Everything faded. She didn't know how much time had passed.
But when consciousness flickered back for a brief moment, she realized she was lying under a blanket—tucked up to the neck. She didn't know where she was. It didn't matter.
Pain had taken over every inch of her body. Sharp, unbearable pain—unrelenting, suffocating.
It hurts! Everything hurts! Aghhh!
Her eyes couldn't open. She curled up tighter under the blanket, humming to herself, trying to stay sane. She rolled over once, twice. Nothing helped. No relief. No mercy.
For a moment—just a moment—she wanted to call out for someone to end it.
And then—
A cold hand slipped under the blanket. Pressed gently against her forehead. The touch was so soft that even though the hand was cold, it warmed her heart instantly.
The pain began to fade. Slowly. Gently. Moments later, it was gone. And she slipped into deep, dreamless sleep.
"Spring, I'm back," came the voice—soft, steady—from beyond the door. "I'm coming in."
She blinked awake. The hut smelled like snow and wood. Her body was still, her thoughts hazy.
The pain from earlier… gone. But the warmth left in its place felt too tender to be a dream.
The door opened.
Winter stepped inside, radiant in a way that made her chest ache. His coat was damp with melting frost, and his eyes went straight to hers.
"Hi, love." He leaned in and kissed her cheek, but his lips didn't leave her skin immediately. They lingered. Slid slightly toward the corner of her mouth.
"You're awake."
Spring sat up slowly, tugging the blanket around her shoulders. "You're back."
"I missed you." His voice was low. Honest. Threaded with something else—something that made her throat go dry.
She reached for him without thinking, arms around his neck. He pulled her in, one arm around her waist, the other tracing the curve of her back through the blanket.
"How did it go?" she asked.
Winter exhaled. "Dante sent me to retrieve something. I didn't even see what it was—it was sealed in a locked chest. Whatever's inside… just didn't feel right."
Seeing him like that stirred something in her—something old, buried deep. Winter, worried, was rare. And it had been a long time since they'd been apart, even briefly. Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a memory from long ago…
Over fifty years ago, not long after the rebellion, Spring had fallen ill. It was the kind of sickness that arrived early and refused to leave. The kind that bound you to bed for an unknown period of time.
She stayed with Summer during those days. Her condition was too fragile; she needed near-constant care. But there were times, maybe twice a week, when Summer had to leave town to gather provisions.
On those days, Winter would come to visit.
Sometimes, he brought peonies—her favorite. He didn't know how to help, not really, but he remembered that flowers always made her smile.
So he came.
And came again.
And again.
Still, Spring never answered the door.
From the outside, it looked strange. Poetic, almost. A cold-blooded knight like Winter—worried? That alone could've stopped time itself.
To see someone so powerful, so untouchable... helpless?
It was heartbreakingly beautiful. The kind of moment that made romantic fairy tales look dull.
He would knock.
And wait.
Not long after, it became just wait.
He never barged in. Never forced his way through. She didn't owe him anything. He just stood outside quietly, praying for her healing.
That small distance between them—it weighed on him like an ocean.
Surely, for the man who had the power to rip through space itself, this should've been nothing.
But it wasn't.
The man who was given the power to go anywhere in the world...
was suddenly bound.
When he asked, Summer always told him the same thing:
She's getting better.
But in truth, she wasn't sure Spring ever would. She just couldn't bring herself to say it out loud.
Winter didn't fully believe her—but even so, her words became a ray of hope in his frozen chest. The hope that one day, maybe, Spring would answer the door.
He wouldn't give up on her. Not now, not ever. Not on his life-long love.
So he waited.
And waited.
Days turned to months. Months into a year. Then two.
It was nearing three.
Until, one day—
She opened the door.
And the rest... is history.
Winter pushed the blanket aside, finding her waist. His thumb brushed her bare skin, slowly. Purposefully.She looked up at him.
"Winter…"
He didn't wait.
