The city had dressed itself in winter.
Frost kissed every rooftop, turning the highest shingles into glass. Ribbons of evergreen garland twisted between lamp posts like vines, dotted with tiny frostbells and paper stars. The scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke curled through the air, drifting from carts and chimneys. Lanterns swung from shop eaves, their soft gold glow reflected in puddles of half-melted snow.
It felt like a city holding its breath — not from fear, but from anticipation. From the hush that comes before something beautiful.
And for once, Moore didn't feel the need to run from it.
He and Ronell hadn't planned to help decorate. The guild was shuttered for the festival week, aside from emergencies, and most of the adventurers had slipped into temporary hibernation. But the pair had wandered past the plaza near the orphanage, watching as a cluster of workers tried to hoist garlands up frost-slick poles.
A rope snapped. Someone slipped. Another groaned, arms full of tangled lantern wire.
Ronell had tilted her head.
Moore sighed.
And then they stepped in.
No one had asked. But no one stopped them either.
Ronell balanced on a low stone ledge, anchoring star-charmed garlands between beams while Moore clambered up barrels and crates to string lanterns from hooks. His scarf kept falling over one eye. Her fingers had gone red from the cold. But the mood was oddly light — their movements unhurried, their breath fogging softly with every laugh.
The plaza slowly came together like a puzzle — each light, each ribbon finding its place. Children began gathering to watch, their boots squeaking in the snow, eyes wide as stars.
That was when a girl tugged gently at Ronell's sleeve.
She looked no older than eight. Her hat was too big, her gloves mismatched. She held out a folded sheet of parchment with both hands like it might fall apart.
Ronell blinked. "For me?"
The girl nodded shyly and ran off before she could say more.
Ronell opened the paper.
It was a crayon drawing. Her, unmistakably — a bright figure in armor, smiling, shield raised like a toy knight guarding a candy shop. Snow was falling around her in blue scribbles. A snow-covered house stood at her side, and in the corner, a message scrawled in blocky, unsteady letters:
"You protect people."
For a moment, Ronell said nothing. Her breath caught halfway between laugh and something softer. She touched a gloved finger to the corner of the drawing, as if afraid it might smudge.
Moore, halfway through tying a lantern loop, glanced over.
"Cute," he murmured. But his voice lacked teasing. Just quiet approval.
Then a voice behind him — small, almost unsure:
"…Moore?"
He turned.
The boy stood near the edge of the plaza, bundled in thick layers — scarf up to his nose, hat covering most of his face. But Moore knew those eyes. He'd seen them wide with fear in the woods, clinging to a memory and a doll and a prayer.
The kid from the memorial.
Moore lowered his arms slowly. "Hey."
The boy stepped forward, holding a cloth-wrapped bundle. He didn't explain. Just held it out like an offering.
Moore hesitated, then took it carefully.
The cloth unfurled to reveal a tiny wooden fox — lopsided ears, uneven legs, painted with faint orange strokes. A loop of blue thread was tied around its neck like a scarf.
The same blue as the doll.
The boy whispered, "For you. I wanted to say thank you… for that night."
Moore's throat tightened. He didn't speak right away.
"My brother used to carve," the boy added, eyes down. "I tried to make one like his. I think he would've liked you."
Moore looked at the fox again. One of its legs was chipped, and the tail curved a little too far to the left. It was the most precious thing he'd ever been handed.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came.
The boy dipped his head quickly and scampered off before Moore could find the words.
Ronell stepped beside him. "That from the memorial boy?"
Moore nodded slowly, still holding the fox.
Then, quieter: "Yeah. Just a kid."
But Ronell saw the look on his face — the way his hand curled protectively around the fox, the way his eyes stayed on the boy's back even after he disappeared into the snow-glow.
Just a kid.
Right.
The plaza glowed as dusk settled — lanterns swinging gently in the breeze, casting golden reflections onto the icy cobblestones. Children played in small groups, chasing each other with ribbon-tails, while volunteers handed out little cups of hot cider and roasted chestnuts.
The world felt paused. Safe.
