"Dorian!"
Somewhere in the heart of a freezing snowstorm, Rosalind ran—but she couldn't tell where she was, or how she had come to be there.
The only thing she knew—was that she had to find Dorian.
But in that swirling blizzard, her voice seemed to vanish into the wind. The sky above was blanketed with thick gray clouds, and the snow fell so heavily that it obscured all sense of direction.
Before her, there was nothing but whiteness—a cold, endless maze with no way out. Rosalind stumbled through the storm, her cloak whipped by the wind, her tangled hair clinging to her face.
Even though her legs trembled, she kept moving.
She kept calling his name...
"Dorian! Where are you…?"
No answer came—only the howling of the wind.
The ground beneath her feet turned slick. A creeping dread rose in her chest like icy water flooding her lungs. Amid the boundless stretch of white, a dark streak cut through the snow—a trail of blood, stark and unbroken, leading somewhere into the distance.
Her steps faltered.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
But her body kept moving… drawn forward by something she couldn't explain, as if hypnotized by that crimson line.
The snow continued to fall...
She walked on… and on… until she reached the end of the trail.
There, against the vast field of white, lay his motionless body. One hand outstretched at his side, as if he had tried to hold onto something—but failed. His silver hair was splayed across the snow, indistinguishable from it.
An arrow pierced his back, its black shaft carved with a strange emblem—an angular symbol entwined with what looked like a serpent coiled around a sun. Blood had bloomed across the fabric like a cruel stain, stark against the white.
A scream rose, raw and desperate, but died before it reached her mouth.
Her legs buckled beneath her, and for a second, she couldn't breathe, couldn't think—her stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing at her throat.
"No…" she whispered, a trembling denial. "No, no, this can't be..."
The blood... so much blood.
It spread like a wound across the snow, and it was his. All his.
A shiver ran through her, not from the cold, but from something darker.
A terror so sharp it made her heart ache.
Rosalind collapsed beside him. Her trembling hands reached for his pale face, lips quivering with unspoken words.
"Dorian… please…"
Her voice broke, lost in the icy air.
She pulled him into her arms… but his body was cold—cold as death.
"Please… God Luxaris… don't take him from me…"
Rosalind jolted awake.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, eyes wide and wild, darting across the dim room. Her nightdress clung to her skin, damp with sweat, though her whole body still trembled from an inner cold.
The hearth crackled softly nearby, casting flickering shadows across the walls—but the warmth didn't reach her.
"Dorian…"
She whispered his name again, this time in waking reality. One hand clutched at her chest, right where her heart pounded in frantic, erratic beats.
Another nightmare. Another vision that felt terrifyingly real.
She sat motionless at the edge of the bed, eyes unfocused, staring into nothing.
The dreams always came. Always found a way into her mind.
Rosalind recalled how it had all begun—after that terrible fever she had suffered just before the wedding.
Now, as the first light of dawn seeped through the frost-laced windowpanes, she didn't move. She merely watched—watched as darkness loosened its grip on the room, as color returned to the world inch by inch.
She didn't know if the dream was a warning or just a ghost of fear.
She didn't know if it came from memory… or something deeper, something beyond understanding.
Even if she couldn't grasp the shape of what lay ahead, she wouldn't let uncertainty rule her.
She would hold her ground.
Because love—however fragile, however terrifying—was not something she would run from.
The morning had come, but she knew the shadows had not gone far.
And so, as dawn touched the earth, she rose to meet the day — not with certainty, but with quiet resolve.
Morning light slowly spread across the cold stone floor, slipping past the thick curtains like the gentle hand of time.
Rosalind remained seated at the edge of the bed, her hands intertwined as if contemplating something deeply.
After a while, she rose, wrapped a thin fur cloak around her shoulders, and walked to the copper basin near the fireplace.
The moment her fingers touched the water, a shiver ran down her spine.
Though winter had passed, in Everfrost, the cold never truly faded.
It clung to everything — from grass and leaves to stone walls and cloth… and now, even to water.
As the icy water swept across her cheeks, Rosalind felt herself awakening.
