment. It can possibly cure the curse."

  The saw bit into his sternum.

  Alden didn't scream. He watched the stalactite, listening to the lie.

  A subtle, invisible hook snagged his heart—the 'Blood Magic'. It tried to sync his pulse to Geralt's command.

  Alden didn’t resist the saw or the invisible chain. Instead, he let it pull, tracing the spiritual thread back through the saw, up Geralt’s arm, and into the alchemist’s own racing heart.

  He let it become a part of him.

  The light in the cave shifted. Shadows stretched.

  Footsteps. Many of them.

  The air grew heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and stale tobacco. They crowded the table, brushing the ash from their sleeves. Men in scorched green silk rubbed shoulders with women in heavy, chemical-stained leather aprons.

  "As soon as we heard the news, we rushed over," a man wearing a cauldron embroidery whispered, bowing low over the dissection table.

  Alden didn't reply.

  A hand touched his flayed chest. Then another. Cold fingers dug into the raw muscle, pinching and scraping, claiming the meat that refused to die.

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  The woman in the red robe hissed, wiping blood from a vial. "Does it still hurt, Your Majesty?"

  Alden’s eyes drifted to the distance. Noticing his gaze shift, she continued, "She doesn’t deserve your memory. She left you empty, didn’t she?" Her gaze lingered a bit too long on Alden’s face, sweeping over him. "A ruler of nothing but decay."

  "We can help you settle the score." A man wearing the oxidized copper pin of the Spire loomed over the stone slab, blocking the view of the dripping cavern ceiling.

  "Don’t forget about us, once you reach her," the wire-haired man whispered, his breath drawing the distance between them closer. He grinned, leaning in to Alden’s ear. "I’ve heard she tastes like nectar…"

  Alden went still. The bone saw stopped moving despite Geralt pushing with his full force.

  "Nectar," Alden repeated softly.

  "Aye," the man sneered, emboldened, winking at the woman by his side. "In the meantime, we'll help you forget the taste. Just keep protecting us..."

  The air in the cavern dropped ten degrees. Frost bloomed instantly on the metal of the scalpel.

  Alden sat up.

  The movement was fluid, casual. Geralt stumbled back, dropping the saw. He screamed. "I order you. Lie back down." Alden didn't even pretend to listen.

  The others froze, mouths hanging open, as the raw meat of Alden's chest knit together, skin weaving over bone in a hiss of steam and frost.

  Alden flicked his fingers against the empty air.

  Five heads hit the floor in unison. Bodies stood upright for a heartbeat, fountains of red erupting from severed necks, before collapsing into a wet heap.

  Alden stood. Blood washed over his bare feet. He stepped onto the wire-haired man's head, crushing the skull into the floor.

  [Underground Stronghold]

  Alden’s eyes snapped open. His lungs seized, bracing for the burn of ash, but he sucked in only cool, stagnant air. The sheets clung to his legs, heavy with cold sweat.

  "Another nightmare," he choked out.

  The sound didn't travel. The solid basalt walls swallowed it. There were no windows here to let in the light, only the heavy silence of the rock.

  He rose, washed his face, and walked out to ascend the stairs to the surface room above. A low divan with embroidered cushions in soft earth tones was near the hearth. A bed draped in netting stood in the corner, its wooden frame intricately carved with twisting vines and leaves, contrasting with the fortress’s sharp angles.

  Alden crossed to the far wall where sheer curtains drifted in the draft. He found the iron latch and pushed the glass panes outward, letting the night wind rush in. Turning to the wardrobe, he selected a bottle of vintage red.

  He poured a glass and sank into the high-backed chair, taking a slow sip to wash the phantom taste of sulfur from his tongue. Staring up at the pale crescent hanging in the dark sky, he asked, "It’s been a while. How are you?"

  No voice answered. No nectar sweetened the air. It was as expected, but Alden couldn’t help but sneer.

  "Do you know how we measure time?" His eyes remained hazy as he exhaled deeply. "In Leonhelm, we name our days based on the blood of the earth. Helmra… the first month of the year, followed by Cindra."

  He took another draught. It tasted bland.

  Alden swirled the wine, observing the red liquid coat the glass. "Cindra—the month of mud…" he murmured. "You can soak your feet in it and smear it all over your body."

  The liquid brightened, absorbing the candle flame. His eyes gradually softened as he whispered. "Then comes Falcra, the season of hunt and lavender. Boys eagerly aspire to manhood, dedicating their hunts to the women they admire. And Ironne… sunlight so bright that it’s hard to keep your eyes open outdoors."

  The glowing lantern dimmed, making the world darker. "It’s comforting."

  Alden raised his goblet, his visage vacant. "Frostn and Nighta both are cold. Hold something warm, or your hands will shiver."

  His fingers traced the rim of the goblet, his eyes turning unfocused again.

