A World Not Meant to Be

The snow had just begun to fall.

It wasn't the harsh kind — not yet. Just a light dusting, like the world was being quietly powdered into stillness. Flakes drifted down in slow spirals, catching in the folds of May's cloak, melting where they touched the heat of her skin. The sky overhead was a soft silver-grey, unbroken, like the breath of something ancient pressing low against the earth.

She stood at the edge of the village path, where the road curved into the city's outskirts. From here, the walls were visible — high, smooth stone rising from frost-bitten ground like the spine of some sleeping giant. Finished now. Just as she remembered. A perfect seal.

If autumn had been a season of movement — of change and misdirection — then winter was something else entirely.

Stillness. Return. The part of the story where time didn't move forward, but curled back in on itself. Where breath came slower. Where truths, buried beneath falling leaves, began to resurface.

May exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cold. It curled like smoke around her face, then vanished.

The city stood silent.

Too silent.

She scanned the surrounding fields and fences, her sharp eyes sweeping across sloped rooftops and shuttered windows. Nothing moved but the wind. The air felt… withdrawn. Not abandoned, but inward. Villagers still lived here — she could sense them — but they were quieter now. Drawn in. As if the coming season had not just changed the sky, but pulled at the edges of the people too.

May adjusted the strap of her satchel and continued forward.

The gates, once always ajar, were now closed and manned by guards in stiff silver cloaks. They didn't challenge her. They didn't need to. She passed by without a word, her steps light and quiet as falling snow. One of them turned slightly, eyes narrowing — maybe recognizing her, maybe just sensing something off — but no one stopped her.

She paused once beneath the archway, tilting her head back to take in the full height of the wall.

It looked the same as it had in her memory.

And that, in itself, was the most unsettling thing.

It had been built to keep something out. Or perhaps, more truthfully, to keep something in.

Either way, it had succeeded.

She moved through the city streets like a shadow, stepping over frozen puddles and brittle leaves. The snow had begun to settle on rooftops and railings now, softening the hard lines of the buildings.

She noticed the boarded windows first. Then the shuttered market stalls. The empty benches.

People were still here, yes — she passed a few bundled figures, shoulders hunched, moving quickly between homes or shops — but no one lingered. No laughter in the alleys. No singing from windows. The spirit of autumn's harvest festivals had vanished as if it had never been.

It was early still, she reminded herself. Not even dawn.

And yet… she knew.

Something in the city had changed.

The illusion hadn't cracked.

But it had slowed. Hardened. Like a pond beginning to freeze.

May reached the familiar cobblestone lane that led to the inn. The Weaver's Rest. Their fallback place after Papa's Roost. She looked up at the window she knew belonged to their room — faint light behind thick curtains. They were still here. Still within reach.

The snowfall grew heavier around her.

She stepped forward.

And the gates of winter swung open behind her.

---

The door creaked open with a hush of cold air and snow-dampened leather.

May stepped inside, brushing the chill from her shoulders as the warmth of the hearth reached for her — not fully, not eagerly, but like a tired welcome still doing its job.

The Weaver's Rest looked exactly as she'd left it. Old beams above, scuffed floors below. The hearth was alive, but barely, its fire struggling to stay lit in the sleepy hush of dawn. A battered kettle sat near the coals, steaming faintly. One oil lamp still burned near the bar.

And behind it stood the innkeeper.

He was already awake — of course he was. He always was.

A wide man, sturdy with age and muscle faded into sinew. His white shirt was rolled at the sleeves, revealing the ghost of old tattoos. Scars too — the kind you get from running toward danger, not away from it. He wiped a mug with the sort of patience that suggested he'd once wielded something far heavier.

When he looked up and saw her, he didn't startle.

Just gave a small nod, like he'd been expecting her the whole time.

"So," he said quietly, voice like gravel over ash. "You're back."

May didn't answer immediately. Her eyes swept the room. Every table empty. Only the crackling fire spoke.

Then she gave a small nod of her own.

"I am."

The innkeeper set the mug down and leaned an elbow on the counter, not pressing, not waiting. He understood the weight of stories left untold.

"They're upstairs," he said. "Room with the east-facing window."

May's gaze flicked toward the staircase. Still no sound from above. She nodded again, a breath softer this time. "Thank you."