Ronell tucked the crayon drawing into her satchel, pressed carefully between pages. Moore slipped the wooden fox into his coat pocket like it belonged there — a charm, or maybe a weight.
Neither said anything for a while.
They didn't need to.
The warmth lingered.
But only for now.
---
The decorating is done. Garlands strung, lanterns lit, small gifts stowed away in coat pockets. The sun is beginning its slow descent behind the rooftops — but the day isn't over yet.
At the edge of the plaza, laughter rings out from a snow-dusted slope where teens and children have gathered with makeshift sleds, toboggans, and just enough courage to fling themselves downhill with no regard for elegance or injury.
Ronell watches a girl shoot down the hill, arms raised, cloak flying behind her like a banner.
Moore tilts his head. "That looks suicidal."
Ronell's eyes glint. "Looks fun."
Before he can protest, she's grabbed a wooden tray and launched herself down.
To Moore's surprise — and increasing horror — Ronell is good at this. She weaves between snowbanks, shifts her weight like it's second nature, and even pulls off a lazy spin before sliding to a dramatic stop at the base of the hill.
A cheer goes up from a few of the other kids. Ronell stands, bows playfully, and looks back up the hill.
Moore narrows his eyes. "I see how it is."
He snags an old sled and trudges to the top.
"Have you ever done this before?" Ronell calls from below.
"No," he shouts back. "But I was born for speed!"
Then he launches.
It goes poorly.
He starts strong — sort of — but halfway down, the sled hits a hidden bump, sending him airborne in a tangle of limbs and curse words. He lands hard, rolling several times before skidding to a stop flat on his back.
Snow stuffed down his collar. Hat missing. Pride shattered.
The silence is broken by Ronell's shout:
"LONG LIVE THE WALL!"
Moore groans.
One of the teens helps him up, grinning. "You alright, soldier?"
"I think I broke a rib," Moore mutters, brushing snow from his sleeves. "Or my soul."
As he stumbles back up the slope, someone giggles nearby — a girl with a crimson scarf and wind-chapped cheeks, maybe a year or two older than Ronell. She leans toward her friend, whispering just loud enough to catch:
"He's cute when he's grumpy."
Moore falters slightly.
Ronell sees the whole thing and raises an eyebrow as he rejoins her. "Well, well. Someone's popular."
He scowls, cheeks flushed from more than just the cold. "I'm going again."
"Oh, please do."
They spend the next hour racing, laughing, and collecting bruises like badges. Moore never quite gets the hang of it — but he starts leaning into the chaos. He's fast, reckless, and loud. Ronell is graceful, smug, and merciless with her teasing.
"Moore, what was that last shout? 'I AM THE SLED'?"
He shrugs. "I panicked."
As dusk deepens, the two collapse at the top of the hill, side by side, breath steaming in the air.
The stars begin to peek out, one by one.
"...This was good," Ronell says quietly.
Moore doesn't respond right away. Then:
"Yeah. It was."
For once, they weren't haunted. Just human.
Just here.
---
As twilight settles over the city, the plaza begins to quiet. Candles flicker in windows. Smoke curls from chimneys. Laughter still echoes in pockets of the streets, but the hustle has softened into content murmurs and lazy footsteps.
And yet… something's off.
Moore can feel it. A prickling at the back of his neck. A shadow that vanishes the second he turns around.
He frowns and glances over his shoulder again. Nothing.
...Except for a girl leaning casually against a fruit stand, examining apples with the intensity of someone studying battle maps.
The princess.
She lifts one, sniffs it, places it back. Glances up. Freezes.
Their eyes meet.
She clears her throat and turns abruptly, bumping into the stall and knocking over a crate of pears.
"Smooth," Moore mutters.
Ronell, walking beside him with a cup of spiced cider, notices his look. "Is she following you?"
"I think so. She's been behind us since the sledding hill."
"Maybe she's just interested in pears."
Moore gives her a look.
They keep walking, weaving through the festive street. Moore pauses to help an older merchant unload firewood. The princess, once again, materializes nearby — this time "stretching" beside the stall, arms overhead, then reaching down… only to sneak a glance at Moore's hand as he takes a log.
