The wind no longer sang.
It bled.
A raw, frozen, desperate rasp wound its way through the frozen ruins of the battlefield. It tore moans from charred beams, clawed at exposed flesh, licked the dark puddles of frozen blood. It no longer carried life—only the memory of what it had erased.
Rays lay sprawled, his side torn open, breath shallow, eyelids sealed like twin blades. His kimono was nothing more than a shroud in tatters, clinging to his skin with clotted blood. Around him, the snow was no longer white. It had turned brown, black, red—as if the earth itself had bled through its pores in helpless anguish.
Rex lay beside him, muzzle buried in the snow, his flanks rising with ragged breaths. A gaping wound slashed across his chest. Yet he had not left his master's side for a moment.
And above them, that voice still lingered.
— Congratulations... it whispered, sweet and distant. You survived. Which, in this nightmare, is almost a miracle. Magnificent. Majestic. Pathetic.
Silence. Then a hoarse cough. Rays spat a thread of blood that spread across the snow like a scarlet signature.
— "Go fuck yourself," he growled.
The voice chuckled—a dry, hollow, disembodied sound.
— Charming. But pointless. You'll die. Not now, no. The cold will take you. Or hunger. Or the next dance. You are broken. And there's no one left to mourn you.
Rays pushed himself upright. Slowly. One of his ribs cracked with a dull snap, but he didn't cry out. He simply gritted his teeth, eyes still closed, face frozen in an expression of relentless exhaustion.
Rex tried to rise too, but his legs trembled, his claws scraping through the snow in vain. Rays placed a hand on his back, guided by instinct. He felt the faint warmth of fur beneath his fingers, the frail pulse of a loyal heart.
They were alone. But together.
— "Rex… hang on."
A gust lashed at them, lifting snow stained by death. In the distance, a groan echoed—the final breath of a disemboweled beast. Then silence. True silence.
Until the world began to crack.
Before them, the frozen corpses of the monsters started to split. Shards of crystal broke away from their bodies, revealing inner lights: pale strands drifting toward the sky like souls. Stolen dreams. Burned-out nightmares.
— Extraction in progress, murmured the voice. You danced well. Here is your due.
Rays reached out, blind, guided by the tremble in the air. He no longer saw. Not since the ritual. But he felt. The air quivered. The cold bit deep, but the dreams... they burned.
— "We can survive," he whispered. "We have to."
— By picking up branches? the voice mocked. You've got no eyes. No strength left. Just your dog, your blood, and that scrap of pride that keeps you talking.
He managed a painful smile.
— "Pride is fuel like any other."
He staggered forward. Rex barked. Weakly. A warning. A promise.
Wood.
He knelt, rummaging through the snow, fingers cracked from frostbite brushing against rough shapes: pieces of bark, blackened twigs, charred bones mistaken for roots. Each scrap of wood was a victory. Each step, a war.
For hours—maybe days—they moved like that. He, buckling under fatigue. Rex, faltering but alive. The wounded duo, hunted, forgotten, gathering in the frozen silence whatever they could to spark a flame.
When they finally collapsed beneath a tree warped by ice, Rays dropped his final bundle.
— "Rex... stay awake. Just a little longer."
The dog whimpered, his breathing labored. Rays lay against him, wrapping his arms around his body, trying to share a little human warmth, a little shared pain.
— "The next wave…" he said. "I'll feel it. Even without my eyes. Even without powers."
— You have nothing left, the Voice whispered. Even your echolocation is gone. You've become... ordinary.
— "No," he replied. "I have Rex. I have the earth. And I have this damned snow to remind me I'm still alive."
Silence.
Then, against all odds... a flame.
Faint. Flickering. But real.
— I gave you a bit of energy, said the Voice, almost tender. Consider it a farewell gift.
The fire crackled softly. It caught on the wood, wrapped it in orange tongues. Rays closed his eyes, and for the first time, felt something besides cold.
— "You haven't got me yet," he murmured.
— Not yet, the Voice admitted. But soon.
In the fire's reflection, the crystalline remnants of stolen dreams still floated, tracing slow spirals above the corpses. Silent prayers. Suspended regrets.
And two silhouettes reflected within them: a blind man and his wounded dog, lying beside a trembling flame, staining the snow with their blood. Two survivors clinging to life like to a rusted blade.
But standing.
Still.
— End of waltz one, said the Voice.
And in the eternal night, the thorn of frost gave way, for a moment, to the whisper of fire.