The wind cut like glass along the jagged cliffs, sweeping snow across the narrow ridges of the Frostbound mountains. Even beneath the layers of her dark cloak, the cold gnawed at her skin, a reminder that this world did not bend for outsiders. The Hollow Dagger moved forward, silent, her boots making no sound upon the frozen stone. Each step was deliberate, each motion rehearsed a thousand times in the empty corridors of memory she no longer owned.
The sun rose higher, spilling pale gold across the snow-draped citadel, igniting the spires in a fleeting brilliance. From her vantage point, the Hollow Dagger could trace every movement below. Soldiers marched in perfect lines, their boots cracking the frozen ground; mages moved with measured gestures, hands weaving the invisible lattice of wards that protected the kingdom. Even the simple patterns of smoke from hearth fires spoke of order and care.
Her eyes followed a young mage, fingers trembling as he attempted a spell to redirect the icy wind across the courtyard. The motion was clumsy, yet precise; the boy had never trained to harm, only to protect, and the intent resonated. A tiny pulse of something—confusion, wonder, hesitation—flared within the Hollow Dagger, though she could not name it. She was no longer just the blade; she was the observer, the quiet witness to a life that could exist apart from conquest, apart from death.
As she advanced closer to the citadel's walls, the frozen landscape offered details she had never noticed in any previous conquest. Icicles hung like frozen daggers from the battlements, refracting light in fractured rainbows. Snow drifts shifted with the wind, forming natural corridors that guided her silent passage. She noted how the citizens used the terrain to their advantage—families huddling near heated vents, small animals finding refuge in stone crevices, the guards adjusting patrols to minimize exposure to the bitter cold. Survival here was an art, not a struggle.
And yet, she remained a predator among them. Her steps left no trace; her breath did not mist; her presence was undetectable. The Scarlet Bind was useless here—no magic, no barrier, no wall could stop her. Only she could traverse this kingdom unchallenged, and she knew it.
Her mind wandered, unbidden, to the faint impressions of her own past. Faces she could not fully recall—people she had killed, lives she had extinguished. Their final words whispered through the hollows of her memory, a murmur that refused to be silenced. The warmth she observed below—the laughter of children, the protective gestures of parents—stirred echoes of remorse, a fracture within the hollowness. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword, but it did not steady the tremor in her hand. The first imperceptible cracks of her controlled psyche appeared.
The Hollow Dagger descended further into the heart of Frostbound Kingdom, moving like a shadow stitched into the folds of the snow and ice. The landscape was unforgiving: jagged cliffs that cut the sky, frozen rivers that glinted like glass, and groves of pines weighted down by thick frost. Each step she took across the ridge left no trace, her presence denied to the eyes of those below. She cataloged it all—the sharp scent of pine sap mingled with the metallic tang of ice, the faint groaning of frost settling against stone. Every sensory detail etched into her memory, though she could not claim it as her own.
By the second day, the terrain grew more treacherous. Ice bridges spanned chasms so deep the clouds hung like mist at their base. A lone traveler, bundled in thick furs, stumbled along a hidden path. The Hollow Dagger paused, noting the man's careful, calculated movements, the way his gloved hands gripped his staff for balance. She felt… a ripple of fascination, fleeting and unclaimed, like a memory she couldn't access. There was warmth in his caution, a preservation instinct she had never understood. The tremor in her chest was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet undeniable.
The wind sharpened, whistling through the crags, carrying with it the scent of smoke from distant hearth fires. Villages nestled in snowdrifts, families moving in unison, guarding one another with small gestures: a hand on a shoulder, a cloak adjusted, a shared gaze that communicated more than words ever could. And she observed them as she always did, yet something within her stirred. Not feeling—she did not yet possess the language for emotion—but a recognition that these lives were worth preserving, worth studying.
The Hollow Dagger had crossed narrow valleys and ascended icy cliffs that would have killed any ordinary human. The cold bit deep, but she did not feel it. Instead, she cataloged every frost-covered tree, every stone outcrop, every flicker of life. She paused only when she came upon a family of travelers huddled near a frozen stream. A child reached out to catch snowflakes, oblivious to the danger beyond their home. For a single, imperceptible moment, her thoughts hovered at the edge of something she did not name. The tremor in her chest was met with an almost-forgotten awareness: that life could exist outside of duty, beyond orders.
As night fell, the kingdom glimmered beneath the aurora. The sky shimmered with greens and purples, an ethereal curtain that draped over stone towers and frozen trees. She rested briefly in a shadowed alcove, unobserved. The Dagger never slept, never truly rested, yet the visual poetry of the aurora carved a faint warmth into her mind. Tiny fragments of memory—echoes of laughter, whispers of protection—surfaced like bubbles beneath ice. She could not name them, could not claim them, but the effect was undeniable.
By the third day, she reached the ridge overlooking the citadel. From this height, she observed the heart of Frostbound Kingdom. Families moved with coordinated precision; soldiers maintained vigilant patrols, yet the essence of their existence was survival, not domination. They recognized intruders, yet her passage remained unhindered. No one could see her; only she observed all.
As the third day drew on, the citadel of Frostbound became visible atop a frozen plateau. The structure was formidable, its walls carved from blue-grey stone, spires like frozen icicles piercing the sky. Protective wards shimmered faintly along the ramparts, spells crafted not for domination but for safeguarding, for the continuation of life in a kingdom that prized survival above all. Her passage was unhindered. Only she could move through these layers of protection, and she never knew why.
She paused to observe a courtyard below, where children chased one another around a fountain that had long since frozen solid. Soldiers walked the perimeter, but their eyes flickered toward the children as if protecting them was instinctual, unavoidable. She cataloged every motion, every glint of light on the armor, the subtle signs of care in each gesture. And then, a memory she did not have—faces, words, faint whispers—brushed against the edge of her consciousness. She stiffened, the first conscious pause of her hand upon the hilt. A micro-crack had opened.