Ash beneath Snows

Some time had passed since the events that cracked the sky.

Ellejort, however, had not softened. The cold here didn't fade — it lingered like a memory that refused to die. The kind that outlives wars.

Within the austere, frost-bitten city, beneath snow-blanketed eaves and bone-white skies, Atiya, Zelaine, and Elim had taken quiet shelter in the old home of Zellerick — the war-scarred man who spoke less and watched more. It wasn't a home so much as a resting point between scars.

Elim barely spoke now. The boy — once fast-witted, sharp-eyed — was a husk wrapped in silence. Brainwashed to the edge of being, he flinched at shadows and forgot how to shape words. Zelaine had tried, at first, but even her threads couldn't reach him. Not yet.

Zelaine, for her part, was consumed with her sigil. Or what remained of it.

The Thornvine, once so fearsome, now flickered, frayed — its roots stunted, its flowers refused to bloom. She didn't say it aloud, but the rot haunted her fingertips every time she tried to manifest.

Neither of them had told their hosts they were from Rarth. Not Zellerick. Not Manglaan.

And certainly not Ellejort.

Because truth had consequences.

There was an ancient pact, inked long before either of them were born: that Earth and the other 167 Belts must never step on Ellejort's snow without the Queen's leave. A sacred clause from the age of the Cosmic War — a cold promise etched in frost and memory.

They had broken that promise. Knowingly or unknowingly, it didn't matter. The snow remembered.

There was no way home. Not unless they approached the Ellejort military or the Queen's court directly — a path lined with risk, pride, and politics neither of them understood.

So Atiya trained. Quietly. Stubbornly. Every night, he tried to summon the flame.

Every night, he failed.

---

In the meantime, life wore on.

Atiya had started running errands for the house. Groceries, medicine, bandages for Elim's fractured state. It kept his mind busy. Gave him a rhythm.

He'd grown familiar with Penelope — the nurse. The same Penelope. She didn't ask too many questions. Just checked his pulse with soft fingers and asked if he'd been eating well.

"You were a patient too, not so long ago," she'd remind him.

Today was the same.

Mostly.

He'd just finished picking up supplies. A paper sack in one hand. Snow crunching beneath his boots. But as he reached the bend that would take him home, something in him shifted.

An impulse.

He turned the other way.

Toward the mansion.

---

The William estate.

It rose like a monument of silence on the frozen plains — ancient, grand, weathered. Its steep gables and frost-bitten arches cast long shadows on the snow. Stone walls thick as a fortress. Windows narrow and dark. The mansion itself seemed built not to impress — but to survive.

Old Ellejort design.

The kind that remembered winters from centuries ago.

Atiya stood there. Just outside its reach.

He didn't know why. He told himself it was just a whim. But his eyes lingered.

Why here?

Why did the teleportation — the rift — bring us here of all places?

He took a step forward.

"Seems I'm not the only one who always ends up here," came a voice behind him.

Atiya turned. Manglaan stood beneath the shade of a wind-bitten awning, his coat thick, eyes distant.

Atiya blinked. "Yeah," he said softly. "Maybe not."

Manglaan stepped beside him. "The mansion doesn't let me in anymore."

That made Atiya frown. "Why not?"

"Ivansia's orders," Manglaan said, voice thinner than usual. "After what happened."

He didn't elaborate.

But his eyes… they held something — not fear, but a longing so heavy it felt like a memory refusing to rot.

Atiya's fingers tightened slightly on the grocery sack.

He thought about asking more.

But the moment passed.

"I was going to go in," Atiya said, shrugging faintly. "But I've lost interest."

Manglaan gave a small nod — half-approval, half-relief.

Atiya turned back down the hill, boots carving soft furrows in the snow.

Home — if it could be called that — waited.

Behind him, the mansion stood unmoving.

And above them, the frost-laced winds of Ellejort whispered quietly.

As if remembering the pact still broken.

---

The wind outside howled softly through the frozen fences of Ellejort. Snow clung to the windows of Zellerick's modest house like ash that never melted.

Atiya pushed open the door, Manglaan trailing behind him, both brushing the cold from their cloaks.

"I'll cook something," Manglaan offered, already turning toward the kitchen.

But Zellerick, seated cross-legged on a cushion by the furnace, shook his head. "There's no need."

Manglaan paused, blinked once. "What? I told you not to cook. Your food tastes like boiled parchment."

Zellerick blinked, unfazed. "I didn't cook."

Atiya tilted his head. "Huh? Then… what? Did some neighbor stop by?"

He sniffed the air.

There was definitely food.

Zellerick shrugged. "No one came."

A chill traced Atiya's spine. His eyes narrowed.

"She… didn't cook, did she?"

---

Tray in hand, Atiya made his way to Zelaine's new room. He didn't bother knocking — manners rarely applied between them anymore.

The room was minimalist and silent, bathed in pale light from the ajar window. A single bed, a plain rug, a water glass on the side table. The kind of place that remembered function, not comfort.

Atiya placed the tray down and, with absolutely no ceremony, pulled Zelaine up by the shoulders.

"What the—!?" she shouted, half-asleep, and threw a flurry of sleepy punches.

He dodged them, grinning. "Food's ready."

"Then leave it here and die." She rolled over.

But Atiya didn't budge. "We need to talk."

Zelaine groaned, sat up with a scowl, and rubbed her eyes. "Talk or scold?"

Atiya glanced toward the tray. "So… what impulse made you cook?"

She scoffed. "I was hungry. Missed Earth food. Thought I'd replicate something from home."

Atiya looked back at her, deadpan. "So you woke up hungry, cooked, and then went back to bed without eating?"

"Cooking's exhausting," she muttered.

He stared.

"You haven't changed at all, Vampy."

She smirked. "Can't figure out if you're insulting or praising me."

"I wouldn't even feed that stew to pigs."

She kicked him.

Hard.

Atiya yelped and stumbled back, holding his side. "What the hell, Zelaine!?"

"I miss Meow," she said, wistfully.

"…You named your cat Meow?" he groaned.

"Got a problem with that?"

Atiya shook his head and sighed. "Lazy naming. Figures."

---

Later, they lay on her bed — both staring up at the ceiling like two children who had seen too much.

Atiya broke the silence first.

"I know you're not asleep."

Zelaine didn't respond. She had mastered the sacred art of ignoring Atiya — especially when he spoke like that.

"I think that mansion… William's place… it might hold answers. Maybe a way home."

Home.

Zelaine flinched at the word. For her, home was soaked in blood and failure.

"You better return fast," she said at last. "Before your sister burns the cosmos looking for you."

Atiya's face darkened. "Yaishna…"

He didn't want to imagine her fury.

He reached toward her, fingers brushing the edge of her blanket.

"Let's go together."

She turned away.

"I'm not ready to see that place again," she whispered. "Not the corpses. Not the horrors. It still lives in my blood."

Silence again.

Then she added, softer:

"In a dream… someone told me a sigil is waiting for you, Atiya."

He frowned. "Dreams?"

His voice tightened.

"They're just lies that dress up like truths."

---

Zelaine didn't argue. She just stared at the ceiling — where shadows of frost danced faintly like ghosts.

Atiya closed his eyes.

But just before sleep took him, he thought he saw a shape move beyond the window.

A flicker.

A silhouette on the snow.

Watching.

Waiting.