The man shrugged, wiping the counter with his cloth. "Didn't think they'd still be in town. Thought you all were passin' through."

His tone wasn't questioning. It was just fact. A stone set down in the road.

"We were," she murmured.

She moved toward the stairs. Her boots were soundless over the worn wood, cloak trailing behind her like a shadow.

He didn't watch her go. Just turned back to the fire, picked up the kettle, and began making tea.

The world outside was freezing.

Inside, the inn creaked quietly in its bones — and May slipped up the stairs like a thought not yet spoken aloud.

---

The door to the upstairs room opened with a whisper.

May stepped inside, and for a moment — just a moment — she stood in stillness.

The air was warmer here. Softened by breath, dreams, and old wood sighing in the quiet. A single curtain moved faintly with the wind, casting silver light across the floorboards. It was early — too early for city bells, too early for voices. Even the streets below hadn't begun to stir.

Two beds.

One close to the wall, tangled slightly with restless sheets. Moore's arm hung over the edge, fingers curled loosely toward the floor. His coat was draped over the end of the frame like someone had tossed it there and forgotten.

The other bed — Ronell's — was neater. More centered. Her breathing was deep, slow, her hand resting softly against her cheek, hair scattered across the pillow like strands of sunlight. Her expression was peaceful, but her brows furrowed ever so slightly in sleep — as if chasing something just out of reach.

May stood there for a while. Just… looking.

The weight of time pressed against her chest. Not heavy. Not painful. Just there — like something you'd almost grown used to carrying.

These weren't the real ones. Not exactly. But they were close enough to break her heart.

She stepped further in. Quiet as thought. Then, slowly, she crouched near Ronell's bedside.

Her gloved hand hovered briefly above the blanket — but didn't touch.

Instead, with a familiar flick of magic and motion, her body shifted. Fur in place of skin, paws in place of fingers. Ears twitching at every sound, tail curling lightly. Her form grew smaller, softer.

A black cat, silent as a shadow, now curled at the foot of Ronell's bed.

She didn't want to wake them.

Didn't want to explain why her throat felt tight.

Didn't want to admit how much she had missed this — the nearness of them, the warmth of shared sleep, the fragile illusion of safety in a world still pretending not to be broken.

May lay her head down on the blanket, eyes still open for a while longer. Just enough to memorize the quiet. Just enough to pretend.

Then, slowly — finally — she closed her eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, she slept.

---

Dreams came softly.

At first, it was just the wind — not cold, not biting — but warm, laced with jasmine and laughter. Distant bells, garden rustle, and the sound of running water. The scent of spring.

She recognized it before she opened her eyes.

The royal garden.

Back then, it had been brighter. Less guarded. Less walled. Birds called to each other between fruit trees, and the soft crunch of tiny boots on gravel echoed like music across the cobblestones.

A little girl was giggling.

Ronell.

Her hair had been shorter then, fluffier — sun-kissed and tangled from rolling through grass. Her dress was rumpled with movement, and her knees bore faint scrapes from adventures no one had authorized. She knelt in the grass, half-hidden beneath a rose arch, trying to hold still as her hands slowly reached forward.

"C'mere, kitty…"

May watched herself — her old self, already as she was now, curled among the flowers, pretending not to understand. She'd been visiting in secret, at first. Drawn by curiosity. By the girl's quiet presence.

But Ronell had found her anyway.

Not the real her — just a cat.

Just a black cat with watchful eyes.

That's what she had been, in Ronell's world.

A playmate. A pillow. A mystery that never needed solving.

And gods, she had loved that child.

She had let Ronell braid flowers into her fur. Let her tug her gently into sun-warmed laps. Let her whisper all her secrets into her twitching ears. She'd watched her grow from toddler to young girl — stubborn, sweet, filled with stories. Not knowing who May was.

Not knowing what May was.

But loving her anyway.

"I'll keep you forever," Ronell had declared once, hugging her too tightly.

And May, with her head tucked into the crook of a small arm, had thought:No. I'll be the one to keep you.

A promise.

Soft. Unspoken.

One she failed to keep.

The dream shifted.

It always did.

Sunlight fractured into shadows. Gardens cracked and turned to ash. Laughter gave way to silence.

And then: the boy.

Not yet a man. Not quite a god.

But powerful. Warped. Broken in the way stars break — from within.

