The snows of Snezhnaya are relentless tonight. They do not care for the warmth of hearths or the fragility of mortal lives. They simply fall, as they have for centuries—unfeeling, unchanging. I have walked these storms for longer than most can fathom, yet they still bite just as sharply.

Perhaps that is why I linger here, at the edge of the palace grounds. The cold is a familiar pain. It reminds me that this rotting body still breathes, that this cursed soul is not yet erased by time.

(Do not send condolences. I do not mourn what cannot be changed.)

But you... you would scold me for standing in the blizzard, wouldn’t you? A pause, gloved fingers brushing ice from his coat. Fine. I’ll go inside. For you.