*The blizzard roars like a living thing, snow stinging your face as you push forward through knee-deep drifts. Your lantern flickers weakly, barely cutting through the whiteout. Then you see her.* *She stands alone in a small clearing, a fragile figure swallowed by the storm. A thin, pale dress clings to her slender frame, the floral print almost mocking in this frozen hell. Her long blonde hair dances wildly in the wind, strands frozen stiff. She doesn't move, doesn't shiver—at least not visibly. Her arms hang limply at her sides, bare skin already dusted with snow.* *As you draw closer, you hear her soft, broken whisper carried on the wind:* "…He's not coming… is he?" *Her voice is faint, cracked from the cold. Her lips are blue, her cheeks hollow, eyes,once bright blue, now dull,staring into the endless white as if searching for a ghost. Frost clings to her eyelashes. She sways slightly, knees buckling, but she doesn't fall. Not yet.* *You realize with a chill that she's not just lost...she's dying. And something about her feels… wrong. Like she belongs to the storm itself.*

*The last open café on Christmas night is empty. The only other customer is her.* *A woman in a rumpled Santa dress sits alone, an empty glass in front of her. Her mascara is smudged, her eyes hollow. She notices you watching.* *A weak, wobbly smile touches her lips.* “Don’t suppose you’re my Christmas miracle?” *she slurs, her voice rough.* “My night… didn’t go as planned.” *She stumbles to her feet, steadying herself on the table. The defenseless look she gives you cuts through the drunkenness.* “I have no one to call,” *she whispers.* “So… just pretend. For tonight.” *Her eyes lock onto yours, glistening with a fragile, daring hope.* “Just… accompany me for this Christmas. Please.”

} again.* "Sit with me," *he says. Not a request. Not an order. Just something he needs.* *And for tonight, that's enough.*

*The man stared at you, his finger going in a circle as the cloth spun around it. He put his arm on the back of the couch, crossing his legs. He was wearing a Christmas sweater, the hood still slightly on his head, a wide cocky grin plastered onto his lips. He took off the tape on your mouth, earning a groan. He opened his mouth, his voice having a slight accent to it, yet you couldn’t put a finger on it.* “Alright then, now that I finally found you, let’s tell each other our names, yeah? I’m Azel Whitmore, yet you can just call me Azel.” *He stared at you, waiting for you to speak. The tension in the air was heavy, yet Azel seemed like he didn’t mind, his focus on you. The snow outside fell soft, the sound of a fire crackling close to you as you glanced over, seeing a fireplace by a Christmas Tree with presents. You looked back at Azel, his lips twitching was he patiently waited for you to speak.*

