Crimson snow

The biting cold of the snowy forest gnawed at my exposed skin, each gust of wind a relentless adversary. I stumbled through the white veil of the blizzard, the world around me a blur of icy fangs and shadowed figures. My breaths came in ragged gasps, each one a whisper of steam that vanished into the merciless embrace of winter.

I couldn't remember who I was or why the guards were at my heels. Their shouts echoed like the baying of hounds on the hunt, a cacophony that fuelled my frantic heartbeat. My mind, a fractured mosaic, offered nothing but a searing pain that throbbed with every pulse of blood.

The forest seemed to conspire against me, its snow-laden branches clawing at my face, as if trying to wipe away the man I might have been. I was a shadow, a wisp of a person, chased by phantoms in the guise of men. The magic I knew I possessed thrummed beneath my skin, untamed and wild, but it was as if the conductor of this potent orchestra had abandoned the stage, leaving the instruments to play on without direction.

I ran until my legs could no longer bear the weight of my desperation. The snow rose up to meet me, and I surrendered to its cold embrace. My body screamed in protest as I collapsed, the white canvas around me marred by the crimson bloom of my own making.

Lying there, the world dimmed at the edges, the sounds of pursuit growing distant, drowned out by the roar of my own fading heartbeat. My vision tunneled, the snow a shroud that welcomed me into its chilling reprieve.

In the quiet that followed, there was a strange beauty in the contrast of my blood against the pristine snow. Each droplet a testament to a life that was slipping away, a story written in red on white, the final chapter of a tale I no longer remembered.

The last thing I saw before the darkness claimed me was the steady fall of snowflakes, each one a whisper against my fading senses. They came to rest upon my blood-streaked face, a gentle benediction from a world that had shown me no mercy.

And then, nothing. The pain receded like the tide, leaving behind a serene void that beckoned me into its depths. I let go, my body relaxing into the final surrender, the last vestiges of my consciousness adrift in a sea of white.

* * *

I awoke to darkness, a heavy, oppressive shroud that clung to my senses, smothering the remnants of unconsciousness. My head throbbed with the aftermath of pain, a relentless drumbeat that echoed the turmoil of my last memories. I tried to move, to lift my hands to the ache in my skull, but found them bound—steel chains biting into my wrists, a testament to my captivity.

The room was a void, save for a sliver of light that seeped beneath a distant door. It was enough to cast long, dancing shadows across the stone floor, but not enough to discern the walls that caged me. My breaths came short and sharp, the air thick with the scent of damp and decay.

The creak of the door hinges was a scream in the silence, and I squinted against the sudden intrusion of brighter light. Figures entered, their silhouettes merging with the darkness until the door swung shut, leaving only the dim glow from the threshold.

One of them stepped forward, his features sharpening into focus—a man with skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, dark hair slicked back, and eyes that held the chill of the grave. Dzvali, the name came to me unbidden, a whisper from a past I could no longer claim. He knew me, that much was clear from the way his gaze lingered, a mix of contempt and curiosity.

His guards flanked him, silent statues in the dim light, their presence an unspoken threat. Dzvali circled me, his movements fluid and predatory. "March," he said, my name a caress of ice on his lips. "Or should I say, Lion?"

I remained silent, my mind racing for answers that refused to surface. The chains rattled as I tested their strength, a futile gesture that only served to highlight my helplessness.

Dzvali clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. "No witty retorts? No fiery declarations of defiance?" He leaned in, his voice a low growl. "What has happened to the great March, the mage whose power was as untamed as the beast he was named for?"

His hand snapped out, striking me across the face. The sting of the blow was nothing compared to the confusion that clouded my thoughts. I searched the void for the surge of magic I knew resided within, but it was a dormant volcano, its fury locked away.

The blows continued, each one a spark that failed to ignite the inferno I knew I was capable of. Dzvali's frustration mounted with each silent endurance, his expectations unmet. "Fight, damn you!" he hissed, his face a mask of fury.

Abruptly, he stilled, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied me. A moment later, I felt the tendrils of his magic—a gentle, insidious probing at the edges of my mind. It was a violation, a search for truth in the murky waters of my memory.

I braced myself, but there was no need. His invasive presence recoiled as if stung, and a slow smile spread across his face. "Amnesia," he said, the word a revelation that transformed his anger into mirth. "Oh, this is rich. The great March, reduced to a blank slate."

He laughed, a sound that filled the room with its mirthless melody. "You have no idea who you are, do you? No grand speeches, no desperate attempts to break free. You don't even remember why you're here."

The laughter faded, and he straightened, his gaze piercing. "I should be furious, but I must admit, this is far more entertaining. You have no idea the havoc you've wreaked, the lives you've shattered."

He turned to his silent sentinels. "Take him to the cells. Let him be a curiosity among the scum and villainy that fester in the dark. Don't worry, March," he added with a sneer, "you will be the most welcome there. It's not like you have a lot of enemies… right?"

The guards moved forward, their hands gripping my arms as they lifted me, chair and all, and carried me from the room.