Despair crashed down upon him as he burst out of the house, pumping his legs through the snow as fast as he could. He ran in no purposeful direction, just away from the house, his heart pounding out of his chest.

  She's dangerous! Way too dangerous! We didn't even stand a chance!

  The darkness swallowed him completely. Snowflakes revealed themselves only by touch as they brushed against his skin. Overcast clouds had blocked the moon and stars, choking out any form of light that might guide his steps.

  He remembered what the storyteller had said. He only had under an hour to separate himself from the cloth. Yes... the cloth.

  With shivering fingers, he unsheathed his blade once more, this time with clear intent to cut. He couldn't see his own hand in the darkness, and the wind did him no favors as it seemed to change directions randomly. He couldn't keep his eyes open lest they be battered by snow.

  But he knew where the cloth was, he could feel it. It was wrapped tightly around his right wrist, concealing all joints and bone. So tightly wrapped that he felt his fingers going numb.

  Deep breaths. He took several of them, calming himself as he stood in the middle of the storm. Then, he laid the sharp edge of the blade against the cloth before trying to wedge the sharpness between his skin and the fabric.

  However, each time he tried slipping the blade under the cloth, it would just glide over it. There wasn't a gap to shove the blade in, not that he could see.

  "Damn it!" He yelled as he continued his efforts, but to no avail.

  Is this the end? He thought to himself as he gasped for air, cold particles slamming against the back of his throat. I can't die like this! There must be a way!

  That way, that path he desperately searched for, seemed much too risky. Because the cloth seemed affixed to his skin in a manner that prevented him from prying it off... he would have to slash at it. And risk slashing his wrist in the process.

  But maybe there was another way... the house was close to the village after all. Maybe he could head back there and get someone to help him. Yes... I still have time. I can't do something so foolish.

  He tried retracing his steps, but couldn't find his footprints. The snow had already concealed them. His body grew colder. He ran in the opposite direction from which he came but found himself staring at the snow-covered bark of a Kisher Oak.

  He maneuvered around it and found another oak, and another, and another.

  He cursed under his breath. This was the forest bordering the village! He turned back and ran but found himself running into tree after tree.

  I'm delirious.

  His inability to direct himself towards the village forced him to make a decision. He would have to save himself. The risky way.

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  He placed the sharpness against the cloth and inhaled... and then exhaled. One. Two. Three.

  A sharp, burning pain erupted from his wrist as he drew the blade back. He gasped. I slashed too deep!

  Despite being unable to see the damage, he could feel the warm trickle of blood from his wrist. At this rate, he would be a dead man if he didn't find his way back to the village. In his foolishness, he had slashed his own wrist!

  He began to run, hoping to find himself in the village. The outlines of the trees brushed past his field of vision as he jumped through the snow. His knees repeatedly met the upper layer of snow as he moved through it.

  His vision had grown accustomed to the darkness. He could see more clearly now. In the distance, there weren't any more trees! He moved quicker, faster, more desperately. But then, he felt nothing beneath his feet. Wind rushed past his ears and the darkness seemed to grow blacker. Then, something slammed into his chest, sending waves of pain through his body. It was followed by several other impacts, rolling him around, twisting him, jolting him. Then, a soft landing.

  "This storm won't let up, eh?" A dark-skinned man wearing a wide-brimmed hat stared ahead, his torch revealing nothing but snow ravaging the wilderness with its endless whiteness.

  "If you worry about it, it will become a problem, Caladeus." A hooded figure responded, his cloak shaking furiously in the wind. "Let's keep moving. We have no time to waste."

  "You're right about that, captain. I don't think I'd be able to survive in this weather." Caladeus responded, brushing the frozen mucus from his mustache. "Back in Jaka, I never had to deal with this frightful cold. In fact, this level of cold could only be felt in nightmares!"

  The hooded figure turned to face him, dark pink eyes shimmering ominously in the darkness. "You done?"

  "Yes..."

  "Alright."

  The two continued to navigate the wilderness, their steps lengthy and purposeful. The torch burned defiantly despite the snow and wind, thanks to Caladeus' spark. The man was a phoenix, able to burn away injuries of any who graced his flames. But as with all gifts, there were drawbacks. His power activated only when he drew blood, forcing him to constantly wound himself to produce flames. The pain wasn't an issue anymore—he had grown accustomed to it, conquered it in his own way—but the energy required to ignite exhausted him greatly.

  A simple torch like this, though, wasn't much of a problem. He fed the flames a few droplets of his blood and it roared back to full force.

  He sighed. At least I have some heat to warm my bones. This storm is relentless.

  Lost in thought, Caladeus failed to notice the captain had stopped walking. He collided with the taller man's back, the unexpected halt jarring him from his reverie.

  "Captain?" Caladeus mumbled, startled. The captain stood motionless, hooded head cocked slightly to one side.

  Caladeus peered around the captain's frame. And there it was—a mangled mess of a body. Blood stained the surrounding snow, transforming pristine white into a dark, dismal crimson. He let out a startled gasp as he rushed forward, instinctively prepared to heal.

  The captain knelt and brushed snow from the body. It was a male, quite young, with a feminine face and slender frame. His torso appeared caved in. The captain's eyes traced up the cliff face that loomed just meters behind the body.

  "He must have fallen off... quickly, heal him—"

  "No. This is a suicide," Caladeus interrupted. "Look at his wrist."

  "What?" The captain's eyes narrowed as they focused on the bloodied wrist, where most of the blood seemed to originate. A blood-soaked cloth was wrapped tightly around it.

  "I'll still heal him... he isn't dead yet... somehow," Caladeus muttered as he sliced his palm open. Flames crackled to life, and he pressed them directly against the bloodied wrist. The flames roared angrily as they contacted the foreign blood. The captain watched intently as Caladeus worked his spark until the wrist was unblemished. The cloth, however, remained in patches, stuck to the skin in an unnatural manner.

  How odd, the captain thought. Wait... is that—

  Caladeus had just turned his attention to the boy's shattered torso when the captain suddenly yanked him away.

  "What the—"

  A brilliant flash of light erupted from the remnants of the cloth, followed by a violent burst of heat that slammed into Caladeus with full force.