The snow didn't fall soft. It came down heavy, clumped like grease, clung to his lashes and burned where it touched. This wasn't the clean kind from Drav'nar's winter rites. It was gray and slick and foul-smelling. It stank like something burnt and rotting. Every flake that hit him hissed, then melted fast, carving cold trails across his chest like fingers made of steam.
After the third day, time slipped. The hours lost shape. The sky hung above him like a swollen bruise. No dawn. No nightfall. Just pressure, like a hand forcing the land into the grave. Sometimes, things moved behind the clouds. Long shapes, slow and bending, like storm limbs or the bones of something ancient. When they passed, the snow below flinched.
His body was splitting.
Skin cracked beneath his nails, webbed with small splits. The flesh leaked a pale pink ooze that iced over before it ever touched the ground. His lips had sealed shut more than once. He had to tear them open again just to taste the blood pooling at the back of his throat. The cloth around his feet had fallen apart days ago. Now he walked straight on stone and frost, leaving streaks of red behind him wherever he stepped.
The ribbon was still there.
Crimson silk, ragged along the edges but knotted clean. It was the only thing with color left in this ruined white world.
He hadn't touched it. Not once. Didn't even let his hand pass close. His fingers wanted to twitch, wanted to move just for movement's sake, but he didn't let them. Some quiet place in him thought it might vanish if he tried. That the thread would turn to vapor just from being noticed.
When memories of Serah clawed their way back—which they did, more often now that hunger had started hollowing his thoughts—it wasn't her voice he heard. Not her humming while she ground herbs in the temple kitchens. Not the way she looked when she caught him swiping sweets. No, it was just one glance. One short second the day before exile. Her face tilted, her eyes steady. No pity. No disgust. Just something like recognition. Like she'd seen a version of him that might've been worth saving.
The storm jerked.
Not thunder. Not lightning. Just something deeper, like the world's gut had clenched. The snow hesitated midair, hung there for a blink, then dropped all at once. Hard.
She came out of the white like something crawling out of a frozen lake.
Too tall. Too layered in fur and things that looked like they used to breathe. One shoulder held the weight of a massive sword, the blade dulled by rust everywhere but the edge, which caught the light like ice cracking open. Her face was wrapped tight in cloth the color of old parchment. But her eyes—
One was milked out. The pupil had melted into the white like it had given up. The other looked like a storm was about to happen inside it.
"Drav'nar," she said. The word left her mouth in steam that didn't rise. It slipped along the air like it was looking for something to choke.
He said nothing.
"Threadless?" she tried again, tipping her head. The motion made something in her neck creak.
Still quiet.
She closed the gap in three steps. Her boots didn't even leave a mark in the snow. Up close, he could see the ear that wasn't there. Not sliced. Not cut. Unraveled, like someone had unspooled her like a scroll.
Her eyes dropped to his wrist.
"Crimson ribbon. Fray's real fine. Not your knot." She paused. "Girl tied that. Hands that knew you. Someone who cared enough to pull the weave tight."
She stood up straighter. There was a sound in her chest like something amused but tired.
"They used to call me Yren. Before the taking. Say it if you need a name."
The fire she built smelled wrong.
It didn't remind him of home. No pine. No smoke like Drav'nar's feast nights. This fire stank. Something sour and thick. It crawled up the back of his throat. Flames low and bruised. Sick green. Deep purple. They gave off no warmth, but the snow hissed back when it got too close.
Yren jabbed the coals with a stick that didn't catch.
"Let me guess," she said. "The Hollow taught you silence was holy. That feelings are rot. That love is noise." Her white eye didn't blink. "How's that helping now?"
He reached for the strip of meat she held out. His sleeve slid. The faint gold spiral showed beneath the skin.
Yren froze.
"Where'd that come from?" Her voice had gone quiet. Too quiet.
The Weeper's sobs broke into the clearing.
It cried like a child choking on syrup. The thing shook with every breath. Ribs visible beneath yellow fur that had once been clean, now half-rotted and slick with infection. The smell hit like a fist. Sour meat. Copper. Something sweet that turned your stomach. Like fruit left inside a corpse.
Yren didn't move.
Its face was twisted wrong. The mouth vertical, not horizontal. Stitched shut with old sinew that snapped wetly as it opened. Where a nose should be, there were just holes. Big. Uneven. Its eyes wept blood.