Not just from sleep — but from the silence that had enveloped her these past days.
She looked into the mirror before her, and the reflection stared back with violet eyes no longer clouded by hesitation. But for a fleeting second, something strange stirred in her chest.
Am I… dreaming of a life I haven't lived—or remembering one I already have?" Rosalind asking herself.
She didn't know why, but it felt as though she had stood here before. The same pale dawn light. The same cold basin. The same chill clinging to her skin.
And that face—her face—bearing that same solemn look.
Not just once.
Many times.
It wasn't memory, and yet… it wasn't entirely imagination either.
A whisper curled at the edge of her thoughts—something she couldn't quite hear, like a name spoken underwater.
For a moment, her reflection almost looked like someone else's. Or perhaps… someone she used to be.
She blinked.
The sensation passed.
But the unease remained.
Turning away, Rosalind made her way to the writing desk. She pulled open a drawer and took out parchment, ink, and a quill.
Her fingers still trembled from the cold, but her writing hand remained steady.
To my beloved queen.
She penned a letter — not only to the monarch she served, but to the sister she loved dearly.
Each word, each line, was written with calm precision.
She wrote of recent happenings in Everfrost, and how a bountiful harvest was expected.
Rosalind mentioned, half amused, the warehouse manager's comment — that perhaps it was thanks to the beautiful rose brought back from the capital, carrying warmth with her.
The people spoke of her as the blue rose of the sacred land — a bloom that could flourish no matter the conditions.
What a curious comparison... one she hoped she could truly embrace.
She also wrote of her relationship with Dorian.
They seemed to be making progress. At the very least, her sister needn't worry that she'd be alone in the far north.
It wasn't just Dorian — the warmth of the people here gave her a sense of belonging.
Still, there were things that troubled her — especially now that Dorian was facing the Redmark raiders.
Those savage remnants once defeated by their late king had returned.
No longer content with mere skirmishes, they were stealing from villages, killing innocents.
Many had been forced to abandon their homes... just to survive.
And she, as Duchess of House Valemont, wanted to help them.
Knock knock.
"It's Elise, my lady."
"Come in."
Elise stepped inside with her usual cheerful expression.
"You're up early today, my lady."
Rosalind offered a faint smile. Elise knew her too well not to notice even the slightest change.
"I had... a strange dream again."
Elise paused, eyes studying her.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm not sure... maybe."
Dorian's death — those two words alone were enough to make her chest tighten.
How could she say she was fine, when she had witnessed something so terrible?
But she couldn't speak of it — not to Elise.
She couldn't bring herself to share that horror... not yet.
"I heard something the other day," Elise said, voice brightening slightly. "About a legend from the sacred land of Everfrost.
They say this is where Lord Luxaris laid the body of the Moon Goddess, Selatheia, so the moon would never fade from the sky and also his lover.
But over time, her divine essence began to wane.
Only during the full moon does her spirit return — the one moment she can reunite with Luxaris, the love of her life." Elise's eyes sparkled.
"And when they meet, the blue roses bloom across the land, no matter the cold, no matter the snow."
Rosalind listened in silence, letting the story settle into the quiet of her mind.
It was a beautiful tale. One of longing and reunion — of love that defied the ages.
But somewhere beneath the surface of that beauty was something sorrowful.
How could the god of fate himself stand powerless before fate?
Even divinity couldn't rewrite the threads already woven.
In the end, even those bound by love — even gods — must endure separation.
So this was fate, then. Not a path to be resisted, but a sentence to be endured.
Its always remembers. Even when we do not.
What a beautiful love that must have been, Rosalind thought, listening intently as Elise rambled on.
"That's a lovely story… but why are you telling me this?"
Elise blinked, as if someone had knocked her on the head.
Perhaps she had gotten too carried away by the romance of it all.
"Well... I mean, this is a sacred land. Surely there must be seers here. Maybe you could visit one... to help interpret those dreams?"
Interpret the dreams?
Rosalind blinked. The thought had never crossed her mind.
She had always believed her dreams meant something — but never considered that they might be deciphered.
"That's an interesting idea," she said quietly. "I'll think about it."