An old man with snow-white hair and gnarled hands sat in his study, surrounded by books, scrolls, and ancient artifacts. He read carefully from a dusty tome while the fire crackled behind him and the night shadows slowly filled the room.
Every so often, he glanced out the window, where snowflakes fell with unwavering calm.
But this time was different.
The rhythm of the snowfall had changed. Now the snow fell denser, faster, as if the sky had decided to bury everything at once. The old man fixed his gaze on the windowsill, where the snow piled up without pause, erasing all shapes, and with a sigh, he murmured:
āLooks like they're nearly across...ā he said, as if to himself, or maybe to someone who wasnāt there.
He bent back over the pages, though his fingers tapped impatiently on the wood. The fire behind him still flickered, the only living light in the tightening shadows of the study.
A while later, following some vague instinct, he looked up againāand then he saw her.
At the window.
Tall, slender, cloaked in a long black robe with a hooded cape. Her face, hidden behind a black mask that fit snugly to her head, revealed only her eyes: one pale, opaque; the other dark and deep.
The white eye wasnāt natural. It wasnāt a blessing or some ancient power. It was the memory of a brutal wound, a burn or blow that had long ago stolen her sight and frozen her gaze in time.
She had appeared without a sound. Quieter than silence itself.
The old manās hands froze. A chill crept down his back, but he didnāt look away. His body gave a slight jolt, but he didnāt seem afraid.
āYou're here alreadyā¦ā he murmured, carefully closing the book.
He picked up his wine and took a long, almost trembling sip. The glass clinked softly as he set it down again.
āCome in,ā he said, his voice low and steady.
She said nothing. The window opened effortlessly, and her silhouette crossed the threshold with feline grace, disturbing neither the air nor leaving a trace. There was something practiced, inhuman in her movementsālike someone who had spent a lifetime learning not to be noticed. The fire, sensing her, flickered like a candle in the wind.
The old man watched as she moved, a feverish gleam in his eyes reflecting the firelight.
āStill so silentā¦ā he commented, with a trace of reverence and a faint smile.
He knewāand it still astonished himāthat she had survived. He never fully understood how her body had endured that horror. She didnāt cover herself out of modesty, but because what lay beneath the fabric told a story that no oneānot even heādared to hear aloud.
She said nothing. No one said anything.
She simply unstrapped a long bundle from her back, wrapped in brown cloth, and placed it on the table with solemn care.
The old man remained still for a moment, savoring the wait, containing an emotion too large for words. Then, with a broken sigh, he ran his fingers across the fabric.
He began to unwrap the package, and with each knot undone, the air in the room grew thicker, more electric, as if charged with a storm.
When the cloth finally fell away, what emerged was a sword.
The hilt was blackened, deformed and scorched, as if pulled from the depths of hell. But the bladeā¦ the blade was untouched. Not just untouchedāsharper than ever. And most unsettling of all was its color: an impossible green, brilliant, deep, a green he had seen before and never forgotten.
The old man leaned in to examine the blade more closely, and thatās when he saw his reflection in the steel.
A face small, lined by time, crossed by a deep scar that time hadnāt dared erase. It had been hidden for years behind books and seclusion, but in his eyes still lived the cunningāand the edgeāof someone who never needed a sword to survive.
āAzor Ahaiā¦ āhe whispered to himself, not breaking his gaze.
It was as if all the battles, betrayals, and losses had been just a prologue to this moment.
With a trembling hand, he brushed the blade lightly with his fingertips. It responded with a faint glimmer, as if it understood.
A bitter, twisted, triumphant smile crept across his face. And in a whisper lost among the study's shadows, he said:
āAt last... after all this timeā¦ we can dream of spring.