"Frost..."
"Frost..."
Silvermist's voice trembled as it echoed across the quiet void, carried by a wind that never seemed to reach the man walking away from her.
The path he tread was bathed in a strange, ethereal light—soft and white, as if made of fractured moonbeams—and he walked it like he was being pulled by something greater than her, something inevitable.
But she knew that figure. She would recognize him even in the deepest part of her dreams, even if he stood on the other side of time.
It was Frost. It was always him. Yet, this time, he never once looked back.
His strides were slow but steady, like a man following fate without hesitation, while Silvermist—barefoot, breathless—ran after him and yet no matter how close she thought she was getting, the space between them remained stubborn and merciless.
