Chapter 28: The Boy Without a Name
Cold.
A bone-chilling cold that chewed at her skin, creeping into the marrow of her bones, making her limbs feel like they no longer belonged to her.
The air, if it even existed, was hollow—silent, smothering in its nothingness. No warmth, no breath, no sound. Just an endless abyss stretching beyond her senses, swallowing her whole.
She couldn't see. Not even a flicker of light to pierce through the suffocating darkness. Her body felt weightless, yet she knew she was falling—falling into an endless void with no end, no beginning, no escape.
The sensation was unsettling, like plunging into icy water, yet never reaching the bottom. The cold wrapped around her like a second skin, pressing against her chest, squeezing out what little remnants of life she had left.
Was she dead?
The thought crossed her mind as a faint whisper. Did she actually die when Amethyst hurled her against the stage's concrete floor? She could almost feel it again—that brutal impact, the sickening crack that echoed through her skull.
Maybe her body had shattered upon contact, her bones breaking like fragile glass beneath the force. Maybe she had bled out, her lifeless form discarded like an afterthought.
Perhaps this was what death felt like. A slow, sinking descent into an empty abyss, free from the pain, the struggle, the expectations forced upon her.
"Finally, free from responsibilities..."
The words drifted through her mind like a distant echo, a hollow comfort she barely believed in.
After all, wasn't she already forgotten? The world had moved on without her, just as it always did. No one will search for her. No one will call her name.
Perhaps, death was the best option. Perhaps, it truly was.
Silvermist had always thought she'd fight for survival, that she'd cling to life no matter how unbearable it became. But here, drifting in an endless abyss of cold, she found herself unable to resist the pull of nothingness. Maybe this was the only way. Maybe, in death, she could finally find peace.
A dull ache gnawed at her chest—a whisper of regret, of unfinished battles, of words left unsaid. But what did it matter now? She was powerless. Utterly useless. A failed apprentice. If she disappeared, surely someone more capable, someone stronger, would take her place. Frost could do that, couldn't he? The Guardians had their ways. They could find another. Someone who wouldn't disappoint him.
Frost.
Where was he?
Why hadn't he come for her?
Had he truly abandoned her?
The questions swirled like a storm inside her head, each one sharper than the last. Was this the price she had to pay for breaking his staff? Had she wounded him so deeply that staying away was his only choice? But how were they supposed to become one—how was she meant to be his human staff—if they couldn't even be together to mend what was broken?
"How deep was the damage I have caused him?"
The thought was like a dagger to her heart.
And then, something touched her cheek. A sensation so faint, so fragile, that for a moment, she thought it was a trick of her fading consciousness. Slowly, awareness crept back into her fingers. Her hands—numb and weak—moved of their own accord, brushing against the thing trailing down her skin.
Wet. Warm.
She held the droplets between her fingers. Her own tears.
Suddenly, light.
It was distant, almost unreachable, flickering like a beacon in an endless void. And yet, its presence was undeniable.
Silvermist's breath hitched. Was this it? A final glimpse of something before she faded completely? Or was it a sign that her journey wasn't over yet?
The moment she became aware of her legs, she moved. At first, it was slow, hesitant, as though testing if she was truly still capable of movement. Then, with every step, the urgency within her grew. Faster. Faster. Until she was sprinting, her arms reaching toward the light, desperate to grasp it.
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The instant her fingertips brushed against it—
The world changed.
She was no longer drowning in cold, suffocating darkness. Instead, she stood in the meadows, where apprentices like her belonged as what Periwinkle had told her.
But then again, no one was there.
Only the air was thick with the scent of lavender, violets, azaleas, gardenias, and lilies. A dreamlike fragrance that wrapped around her, soothing yet unsettling in its intensity.
The flowers stretched endlessly across the land, swaying gently as if whispering to one another. The colors were vivid—too vivid. Purples, blues, pinks, and whites danced against a sea of lush green, yet then again, there was no sign of life.
No laughter. No voices.
Silvermist exhaled, watching as the wind carried her breath away like a fleeting ghost. The sky above cascaded into different shades of blue, stretching endlessly into the horizon. It was beautiful, almost serene.
And yet, she had never felt so alone.
Silvemist blinked when a thin trail of smoke curled up in the distance, dark against the pale sky. It was far, barely visible, but enough to stir something inside her. Without hesitation, she sprinted toward it.
Was someone there?
Would she finally find another presence in this eerily empty place?
Or... was this another trap?
Her mind swirled with possibilities. Should she stay here, in this false peace, and abandon the responsibilities that had weighed on her shoulders for so long? Or should she search for a way back—to Moonstone Academy, to the war she had tried so hard to escape?
