DORIAN
The tundra’s silence hung heavy between them, broken only by the distant keening of the wind. Dorian turned to face Dahlia fully, his blue eyes gleaming with a rare flicker of warmth against the cold bite of the air. He watched as she peeled the gloves from her hands, pale fingers emerging like marble against the unrelenting grayness of the Deepfrost sky. When her invitation came his own gloved fingers moved with deliberate precision to match her gesture. He removed his gloves one by one, the motion almost ceremonial, and tucked them neatly into his coat. The chill was immediate, but he welcomed it. The cold was a familiar companion, a whisper of the void’s embrace compared to the vacuum of space they had once called home.
"We shall," he murmured, his voice low, nearly lost to the wind. From the inner lining of his coat, he withdrew a small velvet pouch, its black fabric catching faint traces of light. Undoing the drawstring with a deft pull, he tipped its contents into his palm: three void crystals, shards of impossibly dark material that seemed to drink in the meagre light around them. Their jagged edges glimmered faintly, as if alive with a hunger barely contained by their fractured forms.
Holding one between his thumb and forefinger, Dorian studied it with quiet reverence, tilting it so the abyssal gleam caught in Dahlia’s gaze. "Halo is already scarred by ice," he said, his tone thoughtful, almost clinical. "It will hardly resist a deeper wound." Would resist seeds, as well. Without waiting for a reply, he crouched, the fur of his coat brushing the frozen ground, and pressed the crystal against the snow-packed surface.
The reaction was immediate. Where the crystal touched, the ice began to darken, jagged veins of black and purple spreading outward like spiderwebs beneath the snow. Dorian straightened, the sharp air catching the faint curl of satisfaction on his lips as he watched the void take hold. "A transformation so subtle, it will spread beneath the surface before they even realize what’s happened."
The second crystal he handed to her, his fingers brushing lightly against hers. "Your turn," he said, the challenge in his voice masked beneath a smooth veneer. The third crystal remained in his palm, its edges biting faintly into his skin. He stepped back, giving Dahlia room to work, but his gaze stayed fixed on the corruption creeping beneath the ice. It was mesmerizing, the way the void spread in veins that mirrored the very cracks in the permafrost. It didn’t replace the land—it consumed it, rewrote it, made it more.
"We shall," he murmured, his voice low, nearly lost to the wind. From the inner lining of his coat, he withdrew a small velvet pouch, its black fabric catching faint traces of light. Undoing the drawstring with a deft pull, he tipped its contents into his palm: three void crystals, shards of impossibly dark material that seemed to drink in the meagre light around them. Their jagged edges glimmered faintly, as if alive with a hunger barely contained by their fractured forms.
Holding one between his thumb and forefinger, Dorian studied it with quiet reverence, tilting it so the abyssal gleam caught in Dahlia’s gaze. "Halo is already scarred by ice," he said, his tone thoughtful, almost clinical. "It will hardly resist a deeper wound." Would resist seeds, as well. Without waiting for a reply, he crouched, the fur of his coat brushing the frozen ground, and pressed the crystal against the snow-packed surface.
The reaction was immediate. Where the crystal touched, the ice began to darken, jagged veins of black and purple spreading outward like spiderwebs beneath the snow. Dorian straightened, the sharp air catching the faint curl of satisfaction on his lips as he watched the void take hold. "A transformation so subtle, it will spread beneath the surface before they even realize what’s happened."
The second crystal he handed to her, his fingers brushing lightly against hers. "Your turn," he said, the challenge in his voice masked beneath a smooth veneer. The third crystal remained in his palm, its edges biting faintly into his skin. He stepped back, giving Dahlia room to work, but his gaze stayed fixed on the corruption creeping beneath the ice. It was mesmerizing, the way the void spread in veins that mirrored the very cracks in the permafrost. It didn’t replace the land—it consumed it, rewrote it, made it more.