Not fast. Not bright. Just slow drips that clung to its skin like molasses. The blood didn't fall. It climbed. Crawled. Pooled at the neck, then sank back into its skin like it was feeding on its own sorrow.
"First lesson," Yren said. She could've been talking about weather. "Their tears burn. Let one touch you, and you'll scream once, then never again."
The thing leapt.
Not smooth. Not clean. Its limbs jerked. Like it had too many tendons, half of them broken. One second it was far. The next, its breath warmed his cheek. It smelled of bile. Rot. And flowers. The kind that decorate corpses.
He got the blade up just in time.
The dagger hit muscle. Slid in with a wet pop. Something thick and black flooded over his hand. It burned on contact. His skin bubbled. Pain flared so fast he almost blacked out.
The Weeper didn't scream.
It laughed.
Not a real laugh. Something wet and sharp that crawled down the steel into his bones. Its jaw dropped farther. Threads snapping. Teeth going deep, deeper than any throat should hold.
He tore the blade free. Drove it in again. Again.
Black blood soaked his arms. His chest. His face. His skin peeled. Blistered. Numbness replaced the heat. But his arm kept moving. He stabbed without thinking. Without feeling.
The creature had stopped fighting.
He hadn't.
His hand kept stabbing. Over and over. The body wasn't even whole anymore. Just pulp. But he didn't stop.
Yren's boot hit his ribs. Sent him flying.
She didn't look angry. Just tired.
"Enough."
He gasped on the ground. Couldn't tell which blood was his. The skin on his hands was gone in places. Muscle slick and exposed. Pain should have been there. But it wasn't. Only a ringing silence, hollow and full of ash.
Yren crouched beside the ruined thing. Her knife nudged something near its spine.
"You killed it wrong."
He spat blood. A tooth followed.
"It's dead."
"Not the same as gone."
She flipped the corpse. Found a lump of flesh, twitching. Drove her blade into it.
The mass popped. Thick black gunk sprayed. The snow smoked where it landed. The body began to unravel. Flesh sliding off bones. Bones turning to dust before they hit the ground.
"Second lesson," she said. Her blade came clean with a wipe. "Nothing in this place wants to die. Not even the ones who should."
She tossed a waterskin. The drink burned on the way down. His shaking stopped.
"Get up." Her voice was flat. "We've got six hours. Then that thing comes back. And you're gonna learn how to kill it for real."
He spat again. Another tooth. It hit the snow and blackened on contact. Yren didn't flinch. Just sharpened her blade on something that looked too much like human bone.
"Move," she said. "If you let your hands heal wrong, they stay wrong."
He forced himself up. The skin on his palms had grown back shiny and stretched. It stung to move. The burns had left marks. Spirals. Like someone had drawn a map across his hands.
Yren watched him. Her eye squinted.
"Faster than I thought." She tossed the stone. Rose to her feet. "Let me see your wrist."
He didn't move.
She crossed the space fast. Her hand caught his arm. Fingers rough. She yanked the sleeve back. The spiral pulsed under his skin. The veins lit up around it.
"You felt it, didn't you?" Her voice was low. "The moment the pain stopped mattering. When tearing that thing to pieces felt right."
He tried to pull away.
"You're lying," she said. Her grip tightened. "I saw your eyes go gold. I saw the mark light up."
Snow started again. Not soft flakes. Shards. They stabbed where they landed. Yren didn't blink.
"Listen," she said. Her voice was sharp now. "That mark on you isn't a weapon. It's not a blessing. It's a deal. Every time you use it, it takes something. This time, a tooth. Next time? Maybe your memory of her. Maybe your fear. It doesn't care. As long as it gets fed."
The wind picked up. Deep in the trees, something cried.
Not one voice. Many. Spreading.
Yren's head turned.
"Moonrise came early." She kicked snow over the fire. The dark rushed in.
"They're coming."
The scream that followed wasn't human. Then another. And another. They circled the clearing. Closed in.
He turned, heart hammering.
"There's more than one."
Yren grinned.
"Third lesson. Weepers don't hunt alone." She threw him a knife. The blade caught the moonlight and swallowed it whole.
"Try not to die before morning."