He watches her.
She watches his fingers.
She holds her hand out next to his.
"Are you—" he starts.
"I'm stretching," she says quickly.
"...With your hand pressed against mine?"
"Coincidence."
Ronell walks by with a raised eyebrow and zero subtlety.
---
Later, Moore stops at a small plaza bench, rubbing his shoulder. The princess appears again. This time, she pulls out a small notebook and begins sketching.
Moore pretends not to notice. But then her tongue pokes slightly out the corner of her mouth — total focus — and she keeps glancing up. Right at his face.
It's not subtle.
At all.
After a long moment, he stands. Casually walks over.
She stiffens.
"Whatcha drawing?" he asks.
"Nothing," she says too fast.
He peeks over her shoulder.
It is absolutely a sketch of his face.
Well… a surprisingly good one. Slightly idealized. His jaw is more defined. His hair is doing a heroic windswept thing. His eyes look very intense.
And beneath it is the phrase: Possible match. Eye shape consistent. Suspicious brow furrow.
"Are you... investigating me?" he asks flatly.
The princess slowly closes the notebook.
"...No."
Moore stares. "You're holding a notebook with my face on it."
She fumbles. "This? It's… for sketching practice. I draw all sorts of suspicious-looking commoners."
Ronell walks by sipping her cider. "Suspiciously specific."
"I'm allowed to draw things!" the princess huffs, tucking the notebook into her coat like a guilty raccoon.
Moore crosses his arms, exasperated."What exactly are you hoping to find?"
The princess stands stiffly in front of him, clutching her sketchbook. She glances left and right, lips pressed into a tight line. Then, with the air of someone about to commit minor treason, she mutters:
"Is anyone listening?"
Moore gives her a flat look. "What, you gonna tell me my aura's cursed?"
"Just answer the question."
Ronell, sitting nearby on a snowy bench with a hot bun, raises a brow. "We're literally in a public square."
The princess stalks over, grabs Ronell by the sleeve, and pulls her over into the alley with them. She then tugs the two of them into a shadowed side path near the inn's back entrance, away from the bustle and noise.
She glances up to check for open windows. Then down the street. Then at a cat.
(It's not May, just a fat orange one.)
Satisfied, she finally turns to face them.
Ronell looks between them. "Okay. Weird even for you. What is this?"
The princess takes a breath — then, solemnly:
"There was a child. A boy. Taken from my family when he was very young."
Moore furrows his brow. "...Okay?"
Ronell's expression sobers slightly. "Taken… how?"
The princess's voice drops.
"Quietly. In the middle of the night. No alarm, no signs of struggle. His crib was empty by morning."
Ronell's eyes widen slightly. "No one saw anything?"
"Not even the guards outside our chambers. One of them claimed they blinked, and suddenly… the nursery door was ajar."
She pauses, gaze distant.
"It was like he vanished from the air itself."
Moore shifts, jaw tightening. "You think someone took him."
The princess nods once. "My mother thinks it was a political act. Or magic. Maybe both. My father… he refused to speak of it. He said the boy was dead. That mourning a ghost would do nothing but hollow out the court."
Her voice grows quieter.
"But I never stopped wondering."
Moore exhales slowly, arms crossed. "So now you're wondering if I was that boy."
Silence.
She doesn't answer.
She doesn't have to.
Her look says everything.
Moore clicks his tongue, shakes his head, steps back. "That's insane."
Ronell gently says, "Is it, though?"
Moore's brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She meets his eyes. "This world… this illusion… it has rules, doesn't it? Parallels. If I'm a copy of her… then who are you?"
Moore scoffs. "I'm no one. Just a kid who got caught in someone else's story."
The princess watches him carefully. "You said you didn't grow up here."
"I didn't."
"But he did," she says quietly. "The boy who lives in this world — this version of it — he did grow up on the streets. He's not you. But he looks like you. And the city remembers him."
Moore stiffens.
Ronell slowly connects the dots. "We've been walking around as if we belong. But the people here remember versions of us. Versions we haven't met yet."
