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Winter given form and purpose. Where she walks, rivers halt and breath turns to crystal in the still air.
awakening
#4
Winter given form and purpose. Where she walks, rivers halt and breath turns to crystal in the still air.
She was not cruel. That was the misunderstanding mortals carried from season to
season, passed down like a scar they refused to let heal. Morana did not hate
the living. She simply could not stop being what she was.
Winter was hers. Every frozen lake, every silenced bird, every tree stripped
bare — these were not acts of malice. They were her breathing. Her heartbeat.
When the world grew cold, she grew strong. When the world began to warm, she
began to die.
This was why she fought the Egg.
Not because she desired an endless frost, but because the Egg's cracking was
her unmaking. Each spring was a small death. Each thaw peeled something away
from her that would not return until autumn called her name again.
She had frozen rivers in a single glance. She had turned entire meadows to
glass so brittle that birdsong alone could shatter them. Armies of frost
followed her — not summoned, but born from the cold she could not contain.
Yet every year, she lost.
Not to strength. Not to fire. To a woman who simply walked forward and did not
stop.
Morana always retreated. And in retreating, she proved the one truth she
despised most — that even winter must end.
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