She saw flashes.The storm in his eyes.The crown of thorns that wasn't a crown at all.The siblings bound. The Queen screaming.Magic swallowing magic, and May — too slow.

Too late.

Power had poured from him like smoke, curling into every crevice of the realm. It had rewritten reality before she could even raise a ward.

And when she tried—

When she tried to stop it—

She couldn't.

Not fast enough.

Not strong enough.

They had vanished into the spiral of it.Trapped.Lost.Taken.

And she had lived.

She woke with a start.

No sound escaped her, but her heart pounded as if she'd run through a hundred lifetimes in the span of a breath.

The inn was still quiet.

Cold light streamed faintly through the curtains. The room hadn't changed. The siblings still slept — one bed slightly rustled now, the other undisturbed.

No.

Wait.

They were gone.

Ronell's blanket had been folded back. Moore's jacket was missing from the bedpost.

Panic twitched behind her ribs — but then she saw it.

A note.

Folded once, tucked neatly where her head had lain.

She padded to it in cat form, then shifted back, crouching quietly as she picked it up.

Just a few lines. Neatly written. In Ronell's hand.

"Glad to have you back.We're heading out early.

Don't vanish again."

Simple.

Kind.

Forgiving in a way May didn't think she deserved.

She let out a soft breath. A single drop fell onto the page — catching on the ink, blooming faintly.

She hadn't even realized she was crying.

---

The morning mist had lifted by midday, leaving behind a bright, pale sky and a city dusted in powdery white. Children's laughter rang through the side streets like the chiming of little bells, echoing across rooftops and stone.

Ronell had meant to just watch. Truly. She stood on the edge of the square, bundled in a too-big scarf and half-buttoned coat, sipping from a cup of lukewarm cider, enjoying the view of a group of local kids rolling snow into increasingly crooked fortresses.

Then Moore had grinned at her.

And lobbed a snowball directly at her cup.

It missed—barely—but the message was clear.

She raised an eyebrow. "You really want to start this?"

Moore only shrugged, eyes glittering with mischief. "Already did."

It was chaos from there.

Ronell ditched the cider. Moore ducked behind a barrel. The local teens, already halfway into a loose skirmish of their own, welcomed the new recruits without hesitation.

Snow flew in every direction. Forts collapsed. Laughs turned into shrieks as ambushes sprang from alleyways and bushes. One boy rolled an entire snow boulder down a short hill, taking out a cluster of defenders like a miniature avalanche.

Ronell was surprisingly quick on her feet. She darted between carts, slid across the slick stone, and popped up from behind crates with frightening accuracy. Moore, for his part, had the aim of someone who absolutely had done this before.

"I'm calling truce!" someone cried through giggles.

"Too late!" Ronell shouted, hurling one last snowball into the air like a war cry.

But then—chaos paused.

A particularly enthusiastic throw arced just a bit too far, smacking squarely into the fur-lined shoulder of a passing nobleman. He jolted, staggered, and spun with wide eyes. The hush was immediate.

The man sputtered. "Who dares—?!"

"Oh no," Moore muttered, backing up behind a teen with a shovel.

Ronell blinked. "Oops."

Just as the nobles began muttering indignantly, a familiar voice sliced through the tension, cool and amused:

"You'll pay for that."

Everyone turned.

The princess stood at the edge of the square — arms crossed, eyebrow raised, snow already crumbling from her shoulder. Despite her regal posture, there was a mischievous gleam in her eye.

"With a proper match."

She removed her gloves with slow precision. The crowd scattered into squeals and shrieks as the snowstorm resumed — this time with the princess leading the charge.

It was glorious.

The nobleman was too stunned to react, watching as she joined the fray. Snowballs arced like comets, the sky filled with laughter. Even the guards standing nearby had to look away, half-hiding their smiles.

The princess, ducking behind a market cart, locked eyes with Moore. "Your form is sloppy."

"Says the girl who just got nailed by a twelve-year-old."

She lobbed two snowballs in rapid succession. He yelped, caught one in the shoulder.

"Okay, okay!" he cried, laughing.

Just as Ronell was preparing a sneak attack, a hand landed on the princess's shoulder.

A royal guard. His expression serious.

"Your Grace," he said quietly, "you're needed. Urgently."

The shift was instant.

The warmth in the princess's face cooled. She didn't argue — only nodded once, brushing the snow from her cloak.

