The village chief's footsteps faded away, then fell silent after the dry "click" of the wooden door closing. Rubie stood rooted to the spot, her hands still clutching the handles of the small chest as if it were her only lifeline in this icy ocean.
The house wasn't large, but to Rubie at this moment, it felt like a labyrinth teeming with lurking dangers. The musty smell of old pine wood mingled with the pungent scent of tree resin. The living room contained only a simple wooden table and a fireplace that had long since cooled.
But what made every cell in Rubie's body tense like a taut string was the presence of the other person.
In the darkest corner of the room, beside the fireplace, a figure sat huddled on a low wooden chair. He didn't move, didn't speak, even his breath was so faint that Rubie thought he was just a forgotten wax statue.
Rubie choked back a small sob. The thought of sharing a house with someone of the opposite sex—something considered taboo and humiliating in her mother's world—stunned her. She took a step back, her back touching the cold wooden door, her bright blue eyes wide with defensiveness.
"Don't... don't come near me," she whispered, her voice trembling almost to the point of being inaudible.
The white figure stirred slightly. Rowan slowly lifted his head.
In the dim light of the setting sun filtering through the crack in the door, Rubie finally saw his face clearly. Her heart skipped a beat, but this time not just from fear, but from astonishment. The boy had an unusually pale complexion, as white as the snowflakes falling outside, and platinum blonde hair that fell down, covering half of his pale face.
Most striking were his dull, white eyes, devoid of any discernible pupils, staring at her. He wasn't looking directly at her—for those eyes couldn't bear the bright light from Rubie's dress or blonde hair—but only at the space beside her.
"I won't come any closer," Rowan said. His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't used language to communicate in a long time. "You can use the bed over there. I'll stay in this corner."
Silence fell again, but this time it wasn't stillness, but a palpable tension. Rubie didn't dare take off her cloak, nor did she dare set down the trunk. She slumped to the floor, choosing the furthest corner opposite Rowan, pulling her knees up to her chest as if to protect herself.
She stared at him, afraid of any slightest movement. Meanwhile, Rowan bowed his head, his pale hands fiddling with a small piece of wood on the floor. He was like a ghost trapped in the mortal world, and she was a broken-winged angel fallen into this icy hell.
Outside, the wind began to howl louder, lashing against the wooden walls as if trying to tear the small house apart. In the dark room, two outcasts sat separated by a space filled with doubt and fear, neither daring to cross the boundary of that silence.
Darkness completely engulfed the room as the sun disappeared behind the limestone mountains to the west. A chill began to seep through the cracks in the wooden walls; it wasn't the city chill—this chill carried the scent of death and solitude.
Rubie felt her teeth chattering. She wrapped her velvet cloak tightly around herself, but the little warmth seemed to be sucked away by the darkness. Opposite her, Rowan's shadow remained as still as a rock. She could no longer see him clearly, only a faint white outline of his hair in the shadows.
Suddenly, a rustling sound echoed.
Rubie jumped, her breath catching in her throat. She saw the white figure stand up. Her heart pounded. Her mother's warnings, the moral rules about the dangers of men that she had been taught since childhood, suddenly flooded back, suffocating her mind.
"Don't... I beg you... stay still!" she screamed, her voice hoarse with fear, her hands groping in the darkness for something to defend herself with, but only touching the cold wooden floor.
The white figure paused. Rowan didn't move any further, but he bent down and picked up some dry firewood from beside the fireplace. He walked slowly toward the center of the room—towards the fireplace, but to Rubie, that direction was also towards where she was sitting.
"Step back! What are you doing?" — Rubie trembled, trying to retreat further into the corner until her back ached from the rough wood. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming down her face from helplessness. "Please... please go away..."
Rowan stopped about five feet away from her. In the darkness, his dull white eyes seemed to gleam with a profound sadness. He said nothing, only knelt down before the fireplace.
Swish.
The dry sound of flint striking against flint. A small spark flared up, quickly igniting the dry pine bark. The flickering fire bathed a corner of the room in yellow, casting Rowan's shadow on the wall — a huge, distorted shadow that only intensified Rubie's terror.
But Rowan was simply building a fire. Once the flames were steady, he grabbed a heavy, coarse woolen blanket, the kind the villagers used, and threw it toward Rubie. The blanket landed at her feet, a safe distance away.
He still didn't look at her. The firelight was too bright for his sensitive eyes, forcing Rowan to lower his head, his platinum blonde hair obscuring his face.
"Cold... you'll die," he said curtly, his voice still dry and hoarse like decaying wood.
Having said that, Rowan silently retreated to his original dark corner, out of reach of the firelight, leaving Rubie bewildered between the warmth of the fire and the lingering fear. She looked at the blanket, then at the thin, strange figure of the young man.
The only sounds in the room now were the crackling of burning wood and the whistling of wind through the cracks in the door, a heavy sigh escaping from the dark corner.
Rowan remained seated, his back slightly hunched forward. He understood her fear. He was used to being looked at with horror or pity, but Rubie's trembling fear brought a different feeling—it stirred an indescribable bitterness in him.
"I'm not a monster..." Rowan began, his voice deeper this time, as if he were trying to adjust his tone so as not to startle the timid girl. "At least I've never harmed anyone in this village."
Rubie looked up slightly, her bright blue eyes still glistening with tears, staring at his shadow on the wall. She still hadn't dared to release her grip on her dress, but the warmth from the fireplace began to ease the tension in her shoulders.
Rowan turned his head slightly, his dull white eyes fixed on the window, where snowflakes were beginning to cling to the glass.
"Living here... if you stay cooped up inside, the cold will kill you before sadness can." —He paused briefly, as if searching for the right words—"Tomorrow, before the sun gets too hot, I... I can take you around the village. The villagers are quiet, but they're kind. They can help you get used to living in the mountains."
Rowan's offer fell on deafening silence like a stone thrown into a frozen lake. Rubie was stunned. Tour the village? With him?
The thought of going outside, walking beside a stranger whose appearance seemed straight out of a horror legend, made Rubie's legs tremble. But then, she looked around the old wooden house, where loneliness enveloped her. She remembered her mother's cold gaze when she got into the carriage, and suddenly realized that in this strange world, Rowan was the only one who truly spoke to her.
"I... I don't know..." Rubie murmured, her voice so soft that Rowan had to hold his breath to hear her. "Is it very cold out there?"
A faint glimmer of light, perhaps a fleeting smile, vanished too quickly from Rowan's pale face.
"It's cold. But if you walk, your blood will flow faster, and you'll feel warmer." — He rose, this time stepping further back to give her complete control of the fireplace. — "Tomorrow morning, when the fog clears, if you wish... wait at the door."
Rowan ascended to the mezzanine, leaving Rubie alone with the dying fire. That night, Rubie couldn't sleep. She curled up in her coarse wool blanket, the scent of the natural wool slightly strong but offering a much more secure feeling than luxurious silk. She wondered if that "creature of the snow" had truly led her, or if it was merely a sarcastic remark directed at the abandoned loser—herself?