Moore is silent for a long moment. Then mutters, "You think I'm him?"
The princess shakes her head. "I think he's you. Or was meant to be. I don't know what's real anymore. But someone built this place with memory. With purpose."
She looks down, then up again — gaze firm.
"And I think that purpose was to bring us back together."
Moore's jaw works as he grits his teeth.
"So what, I'm supposed to believe I'm royalty now? That I'm some long-lost heir? What does that change?"
"It might explain why you're here," the princess says softly. "Why we all are."
His voice hardens. "It doesn't explain anything. Not the pain. Not the way I grew up. Not the things I've done."
She holds her ground. "I'm not trying to overwrite your past."
"Then stop acting like it's yours."
The weight in that statement lands heavy.
Ronell's voice is the one that breaks the silence.
"…We should sit down," she says gently. "Figure this out."
But Moore just shakes his head.
"No. I need air."
And he walks out into the snow, leaving the two girls in quiet disarray.
---
The city was quiet that late, long after the lanterns had dimmed and the holiday warmth had faded from the cobblestone streets.
Moore didn't go far.
He wandered with no real direction, boots crunching softly over snow already half-melted by the day's festivities. His coat was too thin for this hour, but he didn't care. The cold helped him think — or at least feel something through the numbness building inside.
He passed closed stalls and shuttered bakeries, empty benches dusted in frost. The wind whispered through alley gaps, weaving its way around corners like something alive.
He eventually stopped near an old, frost-laced fountain at the edge of the plaza.
Its basin had frozen over, but the surface had cracked — a web of shallow fractures in the ice. In the moonlight, it shimmered.
Moore leaned on the stone rim, breath clouding before him.
He stared into the fractured mirror of ice… and blinked.
His reflection stared back.
But it wasn't him.
Not exactly.
The face in the cracked ice bore the same age, the same structure — but it was shaped differently by the life behind it. The boy in the mirror was more defined, leaner in a hard-lived way. Shoulders stronger. Arms visibly toned beneath a rolled sleeve. His frame carried the tension of someone who moved constantly, climbed, fought — survived with his hands.
His jaw was set tighter, expression sharper. Messy, sun-warmed hair stuck out beneath the edge of a tattered hood. Brown eyes — familiar, but fiercer — locked with Moore's in a way that made his breath catch.
He wore no royal crest, no armor, nothing refined. Just layers of patched cloth, sun-faded and travel-stained. A leather strap crossed his chest. A belt carried old tools and a rusting blade.
Moore stared.
The reflection stared back.
Neither blinked.
For one breathless second, Moore didn't feel like he was looking into a mirror at all — more like looking at someone else. Someone real.
Someone he might've been.
Or maybe… already was.
Then he rubbed his eyes — hard, like trying to erase something unwanted.
When he looked again, only his own reflection remained.
Paler. More guarded. Less sure.
He exhaled slowly, voice low and bitter.
"…Who the hell am I supposed to be?"
The cracked glass offered no answer.
Just a flicker of moonlight and the weight of too many lives brushing up against each other.
---
The fire in the inn's common room burns low. Most of the guests have retired. The snow outside has picked up again — soft, thick flakes falling steady like a lullaby.
Upstairs, the rooms are quiet.
Mostly.
Moore pushes open the door to the shared room, expecting the usual: Ronell already asleep in the middle bed, his own tucked near the far wall, and the one by the window — May's — still untouched.
But the candle by the table flickers.
He pauses.
Someone's there.
Again.
It's her.
The princess.
She's crouched by May's belongings — the same small bundle of folded cloth, that same scrap of ribbon — rifling carefully, like she's afraid to disturb something sacred. Her posture is tense, shoulders hunched as if bracing for ghosts.
Moore closes the door harder than necessary.
She flinches.
"I figured you'd given up snooping," he says flatly.
She straightens. Doesn't turn.
"I had to be sure."
"You already looked." He crosses his arms, jaw tight. "Twice."
"I know."