She glanced back at Ronell and Moore, the weight of something unspoken in her gaze.

"Hold the fort without me," she said lightly. "But don't get too comfortable. I will return for vengeance."

Then she turned, disappearing into the street with the guard at her side, leaving behind a trail of crushed snow and curious silence.

The game stuttered after that. The children trickled off. Moore sat on a bench, breathing hard, red-cheeked.

Ronell stood beside him, looking toward the direction the princess had gone.

"…Do you think it's serious?" she asked.

Moore just shrugged. "Could be."

He looked up at the clouds.

"Could be everything."

---

The snow had eased by the time Ronell wandered through the temple district, her boots leaving shallow prints in the slush-blanketed path. The sun was pale behind gauzy clouds, casting the city in a soft, frosted light. Most of the shops were still shuttered from the morning's cold, the streets quieter than usual — like even the stones were waiting for something.

She passed through the winding alleys with no real destination. But her feet found the way.

The ivy-covered archway welcomed her with quiet memory. The same half-collapsed structure leaned gently, its vines now laced with snowflakes instead of dew. The old library beyond it looked untouched by time — or perhaps forgotten by it.

She pushed open the door.

Inside, warmth met her like a breath. Not from a hearth, but from something older — the kind of stillness that came from stories long left undisturbed. Dust spiraled lazily through golden shafts of winter light. The air smelled of old parchment and forgotten ink.

The caretaker was there, curled in their oversized shawl as before, tucked into a corner armchair like part of the furniture. They didn't look up, but spoke as Ronell stepped in:

"The shelves missed you."

Ronell smiled faintly. "I missed them, too."

She wandered deeper between crooked stacks and tilted shelves. Some books had shifted since her last visit. Others had not. There were no signs, no labels — just presence. Just waiting.

Eventually, her fingers paused on a familiar spine — slim, leather-bound, with a faded ribbon curling from the edge. She drew it out gently, her breath catching in the cold air.

When she opened it, a leaf pressed between the pages crumbled slightly into her palm — golden, red, and perfectly imperfect.

A memory.

She turned a few more pages.

Then stopped.

The text was blank.

Until it wasn't.

Ink bled upward from the parchment, blooming like water seeping into cloth — delicate, controlled. Lines formed, elegant and careful, in a language she didn't quite recognize… but understood.

Her fingers hovered above the page. She flipped forward.

A drawing began to form — a city gate. A girl. Her.

The style was unmistakably her own, down to the way the lines curled around the rooftops.

Had she drawn this? She didn't remember.

She sank down, cross-legged on the worn rug beside the shelf, the book open across her knees. From her satchel, she pulled her sketchbook — mostly untouched since late summer — and a charcoal pencil already dulled at the tip.

She drew.

Not with purpose. Not even with thought.

May's shadow, stretched across a rooftop. Moore's lopsided grin as he flung a snowball. The way the princess fixed a loose braid with the back of her hand. Even the library's arched ceiling, crisscrossed by vines visible through stained glass.

The hours passed unnoticed.

When she next turned a page in the strange book, something had appeared in the margin — not sketched, not part of the narrative, but written in a small, deliberate scrawl:

"You were not meant to stay."

Ronell stared at it.

The candle beside her flickered slightly. A draft swept through the hall. She couldn't tell if it was part of the book or if someone else had left it.

She copied the line into her sketchbook — slowly, carefully — then closed both books and held them against her chest.

The silence of the library wrapped around her like a second coat.

And somewhere outside, the snow began to fall again.

---

The snow had settled by the time Moore slipped out of the city again.

The day was nearing dusk, though the winter sun made it feel like evening already. The sky was cloud-drenched and dim, brushing everything in shades of steel blue and silver. His boots crunched faintly in the thin layer of frost covering the dirt path — the same one they'd followed months ago, when everything had felt... newer.

Lighter.

He didn't have a reason for being out here. Not really. Maybe just the need to breathe somewhere without stone walls pressing in. Without questions. Without anyone looking at him like they were waiting for something he didn't know how to give.

The further he walked, the quieter the air became.

Then, he saw a figure in the distance — small, moving slowly across the white field near a lone tree.

It was a kid. One of the same ones from the snowball fight earlier, bundled in mismatched layers and holding something close to their chest.