One truth lingered: Amethyst had hit her hard enough to knock her soul out of her body. That was the only explanation that made sense.
Minutes passed—she had lost count—until she finally reached the source of the smoke.
"A cabin?" Silvermist muttered, slowing to a halt.
The structure stood alone, nestled beside a river with a weathered water wheel turning lazily in the current. Its walls, made of aged concrete and wood, had seen better days. Moss crept along its foundation, and vines curled around its windows, as if nature itself was trying to reclaim it.
For a moment, she hesitated.
What if Periwinkle was inside?
The thought made her skin crawl, but what other choice did she have? That lying woman might still have answers. But this time, Silvermist wouldn't be so easily deceived.
Carefully, she stepped closer. The door was slightly ajar, swaying with the breeze. She peeked inside, her heart hammering.
Empty.
She swallowed and entered cautiously, her boots barely making a sound against the wooden floor. Dust particles swirled in the sunlight streaming through the cracked windows. The air smelled of parchment and ink—old, abandoned knowledge.
Her gaze swept across the room. Three tables occupied each corner, cluttered with scattered papers and open books, their pages curling with age. A small table stood in the center, accompanied by a single chair.
But it was the book resting on that table that captured her attention.
Something about it felt... wrong and right at the same time.
Silvermist approached, her fingers tingling as she reached out.
The moment her eyes landed on the words inside—she froze.
Shock coursed through her veins.
It wasn't just any book. It was her story.
There was no name mentioned, yet Silvermist recognized every detail written within as if it had been plucked straight from her own memories.
From the time her mother surprised her with the latest Barbie collection, her small hands eagerly tearing at the glossy packaging. To the mornings when her grandmother, bathed in the soft glow of dawn, sat on the edge of her bed, whispering tales of the legendary Guardians. To the days when her family, once whole, began to crumble—the echoes of hushed arguments seeping through the walls until silence replaced them entirely.
And to the moment when Levi, the man she had once loved, betrayed her, leaving her to wake up alone with the realization that love, once broken, could never be mended.
Page after page, it was all there. Every wound, every fleeting joy, every secret she had never spoken aloud.
"H-How in the world..." she whispered, her fingers trembling as she clutched the book tighter.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she flipped back and forth, scanning the pages in disbelief. She had to be imagining this. There was no way—
A soft creak shattered the morning quiet.
Silvermist stiffened, her breath catching as the door cracked open. Sunlight spilled through the widening gap, stretching across the floor like liquid gold. Then, a small voice followed.
"Who are you?"
Slowly, hesitantly, she turned.
A boy stood in the doorway. He couldn't have been more than ten years old, his frame slight, his posture tense. But there was something about him—something that sent an involuntary shudder down her spine.
Ebony-black hair fell over his forehead, and his obsidian eyes, dark and unfathomable, locked onto her with a quiet intensity. His skin was deathly pale, his lips nearly as colorless as frostbitten ice.
Silvermist knew him.
Not in the way one recognizes a familiar face, but in the way one feels the presence of something long intertwined with their fate. An unspoken recognition churned deep within her, nameless yet undeniable.
The boy's expression darkened. "What are you looking at, woman?!"
He marched forward, his small hands snatching the book from her grasp with a mixture of indignation and something closer to panic.
Not quite disrespectful, not entirely respectful—just a flustered, defensive reaction, like a child caught hiding something precious.
The moment he reclaimed it, he cradled it close, running his fingers over the cover before shutting it carefully. Not with the roughness of someone annoyed, but with the cautious hands of someone protecting a fragile secret.
"I'm sorry, but why did you enter without my permission?!" he snapped, stepping past her toward the cluttered table.
His fingers darted across the scattered papers, flipping them upside down with practiced urgency, as if she had just walked in on something she was never meant to see.
Silvermist swallowed hard. "I—I was just curious."
Her gaze flickered to the book now hidden behind his small frame. "And that book..." she hesitated, "Is that a diary?"
"N-No," the boy blurted out too quickly, his arms tightening around it. He spun on his heel and shoved it into the drawer, slamming it shut as if the very act would erase what had just transpired. "It's a story."
"A story of what?"
The boy's brows knitted together in suspicion. "Why are you even asking that when you're trespassing—"
"Frost?"
The name slipped past her lips before she could stop it.
The boy froze.
The golden morning light glowed around him, highlighting the slight rise and fall of his shoulders. His fingers twitched at his sides.
Then, barely above a whisper, he murmured, "How did you know the name I do not own yet?"