Morana

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.