Moore slowed. The kid didn't notice him. Just kept walking — determined, careful — toward a row of low stones arranged in a semi-circle by the tree's base.

A quiet memorial.

It was nothing grand. Just melted candle stubs, a few bundles of dried herbs, scraps of cloth tied to the bare branches above. Winter offerings, faded and delicate. Signs of remembrance.

Moore lingered at the edge, behind a frost-bitten bush.

The child knelt and placed something between two stones — a folded cloth doll, crudely made, but loved. They whispered something.

Then louder:"For my brother. He never made it through the wall."

Moore froze.

He didn't know why it hit so hard. Why his lungs suddenly forgot how to work. Why his hands clenched inside his coat sleeves.

The kid stayed there for a long moment, then rose and padded away, boots crunching against the snow. Moore didn't follow.

He waited until the child was gone before stepping forward.

His eyes found the doll again, half-sunken in snow, a patch of blue thread stitched into its sleeve. Something about it twisted in his chest — not memory, exactly. Not yet. But the echo of something. A hollowed ache.

He glanced around.

A shallow puddle had formed in the broken earth nearby — water that hadn't frozen entirely, rippling faintly in the breeze. He moved closer and looked down.

His reflection stared back.

But it was wrong.

The shape of his face, his eyes — too dark, too sharp. He looked tired. Older. Not just from the cold, but from something deeper, something unsettled beneath the surface. For a moment, he didn't recognize himself.

And he hated that.

He turned quickly, pulling his coat tighter.

Didn't linger.

Didn't look back.

Suddenly—

It was the kind of sound that didn't belong in snow-covered woods.

A soft, wet crackle — not wind, not branch — followed by a low, guttural chuff that rattled beneath the trees.

Moore's shoulders tensed.

He froze, mid-step, boots pressing into the snow as if the world had gone still around him. His eyes snapped toward the treeline.

The kid hadn't gone far.

Still close enough to be seen—just at the edge of the clearing, adjusting a scarf, looking back one last time toward the little memorial.

They didn't hear it.

Still vulnerable.

Moore stepped forward, slow, careful, hand already inching toward the dagger hidden beneath his coat.

Then it came.

A shape burst from the underbrush — fast, feral, and wrong.

It moved like it had once known how to be something natural. A beast, maybe. But it had forgotten. Its limbs twitched too fast, too sharp, as if it remembered motion but not structure. Black veins crawled beneath slick fur. Bone jutted where it shouldn't. And its eyes — glowing, sickly, wrong — locked on the child.

It lunged.

"Hey!" Moore shouted, instinct overriding thought, feet flying beneath him before his mind could catch up.

The kid barely had time to gasp.

Moore crashed into them, sending both tumbling behind a snowbank. His body shielded theirs even as he hit the ground hard, the cold punching the air from his lungs.

His hand moved on its own — drawing the dagger in one practiced, ragged sweep.

Not elegant.

Not heroic.

Just necessary.

He rose into a low stance, snow crunching beneath his boots, placing himself between the child and the monster. His breath came out in sharp plumes, visible and fast.

The beast shrieked — a warped sound of hunger and rot — and came for him.

Moore didn't flinch.

The snow exploded around them as the creature collided with steel.

---

The dagger trembled slightly in Moore's grip — not from fear, but from restraint.

The creature circled low in the snow, limbs jerking with unnatural rhythm. Its mouth hung open in a silent snarl, black ichor glistening in its teeth. The corrupted glow in its eyes pulsed like fever, like pain.

Moore didn't raise the blade yet.

His voice came out steady. Quiet. Not pleading — but real.

"You don't have to do this…"

The wind caught his coat as he stepped forward — not threatening, but firm. Like someone reaching toward a dog that had been beaten too long.

"I don't know what they did to you. I don't know if there's anything left of who you were. But I don't want to kill you."

The creature twitched, jerking back as if recoiling from something it couldn't understand. Its front paw — or hand? — scraped across the snow, leaving long black streaks. Breath fumed from its nose in ragged bursts.

For a moment, it almost seemed confused.

Moore took one more step. The dagger lowered slightly.

"You were someone once. Weren't you?"

A sound escaped the creature — not quite a growl. More like a broken sob through too many teeth. Its head twitched, violently, as though something inside resisted the shape it had become.

And then — too fast to follow — it lunged.

