"On the Edge of Life and Death, Fate Reverses"
The storm raged on, the night heavy and suffocating—yet against the endless white, that streak of crimson burned brighter than blood.
She lay collapsed in the snow, her body cold, life seeping into the ice in dark, winding threads. The Crown Prince pressed a hand to her chest, the faint pulse beneath his fingers turning his eyes hollow, desperate.
"Don't... don't die..."
His voice, barely a whisper, was raw with despair. In this moment, he was a wounded beast—thrashing against fate, powerless to change it.
Mochen stood motionless nearby, his face carved from frost. This was the outcome he had feared most—the woman he loved, lost to the snow between them. And the prince's gaze, drowning in unspoken agony and regret.
"I will bring her back." The prince's voice was winter itself, sharp with unshakable resolve.
Mochen exhaled, a flicker of resignation in his eyes. "You know the cost."
"I don't care."
Then—a figure emerged from the blizzard. An elder priestess of the forgotten clans, her steps casting shadows even the snow dared not touch. Wrinkles mapped her face, but her eyes held the weight of centuries.
"You seek me... for her?" Her voice was cracked earth and wind, yet it commanded silence.
The prince knelt, palms flat against the frozen ground. "Save her."
The priestess glanced at the body, then to the prince. "The price of resurrection is beyond you." Her gaze slid to Mochen. "Will he bear it?"
Mochen didn't hesitate. "If it must be me, so be it."
"Good."
The incantation began.
The air thickened, snow twisting into a helix of pale light around her corpse. Darkness and brilliance wove together, as if the threads of life itself were being pulled taut—then severed.
The prince clenched his fists, his entire world narrowed to her still face. There was no turning back now. Only the gamble of hope.
Then—
Silence.
A shockwave tore through the storm, scattering snow like ash. And then—
A gasp.
Her body jerked. Blood flowed backward into veins, her lips parting on a breath that shouldn't exist.
The prince froze, his chest too tight to breathe.
Mochen shut his eyes, as if already feeling the toll. "She returns... but this isn't over."
When her lashes finally fluttered open, dazed and searching, the prince exhaled—a sound like a man pardoned from the gallows. He gathered her into his arms, his voice breaking. "You're alive. You're alive."
Her whisper was a ghost of sound. "...I'm alive?"
But Mochen remained apart, watching. This wasn't just their story anymore. It was his choice, too.
The priestess faded into the storm, leaving only the echo of frost—and the unspoken truth:
No resurrection comes without sacrifice.
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