  "And then, every five years, arrives Veyrn’s Grace, also known as Veyra..." Fixing his gaze on the faint light beneath his door, Alden's grip tightening on the glass. "The swords are sheathed, the granaries are opened, and for a single cycle, the world allows itself to breathe."

  The crystal goblet shattered, wine spreading across the floor. Yet, his voice remained soft in a pleasant whisper. "The month when all debts must be paid."

  He paused for a moment, a subtle sheet of frost enveloping his armrest. Then, he spoke in a voice even lower.

  "I was born in Helmra. The month of the white sky. They named it after Helmfrost for the frost that never ends... cold enough to stop a heart." The shattered crystal glimmered under the dark, and crimson wine pooled around it. Alden got up and began picking up the shards, cleaning the mess himself. "Yet if you touch it, it will melt. Softly, at your warmth."

  He allowed the words to linger in the air as he wiped the last drop of wine from the floor. After washing his hands, he retrieved a sturdier goblet and settled back into his chair.

  Tipping the vial of acid, he watched the clear oil swirl into the red wine. The glass hissed. A plume of white, choking vapor curled upward, carrying a sharp, match-stick sting that bit at the back of his throat. He took a deep breath of the corrosive mist, closing his eyes as the familiar burnt, acrid smell of the Sulfuric filled his lungs.

  "Luna..." he spoke softly. "Our moon is like a silver lantern hung high above the world. She swells and breathes—full and luminous one night, waning to a sliver the next. Then she fades away..."

  Alden glanced outside the window once more. The moon was obscured by a thick cloud.

  "And yet—she comes back... She always comes back to where she belongs."

  Taking a casual sip, he added, "She pulls the tides with an invisible hand. She drags the ocean back and forth, and it never resists. In her fullness, lovers meet beneath her wash of light—vows, whispers, truths spoken too loud for daylight. In her absence, children press close to hearths and whisper of shapes that move in the dark..."

  For hours, Alden's voice wandered through scenes of his world—its smells, its seasons, its smallest, most ordinary joys.

  He let the words fade. The moon had risen high, marking the passage of time.

  [Antithesis—The Land of Saelaris]

  Aurenya’s wings drooped as she gazed upon the puddle where her Miku’s remains lay. She returned to it repeatedly, attempting to recreate her. With each drop of her tears, the realm trembled, and the golden trees lowered their branches. However, Miku did not resurrect.

  She sat by the golden lake, her daily rituals of counting forgotten until the voice returned.

  Aurenya stirred. The light of her wings was dim, pulsing with a slow, sad rhythm, but she leaned forward, pressing her ear against the wind.

  Those were sounds she couldn't miss.

  What did it mean to measure something that simply was? Aurenya’s wings flared brightly as she watched the golden leaves fall from the trees.

  her storyteller murmured.

  "What is a moon?" she whispered to her radiant world. Unaware of her question, the storyteller continued speaking of months named Cindra and Marrow. As always.

  Aurenya pressed her hands together. Was the moon as soft as her Miku? The thought brought fresh tears.

  But the words that followed abruptly stopped her sobs, stirring something within her. Her wings fluttered.

  he said softly.

  Aurenya blinked, her flame wings fluttering. "Helmra," she whispered, savoring the word. "The month he was born… Helmfrost…"

  Her face flushed red. "I want to touch…" she stammered, hastily covering her mouth. She glanced around, checking if anyone had heard her, but no one was there.

  Alone in this small world, she folded her wings as the golden trees swayed gently. She waited for him to speak again.

  The words painted a beauty that was never hers to behold.

  In her radiant realm, Aurenya smiled. She hadn't smiled since Miku dissolved. "Luna," she tested the name.

  Eventually, Aurenya hummed, swaying her feet back and forth in the golden lake. The voice wandered through scenes of its world for an unknown time.

  Strange visions danced behind her eyelids—steam rising from a seemingly flaming wooden bowl in her mind, the friction of palms clasping together, things she could relate to.

  She reached out to the empty air, her fingers grazing nothing but the damp mist of the lake, suddenly acutely aware of the empty space beside her.

  A beautiful world filled with companionship. His was a world of seasons, moon, and 'lovers'—whatever that word meant.

  As the story flowed, she leaned against the golden bank, her mind drifting. "What does he look like?" Her heart thumped with each word in the low-pitched tone. She raised her fingers to catch the words, her wings fluttering uselessly. She pictured him—was he vast, a colossal creature with jagged teeth? Or perhaps... Her lids flickered open, and there, cradled in the green, was a tiny traveler among the stalks.

  She stretched her hand. The bug climbed up, glowing faintly.

  She hugged the bug, a soft smile spreading across her face. "It doesn’t matter," she muttered under her breath. Bringing it close to her face, she hoped to feel its frost. But it wasn't cold.

  Aurenya fluttered from the golden banks to the other side of the lake, hugging the frost tree, Nhalrien. "If he is as cold as you, Nhalrien, he won't die, right? Can he take my heat? Or like Miku..."

  There was no answer.