Krys gazes up at the icy mountains. He remembers this place from long ago but he can’t remember when. Flickers of images entered his mind in the past. He sees a specific spot with a coniferous tree next to a cliffside. More images of this spot enter his mind. He is able to see over the cliff, as if he was gazing down before. Suddenly he feels cold. Colder than he should be. When he uses his ice magic the cold he feels is comforting, it’s a familiar cold; but this cold is unfamiliar. It’s a haunting presence. He does not like this coldness; it’s chilling. He opens his mouth to exhale, to see if it is actually cold. His breath is normal, no fog. Instead he tastes something he doesn’t know how to describe. The feeling in your mouth when your saliva turns stale, and it starts to chill. A bitter taste. But still the problem is that it isn’t cold, so why does he feel this?

The longer he dwells on this he feels the pit growing in his stomach, like he is expecting some coming storm from within. He shuts his eyes and forces out the images, but now he just hears a young child screaming and the shouts of many older men. He hears the clash of metal against metal and the bloodcurdling sound of steel against flesh before it is all drowned out by the crackling sound of ice forming rapidly on skin. He hears the shivers of grown men as the ice climbs their body—it’s an all too familiar sound. Never before since he awoke in that small village has he felt a presence this dark, cruel. All he can think about now is what he might’ve been before, and the pit sinks deeper as he considers the possibilities.