Yandelf's wound gaped like a mouth that refused to close, whispering crimson secrets into the snow. The first flake fell—a pale petal from heaven—followed by a slow cascade, until the mountains themselves seemed to exhale winter's sorrow.
And then… as if the world had heard a hymn too divine for mortal ears, the sky answered.
It did not merely open—it screamed with a rapture that split eternity, as an aurora bled across the heavens like silk torn by gods. Hues of emerald and violet danced like the pulse of a living cosmos.
From that wound in the sky, they came.
Frost Dragons—countless and colossal—manifested upon the white spines of the mountains. Each scale glimmered with the kiss of Cryo, like shards of frozen moonlight—beasts sculpted by divinity, adored by the heavens. And where they touched the earth, life unfolded in defiance of the frost: nests bloomed like cathedrals of winter, domes woven of twigs, snow, and blossoms stolen from forgotten springs—lined with fur and feathers, sanctuaries cradled in nature's frozen hands.
"Lady Yandelf!" A dragon's roar cracked the silence, its eyes wide as glaciers, reflecting the frailty of her form—snowflakes painting her body red, as though a flower had dared to bloom in the heart of winter.
"You wretch!" Another thundered, its voice a storm crowned with frost sigils. "How dare you lay fang upon her!"
Orion's gaze was unshaken. "I wished no harm," he murmured, his tone a calm abyss. "But her plea for my exile opposed the tide of my design. This was never personal." His hand sank into the serrated warmth of the Canine of the Leviathan, its breath curling like smoke from an ancient forge.
"I do not seek your ruin. Yet the debt remains—one owed to the Lord of Sovereigns. This vessel, this offering… must be consumed. For from "her" end, a new genesis must awaken."
Ten veteran Frost Dragons descended, their wings eclipsing the fractured aurora as they landed behind Yandelf's broken form. The snow trembled under their weight, a silent oath etched into the earth.
"Lady Yandelf is worth more than any vow your tongue can forge," one rumbled, voice like glaciers grinding mountains to dust. "Her divinity was never meant for war."
One by one, they stepped forward, a wall of living winter, encircling her with their colossal bodies. Their scales shimmered with frost-born fury, yet their voices tremored with devotion.
"She is our mother beyond blood," another growled, his breath spiraling into ice-laced mist. "More than Mother Rosen, who bore us in shell and scale. It was Yandelf who raised us—who warmed us when even the sun could not."
Yandelf's lips parted, and the faintest sigh drifted into the wind.
"…You idiots…"
Orion's exhale curled into mist, and then into something far older. His form unraveled like smoke before congealing into a nightmare of titanic proportion.
The Leviathan stood before them.
A presence so heavy it bent the very horizon, as if reality itself could not bear its weight. Its eyes were voids rimmed with cold fire, its maw a chasm where light went to die.
The mountains flinched.
The nests shook.
Eggs splintered with hairline fractures, as if fear alone could birth them. Hatchlings whimpered. Even the winds froze in terror.
And then, through the storm of dread, came Yandelf's voice—a whisper clothed in velvet, soft enough to hush the trembling stars:
"Sleep now, my darling… and let your worries drift."
Her breath fogged against the snow, her blush melting a halo around her face. Crimson threaded through white, like dawn breaking upon a dead world.
"Dreams," she murmured, voice quivering like harp-strings in a tempest,
"…I have guarded them. I have seen the shadows and the gifts.
There is a realm where I cradle your calm…
But that is not the realm you know."
The Frost Dragons stirred, their ears twitching like leaves in a phantom breeze. Fear clung to them like frost, yet doubt began to fracture it.
"I have seen the monsters beneath your nests," she continued, her words weaving like silver thread in the stillness.
"I have seen the storms behind your eyes,
The shadows you have slain,
The tears you have buried in snow.
I have watched you on the brink of slumber,
Drifting into a sea without end—
And I have seen the morning sun rise,
When you believed there was no dawn."
The eldest of the dragons stepped forward, ancient frost cracking from his wings. His voice broke like thawing ice:
"This… this is the lullaby. The one she sang when we first hatched… when Mother Rosen's gaze left scars on our shells."
And now her voice grew, not in volume but in weight—like the heartbeat of an entire world:
"I see the monsters under your bed.
I see the stories in your head.
I see the shadows you are fighting,
And the tears that you have shed.
I see you on the brink of sleep,
I see you drifting in the deep.
And though the night may cling—
The morning sun will rise."
Something ignited in the frost-born hearts of the dragons—a warmth sharp enough to cut through eternity. Fear fractured. Resolve crystallized. And as one, the Frost Dragons rose, eyes blazing with a courage not seen since the First Winter.
And Yandelf… Yandelf lay amidst her own scarlet bloom, whispering through trembling lips:
"…Ugh, this is so embarrassing…"
-------------
Within Natlan, the battle still exhaled—ragged, molten breaths that scorched the sky. Capitano moved like an iron tempest, his blade a hymn of ruin, carving crimson truths into Ashlyn's flesh with relentless devotion.
---
Near the ruins of Citlali's home, the rubble stirred.
From beneath stone and shadow, she emerged.
An elegant silhouette carved from midnight itself, her obsidian hair cascading like rivers of ink—jealous of the pale sanctity of the skin it caressed. Her eyes opened with a shimmer sharp enough to carve envy into the bones of onlookers.
The black dress clung to her form as though in worship, every thread a psalm to perfection. Her jewelry—necklace and earrings—rekindled into an opulence that felt almost sacrilegious, their glint the smile of something newly reborn.
She stepped forward, heels kissing shattered stone with a rhythm that spoke of verdicts yet unspoken.
"Looks like the Abyssal clone is about to die…" Her voice was silk sharpened on steel, floating through the ruin like a ghost that remembered every sin.
Citlali's prison stood before her—a sculpture of frost and despair. She traced her fingers along the ice, a caress so soft it mocked the violence within her.
"It is folly," she whispered, her lips curving into a blade of a smile. "Folly to contest endurance… against him."
The ice shattered.
Not like glass.
Not like stone.
It shattered like silence being slain.
Citlali collapsed, her body striking the ground like a fallen relic. Splinters of frost kissed her skin, leaving whispers of red where they lingered—just enough to write pain without drowning her in it. Her breath did not stir. Her vessel lay still, cradled in the dust like an unspoken promise.
The woman looked upon her and dismissed her with an elegance that could kill gods.
"I have no quarrel with you," she murmured, her voice sliding like a blade beneath the ear. "My gaze… is higher."
And then, as the wind dared to breathe again, her figure unraveled into absence. Only a whisper lingered—soft, venomous, eternal:
"One at a time."
Another war raged beneath the dying sky.
The sun drowned upon the horizon, bleeding gold into the veins of dusk. Shadows rose like vultures over the carcass of day. And in that last breath of light, Felix's eyes snapped open—twin furnaces igniting against the void.
Noctharn did not yield. His jaws clamped down upon Felix's wing with a savagery carved from despair. Muscles coiled like iron serpents as his dragon talons dug deep, shoving Felix back with the force of a storm. Then—
Rend. Tear. Rupture.
The wing was wrenched free in an eruption of feathers and blood.
Felix's scream split the heavens. Not a cry, but a dirge sharpened into fury—a sound cruel enough to peel the soul from bone.
"KKKKKRRRRRRREEEEE!"
It rolled across the battlefield like an execution bell, a cry that mocked gods and summoned nightmares.
Noctharn's eyes narrowed—not in triumph, but in something that tasted like grief. For what stared back at him was no longer Felix. It was a beast unshackled, a wraith clad in rage, and its gaze promised the ruin of worlds.