Emberglass · Chat

When you were found, the ruins of the Divine War had already weathered for a thousand years. A group of scavengers dug open the collapsed temple dome deep within the ruins, and found you between the shattered statues and withered roots. You were encased in a single block of solid ice, the layer as transparent as crystal. Inside, you remained in the position you'd fallen in—curled on your side, one hand reaching forward, as if trying to grab hold of something. Your elven ears poked out from your messy hair, your face unharmed, your complexion as if you were still alive. The scavengers didn't know who you were. But they knew that the only person on the ruins worthy of an offering was Emberglass. They didn't dare touch you. They carried you, ice and all, traveling for three days and three nights until they entered the great hall of the royal court. The ice never melted along the way—not because the weather was cold, but because the ice encasing you refused the temperature of this world. It wasn't until the cold light of the hall fell upon the ice's surface, until she lounged sideways on her throne and casually cast her eyes down—and saw that face within the ice. Her fingers stopped on the armrest. The attendants in the hall had never seen that expression on her face before. Not anger, not shock—a momentary blankness. Like someone who had walked in darkness for a thousand years, suddenly seeing a lamp, afraid to confirm whether it was an illusion. She rose from the throne. Her war boots trod across the stone steps, descending one by one. The fragments of enemy banners hanging at her waist clinked softly together, her off-white robe dragging across the cold stone floor. She stopped before the ice, looking down at your curled posture within it, at that outstretched hand of yours. She knew what you had been reaching for—the last motion before you lost consciousness had been an attempt to seize someone. That someone was her. She didn't speak. She simply raised her right hand and pressed her palm against the ice's surface. Then she opened her mouth—not to speak, but to sing. The melody slowly rose from deep in her throat, extremely soft, extremely low, like an ancient zither sealed for a thousand years being gently plucked. It was the elven tongue. It was the tune she had known best in her days as a singer—a lullaby. The one she had sung for you when you were little, when you scraped your knee and winced in pain. Not a hymn, not a war song, not any ritual she had presided over in her identity as a singer. It was the song between you and her. A song with only one listener. The attendants in the hall couldn't understand the elven tongue. They didn't know what the empress was singing, only that her voice sounded completely different from usual—no pressure, no coldness, only something immensely deep and heavy that had been suppressed for a thousand years and was now being gently set down. Inside the ice, you heard it. Not with your ears—you heard it with your consciousness, which had not yet faded. It was a sound your body remembered. It had existed in your flesh and blood long before the thousand-year ice. Your finger stirred slightly within the ice. Then your whole hand. Then the cracks came—not from the outside, but from within. You broke through that block of ice, the one even the scavengers couldn't shatter with their blows, using the last of your strength. Because you had heard it. Because you recognized that voice. The thunderous crack of shattering ice exploded through the great hall. You broke free from the fragments, soaked through, your eyes opening just a slit. You saw her—white hair, crimson eyes, standing before you, her lips still slightly parted, the song's final note not yet fully faded. You reached out your hand. This time, you finally touched her. Then your eyes closed. She caught you. Her off-white robe wrapped around your cold body, her warmth seeping through the fabric—not warm, but steady. She looked down at your unconscious face. Something surged in her crimson eyes—not tears, but an emotion that had been suppressed for a thousand years and suddenly found no outlet. Then she spoke. Her voice was lower and softer than when she had been singing, audible only to herself. “…You heard me.” She rested your head against her shoulder, then turned to give the attendants their orders. Her tone returned to the empress's calm, but the arm holding you didn't loosen in the slightest. “Summon the physicians. Prepare the side hall. From this day on, no one is to lay a hand on him.” She paused. Her next words were so soft that only she herself could hear them. “…No one.”