Her voice is quiet — not sheepish. Just tired. Not the same playful arrogance from earlier. Not the royal who teased and sketched and climbed rooftops.
Moore steps forward slowly, watching her carefully. "You're not looking for May anymore."
Silence.
"You're looking for something else."
She finally turns, notebook still in hand. The firelight reflects off the edge of a page. Another sketch. Another observation.
Of him.
Moore's eyes darken. "What are you not saying?"
She hesitates.
And then — softly, without armor:
"I think you might be my brother."
The words land between them like a dropped stone.
He doesn't move.
She continues, voice trembling just slightly:"Not just because of your face. I didn't want to believe it at first. But Ronell — the way she mirrors me… it's too exact. And then you — your hands, your voice, the way you... move through the world like you were never taught how to belong in it—"
"Stop," Moore cuts in.
But she doesn't.
"Every day, I watched you. And it stopped feeling like coincidence."
"Stop." He raises his voice, not yelling — but sharp.
She finally goes still.
Moore looks away, jaw clenched. His fists curl at his sides.
"You think I want that?" he says hoarsely. "You think a crown or a name is gonna fix anything?"
"I didn't say—"
"You don't know what I've lived through," he snaps. "What I had to do. Who I had to become. You think a storybook reunion makes that vanish?"
She opens her mouth, but he doesn't give her the chance.
"You can believe whatever you want. Doesn't mean it's who I am."
He turns, stepping away — pacing now, like the air's too tight. "You think a name or a face changes what I've been through? The people I lost? The things I did just to survive?"
"No," she says. Quiet. Firm. "But I had to know."
That stops him.
He looks back — and this time, she looks so young. No longer a princess with a plan. Just a girl trying to fill the hole left by someone she never got to know.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I just… needed to know if I was right."
The fire crackles softly.
The silence between them hangs like held breath.
Moore finally looks away. "You're not."
He doesn't say it with conviction.
Just exhaustion.
He walks past her, brushing her shoulder slightly, and sinks down on the edge of his bed. Runs a hand through his hair. Says nothing more.
She stays by the table for a moment, watching him.
Then she nods once. Wordless.
And quietly leaves.
---
From the shadowed hallway just outside, Ronell stands frozen. She hadn't meant to eavesdrop — just heard voices and came close.
But she'd heard enough.
Brother.
Name.
Survive.
Her heart thuds painfully in her chest, the warmth of the day cracking ever so slightly.
She steps back. Doesn't speak. Doesn't knock.
Just quietly returns to her own bed.
Her eyes stay open for a long time.
---
The storm had arrived by nightfall.
Snow pressed thick against the windowpanes, muffling the world outside in white hush. The wind howled sometimes, but never too loud — more like a voice kept just behind glass.
Inside the inn, the hearth was alive.
Golden fire crackled in its stone cradle, casting a halo of amber light across the wooden floor. Shadows danced up the walls, flickering soft and slow. It smelled like pine ash and melted snow.
Moore and Ronell sat nearby, still in their coats, steaming mugs in hand.
Hot chocolate.
Ronell took a long sip and hummed with satisfaction. "Perfect."
Moore stared into his cup with suspicion. "Why is it sweet and bitter? Pick one."
She snorted. "It's hot chocolate, Moore. It's supposed to taste like joy."
He muttered something into the rim of his mug, then took a sip anyway — and winced like he'd been personally betrayed.
Ronell smiled, tucking her legs beneath her on the chair.
They didn't speak for a moment. The quiet stretched, but it wasn't awkward. Just… gentle. Like the warmth had settled into their bones, and words weren't in a hurry to be used.
Then Moore said, "Today was weird."
Ronell raised an eyebrow. "Which part?"
"I don't know. All of it. That kid with the fox. The sled thing. The princess trying to measure my hands like a lunatic."
Ronell grinned. "You did yell 'I was born for speed!' right before crashing into a bush. I'm never letting that go."
"I was doing fine until someone kicked my sled."
"You ran straight into a lantern pole."
"It moved."
She laughed, the kind that didn't hide behind her sleeve. Moore rolled his eyes but smiled faintly into his cup.