A screech tore through the air as its body sprang forward, claws raised, mouth open. There was no person left in its eyes. Only fury and hunger.

Moore moved on instinct.

The dagger came up just in time.

Steel met bone.

Blood — if that's what it was — sprayed across the snow in long black arcs.

---

The first strike didn't kill it.

Moore twisted aside as the beast barreled past, its claws grazing the edge of his coat. He ducked low, pivoted on the ice with a sharp skid, and slashed again — low and fast, cutting into the back of the creature's leg. It howled, stumbling, but didn't fall.

It turned with a snarl that no longer belonged to anything human.

Moore didn't flinch.

He wasn't a soldier. Wasn't trained in elegant swordplay or tactical footwork. But he'd fought before — dirty, fast, desperate fights. Fights where hesitation got you hurt. Or worse.

The creature lunged again. Moore didn't try to block — he sidestepped, letting the momentum carry it past. He slammed his shoulder into its ribs, knocking it sideways, and plunged the dagger in deep between its shoulder blades.

Hot, tar-thick blood sprayed out across the snow.

It shrieked.

Twitched.

Spun — blindly, now — and Moore ducked under its flailing limbs, gritting his teeth as he drove the blade into its side. Again. And again.

No flourish. No pause.

Just motion.

Survival.

The creature sagged with a strangled gasp, legs folding beneath it. Its breath came in rattles, broken and fading. The sickly glow in its eyes dimmed slowly, like a dying coal.

Moore stood over it, chest heaving, arm shaking with the weight of what he'd done.

The forest fell silent again.

Only the sound of wind moving snow.

He watched the creature's last breath drift out in a plume of fog — then nothing.

It didn't disappear. It didn't dissolve.

It just… lay there.

Still.

Moore didn't lower the dagger right away.

His hand hovered, just in case.

Just until he was sure.

And even then… he didn't move.

Not for a long time.

---

The snow around the creature was stained dark, the steam of its last breath still curling into the cold air.

Moore stood above the body, dagger lowered now but still in hand. The weight of it felt heavier than before.

His breath came in short bursts, visible and sharp. The quiet returned—but it wasn't peaceful. It clung to him like frost, pressing in against his ribs.

Behind him, the child sniffled.

A small, shuddering sound. Fragile.

Moore turned, slowly.

The kid was crouched behind a low stone, arms wrapped tight around their knees, rocking slightly. No tears on their face—just glassy eyes and clenched teeth, trying not to cry but losing the fight.

Moore's voice came low.

"I didn't want to…"

But the words trailed off. No use finishing them. They wouldn't change anything.

He crouched down, checking the child over with quiet hands—brushing aside a bit of snow, tilting their chin gently to check for bruises. A small scrape on the cheek, a ripped sleeve, but otherwise unharmed.

"You're alright," he said. Not a question. A reassurance.

The kid nodded stiffly, eyes still wide.

Moore wiped his blade on the snow and slid it back into its sheath. His hands were shaking now — not from the cold. He pushed them deep into his coat pockets.

They stood there for a while, just breathing. The silence wasn't heavy anymore. It was hollow.

When the child was ready, Moore stood and offered a hand.

They took it.

No words passed between them.

Together, they began the walk back — boots crunching over fresh snow, dusk creeping slow and steady into the woods. The wind had picked up again, brushing dry leaves along the path behind them.

Ahead, the city walls loomed tall and still.

Stone rising from frost.

A shadow stretching long across the white earth.

Moore didn't look back at the body.

He didn't say anything else.

But he walked a little slower, as if the cold had finally reached something it shouldn't have.

---

By the time the bells rang across the city, dusk had painted the cathedral towers in muted gold. Candles flickered in every window, their flames casting trembling halos along the stone walls. The streets below stirred with motion — velvet cloaks trailing behind nobles, children clutching bundled lanterns, priests whispering chants beneath their breath as they led the way toward the square.

Inside, the grand doors opened with ceremonial weight, revealing the cathedral's inner light. Stained glass caught the last rays of sunlight, scattering color across the pews and the polished marble floors. Incense curled from silver urns, the scent thick with myrrh and something older — something rooted deep in memory and belief.

The royal family arrived in silence.

The Queen, veiled in winter white. The King, solemn beside her. And behind them, the princess — posture perfect, face unreadable, expression caught somewhere between duty and detachment.

