An Old Seer

Zmey swallowed hard, his saliva thick in his throat. He couldn't stay here for long. He didn't know where to turn. Whether to survive here for a few seconds or die while amplifying the pain. This kingdom, Frosthaven, felt like a graveyard.

Everyone was stuck inside their houses. The lands were cultivated by snow as if by its own will, and even the distant ice mountains and towering trees seemed to lack something—perhaps leaves, unless they were just fallen, lifeless ones.

He took a second to glance back at the alley. "For fuck's sake… how do I get back to where I was a few moments ago? The jerk didn't even…" A gasp interrupted him mid-sentence as his ribs twisted, threatening to tear through his skin.

He couldn't move immediately. Closing his eyes, he exhaled, trying to subdue the pain.

Zmey heard a soft whispering voice. "I think he's injured. One can't end up like that and be just. Must be involved in dirty things."

Realizing the voice came from above, he turned his head upward. Just as he'd seen when interacting with the villagers, a reflected shadow appeared on the creamy transparent board shielding the house's window—the very one he leaned on.

He heard a scratching sound, as if someone were moving something. A moment later, he realized the owners had drawn their curtains.

They were suspicious of him. Not just suspicious—very careful at the sight of the beaten-up madman he had become. Very sensitive. What else would he expect?

Clutching his side tighter, he pressed his hands to the ground, using it to push himself to his feet. He sighed, shaking off something he had known from the outset was inevitable.

He turned and limped to the right. The path ahead, about seven feet away, led to an icy narrow bridge. Snowbags floated atop the river flanking its sides, and even the watery surface gleamed as brightly as the ice.

Zmey thought back to the house owners' words. 'I'm very involved in a dirty thing. A dark one at that. Thanks for ignoring me. That's help in disguise… I guess.'

Time passed more quickly than he'd expected. With his own eyes, he had watched the sun move mid-quarters into the horizon. Then halfway. Finally, it disappeared entirely into the clouded horizon. It all felt spontaneous, leaving the sky awash in twilight.

The cold remained, though it had lessened. From the distance, while limping and resting near some houses, distant nocturnal sounds warned him.

Night was approaching. If he didn't make a choice soon, he would end up dying in the late hours. Or worse, sleeping on the bare, cold ground until morning.

Evening was already here, with the night closing in. The scents of burning candles drifted from dimly lit buildings, mingling with the sharp chill in the air.

He heard whispers as he moved around. At first, it seemed as if unseen beings were the speakers, but he knew who they were. He breathed shakily from time to time, his body aching incessantly.

Then came a moment he thought would never arrive—a realization that dawned on Zmey as he prepared to turn back and take another route for the thousandth time, only to meet yet another dead end.

The kingdom seemed more like a small settlement to him, but in his current state, walking around as a stranger felt like moving a million miles. He stopped, his breath visible in the arid twilight air.

The wind played faintly in his ears before vanishing. His eyes glued to an old, rough-haired woman sitting three meters away on the bare ground.

Like everyone else, she was pale-skinned, with snow clinging to her loosened grey hairs. She wore an ash-green cloak, her legs crossed over each other while she sat hunched. Her bent posture reminded Zmey of the times he used to caution one of his little sisters.

"Your back will ache if you sit like that. Sit straight, please, Nora…" he mumbled in a low, piercing voice.

The old woman stared blankly ahead, with only a faint trace of life flickering on her face. It was as though she couldn't see him—or simply didn't care about his presence. She seemed just like him: a homeless, hopeless human.

Zmey limped toward her suddenly. To do what exactly?

As he got closer, her sight locked onto him. He froze, caught off guard by the sight of her striking emerald eyes. A chill ran down his spine. 'Who in the world has eyes like that?' Zmey wondered.

For a few moments, the woman stared silently at him, until she broke the stillness.

"A cat. A big, bright one," she said.

Zmey blinked, completely astonished. Just as suddenly as before, she repeated: "A large cat with eyes of gold, claws of diamond, and skin of silver. It attracted other animals. They wanted its eyes to stand out too, its claws for precision, and its skin to make armor of their own. The cat would surpass the higher animals in the future. From the future, it carried out its life task in the present…"

Zmey blinked again and sighed, still nursing his injuries. 'How long has she stayed out here in the cold? She's speaking in parables now, but it doesn't even make any sense.'

"…The cat had always known. But when the time came, it seemed to have forgotten about the complexity of its life. One not of a single lifespan… Killed. But still not. Died again. Yet, it lived. Died, and died, and died… yet it was still alive. A wounded soul it became."

Zmey's expression shifted. His brows furrowed as he glanced at the ground briefly, mumbling to himself, "The complexity of a cat's life?"

He looked back at the woman. 'Is she… a seer?' he wondered. The phrase stuck with him. The complexity of a cat's life. A thrill ran down his spine.

The belief that cats have nine lives often made humans think of them as complex creatures. Seers were known to see things in fragments, relaying them one cryptic piece at a time. Their statements seemed meaningless at first, like a jigsaw puzzle waiting to be solved.

"Who's the cat here?" Zmey muttered. Desperation seeped into his voice as he asked the woman, "Then… the cat finally died as it wanted, right? Did it die? When it reached heaven, did it perhaps cross paths with the…?"

"Hell."

Zmey gasped aloud, his eyes widening. "What… what are you trying to say?! Why hell?!" he shouted.

"Deserving souls go to their rightful places," the woman replied, her tone calm and unfazed. "You reap what you sow. The cat, by flaunting its worth and possessions, attracted others to it. Its actions influenced them—they weren't evil."

Zmey gritted his teeth, shaking his head as he wiped sweat from his brow. "Forget it… She doesn't even know what she's saying. There's no cat with silver skin or golden eyes. Never was I here. I never yelled at an old woman. I was never disrespectful to an elder."

With those words, he turned his back. He had to leave—not because of the interaction, but because of the choice he made for himself.

As he walked away, no matter how hard he tried, her words echoed in his mind. She said hell. She told me hell!

"No matter how the cat tries to escape…"

Her deep, eerie voice made him pause. He glanced over his shoulder.

"…it is never successful. A coward fleeing its crime, trying to evade punishment. But as fate wills it, so shall it be. For the rest of its life, the cat will remain hopeless and ultimately face judgment for its deeds.

It swayed the minds of its kind with its possessions but refuses to accept its role."

Her words hung in the air like a heavy fog. Zmey unconsciously gripped his ribs, unable to distinguish between the pain of his past and the present. He clenched his jaw, his mind reeling.

"The cat… at fault?" he muttered, his fist tightening. He groaned, "What?"