Inside the same pagoda, buried within the memories torn from entwined souls, a scene from not long ago surfaced.
A frozen chamber.
Runes crawled across the walls like living things, glowing with pale blue light. Chains of sealing energy crisscrossed the air, converging on a single figure suspended at the center.
Klea.
Her body hung limp, wrists and ankles bound by luminous shackles, strands of frost clinging to her hair and lashes. Even unconscious, her brows were faintly furrowed, as though her spirit refused to yield even in rest.
Two figures stood before her in soul form.
One was Prince Denard Astiel, his expression tight, gaze conflicted yet resolute. The other was the towering serpent-hybrid form of the Winter Lord, her cold eyes fixed on Klea as if studying a rare specimen.
"It's been more than a year," The prince said quietly. "She still hasn't given up?"
"No," the Winter Lord replied, "Her mind is… unusually resilient."
