The storm outside howled, snow battering the small cabin as if nature itself sought to tear it apart. The boy lay on a threadbare cot near the fire, his body shivering, his breaths shallow and ragged. Across from him, a woman sat motionless, her wide-brimmed hat casting her face into shadow. The firelight flickered, catching on her gloved hands as they stirred a pot of steaming broth.

  “This is the Dustland,” she began, her voice low and deliberate, as though the words carried the weight of ages. “A place where the world discards what it cannot use. Beyond the wall lies the civilized world. They call the people here on this side the Multitude. To them, you are nothing. Less than nothing.”

  The boy’s lips cracked as he tried to speak. “Why… why the wall?”

  She rose slowly, her steps deliberate as she crossed the room to him. The firelight stretched her shadow across the walls, a dark shape that loomed like the storm itself. She knelt beside him, her gloved hand reaching out to gently cup his face. Her touch was cold, her grip unyielding.

  “Fear,” she said, her voice quiet but cutting. “Fear of the untamed. Fear of their own failures. They call it order, but it is nothing more than a cage. They call us savages, yet they built a world where savagery is the only choice left. That wall is not a divide—it is a wound.”

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  The boy’s eyes fluttered as her words sank in, but before he could speak, her grip on his face tightened. Her voice dropped, chilling and commanding. “You are mine now. My creation, my purpose. As long as you stay with me, you will never die. You will not need to fear death, because it will never touch you. You are mine and mine alone.”

  The boy’s breathing quickened, his eyes wide, but he couldn’t pull away. Her gaze burned into his, shadowed and unreadable, but impossibly vast. “Do you understand?” she asked, her voice softer now but no less sharp. “You belong to me. Until the end.”

  Tears welled in his eyes, his body trembling. He nodded faintly, the strength to resist completely drained from him. The woman’s gloved hand slid away, and she stood, her silhouette cutting against the firelight like a black shard.

  “Rest now,” she commanded, her tone absolute. “The storm never stops, but you will endure. You are mine, and I do not lose what is mine.”

  The boy’s eyes closed, his body sinking into exhaustion. The woman turned back to the fire, stirring the pot as though nothing had happened. Outside, the wind screamed through the cracks in the cabin, carrying whispers of a divided world—one broken by walls and bound by chains unseen.

  Snow Butterfly. This story was born from my passion for exploring themes of survival, sacrifice, and the human spirit in the face of an unforgiving world. It means the world to me that you’ve shared in this vision, experiencing the highs and lows of the Dustland and its haunted characters.

  Snow Butterfly or in entirely new realms, I’m committed to weaving stories that challenge, captivate, and stay with you long after the final page. Your support fuels my creativity, and I can’t wait to bring more worlds, characters, and adventures to life.