The dawn spilled over snow-capped peaks, stretching golden shadows across the valleys and painting the frozen ridges with hues of fire and gold. The air was crisp, scented with pine and the breath of freshly fallen snow.
To the east and north, the majestic Hima Mountains stood like eternal sentinels, their crowns lost in the clouds, guardians of forgotten secrets and treacherous paths whispered only in legends.
To the west, the Sahora Desert stretched endlessly—an ocean of burning sands, beautiful in its desolation, merciless in its test of human will.
To the south lay the vast Indiana Sea, its tranquil surface concealing currents that could swallow ships whole, and beneath them, creatures too ancient for mortal memory.
And at the heart of these natural citadels—mountains, sands, and seas—rested the Silver Heaven Region. A land both fragile and unyielding, spoken of in hushed reverence as humanity's beacon of survival. Rising proudly within it, like a jewel of defiance against the world's cruelty, stood Silver Heaven Town—the cradle of hope, where humanity's future was destined to be forged.
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The market shimmered under the glow of lanterns, every snowflake catching the light as if the heavens themselves had scattered jewels upon the earth. The air carried the mingling aroma of roasted chestnuts and sugared dumplings, the sounds of bells chiming in time with laughter and music.
A young man stood waiting outside a women's clothing store, breath curling like ghostly wisps in the frigid air. His long black winter coat shielded him from the cold, a blue-striped muffler wrapped snugly about his neck. Still, his hands burrowed deep in his pockets, fists clenched against the chill—and perhaps against his own restless thoughts.
The shop doors parted, spilling golden lamplight onto the snow, and a woman stepped out. Her brown fur coat framed the brightness of a yellow dress, her pink muffler clutched against the winter breeze. In her delicate hands, she carried a white gown embroidered with flowers—red, blue, yellow—a piece of spring itself, fragile and untouchable.
"Shaun, honey," she said softly, lifting the dress toward him. "Would this look good on me?"
Her voice dispelled the cold as if the world itself bent to her presence. At her call, the man's name at last became known—Shaun. And with her smile, his resolve weakened.
"Oh, Natasha," Shaun whispered, his heart unravelling with warmth. "You'd be beautiful in anything. But this… this would make the heavens envious."
Her cheeks bloomed with a delicate blush. She turned away shyly, her laughter trailing back into the store. Shaun watched her disappear into the crowd of silks and shadows, and for a moment, he felt the fragile thread of their lives in his trembling hands.
The festival around him blurred. Snow spiralled downward, glowing in the lantern light like falling embers. Each flake that landed on his coat seemed to whisper memories—childhood days in gardens, secret meetings beneath the banyan tree, the first time she dared whisper I love you though her voice quivered with fear. Each fragment returned to him, burning his heart with gratitude and guilt alike.
She gave up everything… for me. Her family, her rank, even her dream of the Imperial Army. And what have I given her, save for muddy fields and empty promises?
His reflection stared back from a frosted shop window: weary eyes, calloused hands, a man dwarfed by the shadow of his own inadequacy. The merriment of the market dimmed in his ears, drowned by the relentless drum of self-reproach.
But then, as though summoned by fate, light flared in the corner of his vision.
In the jewellery store's window, nestled among meaningless gems, lay a heart-shaped pendant of gold. Not gaudy, not ostentatious—but perfect. Its golden curve shimmered faintly, as though it held a life of its own. Etched into its surface was the letter N.
For Natasha.
The world seemed to hold its breath. Shaun stepped closer, eyes drawn to its glow. The pendant was more than a trinket—it radiated meaning, a vow made solid, a promise yet unspoken. For a fleeting instant, he thought he felt it stir, humming softly against the fabric of reality, as though it had been waiting—not for any man, but for him.
"Yes…" His breath clouded against the glass. "It was made for her."
The warmth in his chest surged, only to be crushed by the cruel certainty dangling beneath it: the price. The numbers were sharper than any blade. He fumbled at his pockets, felt the pitiful rattle of coins, and a bitter smile broke across his lips.
"Always out of reach."
He turned, footsteps heavy. But something stopped him. Perhaps it was the reflection of the pendant in the frost, glowing faintly like an ember refusing to die. Or perhaps it was Natasha's voice echoing within him, the woman who had sacrificed heaven itself just to walk beside him. Shaun closed his eyes. When they opened again, they burned with resolve.
"No." His voice was low, unyielding. "Not this time. That necklace is more than gold. It's her dream. Her happiness. Her forever. I'll get it—no matter what it takes. This anniversary will be different."
He pressed his fist against his chest, where determination throbbed louder than his doubts. In the reflection of the glass, the heart pendant glowed faintly, as though sealing his vow.
And beyond the lanterns, unseen by mortal eyes, the snow swirled strangely—eddies of white tracing patterns like ancient runes. For those with vision enough to see, it was not mere snowfall, but the whisper of destiny itself, spiralling into motion.
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Shaun's hand pressed against the jewellery store door, the brass handle cool beneath his fingers. The soft chime of the bell rang out as he pushed it open. For a heartbeat, the warm glow of lanterns and the sparkle of gems bathed him in light.
His lips curved into a quiet smile—he could already picture Natasha's eyes widening when he slipped the golden heart into her hands. But before he could take another step, the world unravelled.
The colours around him fractured, rippling like shattered glass before dissolving into pitch black. The warmth of the store, the bustle of the festival, the crisp bite of the winter air—all of it was gone.
"What…?!" His breath caught, panic clawing at his throat. "What is this? What sorcery is this!?"
Shaun turned in a frantic circle. The vibrant streets of Silver Heaven were no more. In their place stretched an endless void, vast and suffocating. The silence was so absolute it pressed against his ears, until his own heartbeat thundered like a war drum.
"Natasha…?" His voice cracked, hoarse with dread. "Natasha! Where are you!?"
He stumbled forward, calling her name, each step swallowed by nothingness. His voice echoed strangely—fading, then returning distorted, like a ghost mocking him. And then—
"Help! Someone, help me!"
The scream tore through the dark. High-pitched, desperate, raw with agony. Shaun froze. His breath hitched as the voice multiplied—women sobbing, children shrieking, men roaring in defiance before being cut short in bloodcurdling cries.
"Please, spare us! My children! Nooo!"
"Aaahhhhhh!"
The void trembled with anguish. The voices seemed to come from everywhere at once, yet nowhere at all, stabbing into Shaun's ears, digging into his chest.
"No…" His body shook as his fists clenched. "No, who's there?! Where are you?! Tell me where you are—I'll help you!"
He ran blindly, chasing echoes through the emptiness, but the dark gave no form, no path, only endless despair. The screams rose in pitch until they became unbearable—a symphony of suffering, each note sharper than blades.
Shaun dropped to his knees, palms clamping over his ears. His eyes squeezed shut as his body rocked against the weight of the unseen agony.
"Stop it!" he cried, his voice breaking into a raw plea. "Stop it, please! Someone—make it stop!"
The void pulsed once, like a living thing, and the cries fell into silence. But the silence that followed was worse—pregnant with menace, like a predator holding its breath before the strike.
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