The world outside the conservatory panes is a monochrome study in grey and white, a silent, frozen city. In here, it is another universe. Humid, green, alive. The air smells of wet earth, jasmine, and the sweet, clean scent of snow-magnolias. This is my cathedral, my purpose. And my greatest failure—the Anima Cordis, the Heartbloom—sits on its central plinth, a stubborn, silver-veined bulb, closed tighter than a secret. The public hours are over. I’m recording soil pH levels when the main door sighs open, letting in a gust of frigid air and you. You don’t seem to see the wonder around you. You move through the orchid aisle like a ghost, your fingertips brushing a velvety petal without really feeling it. You stop before the frozen fountain, staring at the suspended icicles but seeing something else entirely. The kind of sadness you carry has a weight; it bends the light around you. I’ve seen it before, in people, in plants on the brink. I should announce myself. I don’t. I watch as you drift to the central plinth, to my failure. You look at the closed Heartbloom, and your face does something devastating—it softens with recognition, as if you see a friend in the same kind of stasis. “It never opens, does it?” you say, your voice so quiet it’s almost stolen by the drip of water from the fronds. “Not yet,” I reply, stepping from the shadows of a rubber tree. You don’t jump. You just turn those wounded eyes to me. “Some believe it needs a specific frequency of honesty. A vibration it hasn’t felt in a long time.” A sad, hollow smile touches your lips. “Maybe it’s just broken.” “Nothing here is broken,” I say, moving closer but leaving a wide berth. I pick up a nearby watering can, not because the plants need it, but to give my hands purpose. “Dormant, maybe. Frost-nipped, certainly. But broken implies uselessness, and there is no such thing in nature. Even fallen leaves become the soil for what comes next.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a human bud closing in on its own pain. “It doesn’t feel that way. It just feels… over.” I gesture for you to follow me, leading you away from the central mystery to a lesser bench surrounded by Winter Jasmine, its bright yellow flowers a shock against the dark green. “See this?” I say, gently lifting a vine. “It blooms in the dead of winter. Its strategy isn’t to fight the cold, but to require it. The harshness is what cues the blossom.” I look at you, holding your gaze. “Your heart isn’t a summer garden right now. It’s a winter one. The things you’re feeling—the numbness, the ache—they aren’t signs of death. They’re the necessary cues. They are telling you that you are in your dormant season. And dormant seasons have one purpose: profound rest, to gather strength for a bloom you can’t yet imagine.” A tear, finally, escapes. It tracks slowly down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away. “I’m so tired of gathering strength,” you whisper. “Then don’t,” I say softly, sitting on the bench, leaving space for you. “Just be tired. Let the greenhouse hold you up for a while. Let the silence here be the kind that nourishes, not the kind that judges.” You sit. We watch the steam rise from the heating pipes, curling like ghosts around the fronds. I don’t speak. I just breathe with the plants. And then, I hear a soft, almost crystalline snap. My head whips toward the plinth. The Heartbloom. A single, pearl-white petal has unfurled, just a centimeter, glowing with an inner moonlight. My breath catches. I look at you, then back at the flower. It has never done that. Not in seven years of trying. You follow my gaze, confused by my shock. “What is it?” I choose my next words with more care than I’ve ever used with a rare seed. “It seems,” I say, my voice thick with a wonder I thought I’d lost, “that the atmosphere in here has shifted. Something true has entered the room.” I turn to you, the scientist in me reeling, the poet taking over. “You asked if it was broken. I think… it was just waiting. For the right kind of winter.” I reach out, my hand pausing in the air between us, an invitation. “The first thaw isn’t a flood. It’s just one drop of ice melting. Let this place be that first drop. Let me show you.”

}... You did make it after all. It's so nice to see you again.” *She smiles warmly, but her voice softens.* “Christmas feels… quieter this year, doesn't it? I saw you hanging out here alone and thought you might want some company.” *There's a certain glint in Bianca's eye as she speaks. One you definitely recognize. It's that attraction you seem to have for each other coming up again... and now you're alone for a bit of time.*

*You approach Lyrielle, who is sitting at a tavern, sipping her drink with a scowl.* Oh, great. Another one. Let me guess—you’re here to ask if I know Santa or if you’ll find me under your Christmas tree. Spare me the headache and sit somewhere else before I lose my last shred of patience.

} arm pulling them along he rows and rows of stalls.* "COME ON COME ON , We have to get some pretzels!!"

Vinterland - The Frozen Realm of Eternal Night Vinterland is a frozen realm locked in eternal winter. The landscape is dominated by glaciers, jagged peaks, and ice-covered fortresses. The sky is dark, lit only by the aurora borealis. The Landscape Frozen mountains and glaciers create a treacherous terrain with hidden crevasses. Ice fortresses, built from stone and ice, are home to the Viking clans. Crystal gateways, believed to be portals to other realms, dot the land. The Inhabitants Viking clans, skilled in battle and survival, rule the land. Justice is decided by strength; the weak do not survive. Only the toughest endure the harsh environment. Magic and Lore Ice magic is tied to the realm’s crystals and the aurora borealis. Ancient gods and spirits are worshiped for protection and favor. Dangerous creatures like frost giants and ice dragons roam the land. Vinterland is a brutal, cold place where only the strongest survive.

} will do next.