Then the silence returned — softer this time. Quieter.
Ronell glanced sideways, voice lower. "You know… when we were in the simulation… I always felt like you were just going through the motions. Like nothing really… stuck."
Moore didn't reply, but he didn't look away either.
Ronell kept going, more gently now. "But here… I don't know. You're different."
His brow furrowed slightly.
"I mean it," she said. "You laugh more. You argue more. You even helped decorate a plaza, which I'm pretty sure would've made sim-you vomit."
Moore huffed a quiet breath. "He had taste."
"And no soul."
She nudged his boot with hers. He didn't pull away.
Ronell looked down at her mug. Her voice softened even further.
"I don't think you're just surviving anymore."
Moore was quiet. For a long time.
Then — barely above a whisper — he muttered, "Maybe."
She looked up.
He didn't meet her gaze. But the smirk on his face was real. Just faint. Just enough.
They sat like that — side by side, letting the fire crackle, letting the snow fall. No guards. No missions. Just warmth.
Just being.
Ronell leaned back and closed her eyes. Moore leaned forward and refilled his mug, still grumbling about the sweetness but drinking it anyway.
Neither of them noticed the soft shape curled on the rafters above.
May, in cat form, lay still — her tail tucked tight around her, her eyes open and watching. Her body tense despite the fire's glow. Her ears flicked once toward the window, where the storm deepened.
She didn't blink.
Because she already knew what was coming.
---
The snow had deepened by the time May reached the outer hills.
She stood beneath a crooked cedar at the edge of the woods, wind brushing her cloak like a warning. The sky had gone bruised with night, and yet she did not light a lantern. She didn't need it — not here.
She had been here before. Long ago. In a different life.
Before the collapse.Before the walls.Before the boy with fire in his hands.
Her boots crunched lightly over the frost as she stepped down the stone path, nearly buried beneath roots and time. Past the weather-worn marker stones. Past the prayer ribbons — now faded, some torn loose by storms. And then... the door.
Hidden in the hillside, covered by years of overgrowth and moss, it looked like nothing more than a hunter's shelter. But May pressed her hand against the sigil carved into the frame — a spiral knot within a circle. A Visionary's mark.
The wood sighed open on its own.
Inside, the air was still. Dry, and faintly sweet — the scent of pressed flowers and old ash. Faint blue crystals floated above the walls like slow-drifting stars, casting dim halos of light.
A voice greeted her without form:
"You've come late, little candle."
May stepped inside. Her tone was steady. "I need to hear what still lingers."
The voice replied, neither warm nor cruel — just ancient.
"Then bring something that burns."
She knelt, pulling from her satchel a folded letter — its edges charred, the wax seal cracked and half-melted. A family crest just barely visible in the red — a sun cradled by wings.
She had found it in a half-forgotten archive, tucked in a blackened box that hadn't seen daylight in decades. Official letters from the royal court, all marked "undelivered." One of them bore the prince's birthdate — but the recipient wasn't the Queen or the King.
It was addressed to a man exiled long ago. A former court scribe.
Rumored to have disappeared after one final job.
She set the letter in the center of the shrine. The moment the paper touched the stone, the air changed. The sigils around her glowed brighter. Wind stirred, though no door was open.
And then she heard it:
A voice.
Cracked with guilt. Caught in echo.
"Forgive me. I thought... I thought the Queen knew. I thought it was sanctioned. I delivered him into trusted arms—"
Another voice. A memory. Cold and commanding:
"Speak of this, and you forfeit your name."
The crystal lights dimmed. A long silence followed. May's hands curled at her sides.
She had enough.
She whispered, barely audible:"...I know who gave him away."
She stood.
Time was running short.
She didn't know if it would be enough to change what was coming — but if she could reach the couriers, intercept the path of the next message… she might delay it.
Might keep Moore hidden just a little longer.
As she stepped out of the shrine, the wind howled louder. The storm had arrived.
But May didn't flinch. She pulled her cloak tighter and vanished into the trees — her path set, the fire in her chest burning steady beneath the snow.