They took their places beneath the great arch, where the Visionaries were honored.

Statues towered above the altar — some human, others abstract, shaped by ages of interpretation. Among them was a single robed figure carved from pale stone, one hand outstretched as if brushing the veil between worlds. Her hood was drawn low, and across the pedestal beneath her feet, a name had been etched:

MAYRA. THE GUIDING FLAME.

From the rooftop of a nearby building, May stood still.

She pressed one palm lightly to the glass of the arched window before her, her breath fogging the edges. Her other hand curled around the folds of her cloak, drawn tight around her body more for concealment than warmth.

Down below, voices rose in unison.

A hymn. Ancient. Gentle. Reverent.

They were singing to her.

Or rather — to the memory of her.

She didn't move.

Didn't blink.

The ceremony unfolded with practiced grace. Prayers were offered. Children came forward with flower garlands. The priests bowed. And at the height of the ritual, the princess stepped forward to light the ceremonial flame — the same one lit every winter to honor the Visionaries and beg their continued protection.

A small, blue spark flared at the wick. Applause followed.

And still, May did not move.

She felt… nothing.

Or rather — she felt too much, in the wrong shape.

She had once walked beside the very people who now knelt in her name. Had guided them, protected them, watched them grow.

And they had forgotten.

She had watched generations slip away like snowflakes melting on her palm. She had watched kingdoms rise and fall. She had watched a girl she loved become a stranger in her own story.

Her breath fogged the glass again.

She leaned forward, just slightly.

Her voice came in a whisper — raw and low and aching.

"You pray to what you've forgotten."

And the candlelight below flickered, as if the cathedral heard her.

But no one looked up.

Not even her.

---

The inn was warmer now.

Someone had fed the hearth, and the fire crackled steadily, casting long amber shadows along the floorboards. The scent of old cedar and smoke lingered in the beams, steeped into the bones of the building itself. But no one moved to speak. No one moved much at all.

The group had gathered again — not all at once, but gradually, like leaves blown back to the same corner.

Moore entered last. His coat was still damp at the shoulders, streaked faintly with ash and melted snow. He didn't offer explanation. Just stepped inside, closed the door behind him with a quiet click, and dropped into the nearest chair with a low exhale.

Ronell glanced up from her sketchbook, then back down again. Her pencil moved slowly — not confident, but steady. She had returned from the library with something heavy in her chest, and the line still echoed in her mind:

You were not meant to stay.

She had written it in the corner of her notebook. Stared at it more than she liked to admit. And now she found herself sketching May again, only from memory — curled in cat form beside her bed, that same quiet sadness lingering in her shape.

May was there now, too.

Curled once more at the foot of the bed, her fur rising and falling with slow, even breaths. But she wasn't asleep. Her eyes were open, barely. Watching the fire. Watching them. Present, but distant — like a candle in another room.

She remembered the note Ronell had left for her — scribbled handwriting folded neatly and tucked beside her head. Just a line:

Glad to have you back.

She hadn't cried.

But her eyes had stayed glassy for a long time after that single teardrop escaped her.

Now, the wind stirred outside — stronger than before, pressing softly at the windows. Flakes tapped against the panes, slow and persistent. The first real snowstorm had begun, quiet as a secret.

Moore rested his head against the back of the chair, eyes half-lidded. He hadn't changed out of his coat. His boots were still laced. A faint cut traced his knuckle, but he didn't seem to notice. If anyone looked too closely, they might've seen how tightly he held his jaw. How carefully still he was staying.

He hadn't said a word about what happened.

He wouldn't.

Ronell didn't ask. She simply kept drawing.

Then, after a while — softly:

"They called her Mayra today."

Moore opened one eye, not lifting his head. "The Guiding Flame."

He said it like he was tasting the words. Not mocking. Not reverent either. Just… unsure what they meant.

Ronell's pencil paused.

Neither of them looked at May.

But May looked at them.

Still in her cat form. Still unmoving. Her tail flicked once.

"I didn't choose that name," she said, her voice small but unmistakable — soft and dry as a snowflake against glass.

That was all.

They didn't press.

But Moore shifted in his seat, and Ronell returned quietly to her drawing — her shoulders a little softer now. The fire popped once, low and tired.

Outside, the snow kept falling — steady and slow.

And inside, for a moment, they let it fall with them.