His lips met hers with heat and hunger, a kiss that started soft but deepened quickly, like something they'd both held back too long. His hand cradled her jaw, tilting her into him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer.
He shifted, pushing her gently back into the bed.
His lips moved down to her throat. His hand was under her shirt now, sliding up her ribs, cold fingers chasing the fire lit beneath her skin.
"Spring…" he breathed, pressing his forehead to hers.
She sat up enough to press her lips to his collarbone, slow. He shuddered.
He gripped her hands and placed them on top pf her head. Urgently.
"You don't know what you're playing with."
But she did.
She kissed him again—deeper this time—and pulled him down with her.
His hand slipped beneath her thigh, hitching her leg around his waist.Heat surged between them, no space left, only breath and skin and wanting.
Her shirt rose higher, baring more with every movement. His mouth found the curve beneath her ear, and she gasped—
Winter suddenly looked at Spring, as if caught in a trance.His pupils dilated, breath shallow against her skin. Then—he froze.
He just got a telepathic message. Dante's specialty.
Spring blinked up at him. "What is it?"
He let out a slow, bitter breath and pressed his forehead to her shoulder.
"I will kill him."
Her leg was still wrapped around him. Her hands had slid back into his hair. She didn't let go.
"You're kidding. He needs you... again?" she said, voice roughened by everything unsaid.
He kissed her once more.
"We are not done."His hand slid from beneath her shirt, leaving a trail of cold air in its place.
Spring lay back as he stood, breath still shaky, body burning from the half-finished storm he left behind.
Winter adjusted his clothes in silence, tension carved into every line of his body
"Can I come too? Did he say you should come alone?" she asked in a single breath.
After all, Dante hadn't said anything more—but not less either.
Winter smiled faintly.
"You are always welcome love."
Spring dashed through the house, throwing on her usual garment—this time not forgetting anything important—and returned straight into Winter's embrace.
Winter always looked at her as if she were the most treasured jewel in the world. And he treated her as such.
His very own snowdrop.
Winter smiled, placed a hand on her lower back, and lifted his other to open a rift—glowing and circular—right in front of them.
Together, they stepped through.
They stepped into the Throne Room, where Dante stood in his usual place, two fingers pressed against his temple.
But this time, he looked visibly tense—far more than when Spring had last seen him.
As soon as they arrived, he stepped down to greet them.
"Ah, there you are!"
"Dante," Winter said, lowering his head in greeting.
Spring couldn't even manage a proper hello. Her concern was written all over her face—and Dante noticed. So he got straight to the point.
"I know you've felt it. Not just noticed—but felt it, haven't you?"
He looked between them, then added:
"Something is wrong. Seriously wrong. I'll need you to stay close to Rowen for now. And you should expect more from me."
"Yeah, we figured as much," Winter said, glacially.
"So we just wait around until you tell us what's going on?"
"I'm sorry it has to be this way. I'm not hiding it from you. I just... don't know what it is for sure yet. I have an idea. But it's—"
"What?" Winter snapped, his patience thinning.
"I have to be certain first," Dante said, quieter now.
Winter hated this. He hated ambiguity. He didn't understand why, if Dante knew, he hadn't just summoned them the moment he suspected something. Winter had no interest in the kingdom's affairs. He'd made that very clear since the beginning.
"Dante," he said, almost grinding his teeth, "I'll tell you this only once. We are not your—"
But Spring gently lifted her hand.
He stopped immediately.
She turned to Dante, voice soft.
"Please, Dante. At least tell us why you called Winter. There must be something we can do for you, right?"
The contrast between her voice and Winter's was so striking, it reminded Dante of how they got their titles. Winter and Spring.
It made him smile.
Just for a second.
Then the smile faded.
"Not far from here, directly south, there's a small settlement. You'll know you've arrived when you cross a bridge over a pond."
He paused.
Then:
"All the people there—a few dozen—suddenly died."
Winter, who had almost dismissed the conversation, went still.
There had been cases like this—back when they were part of the Royal Army, just after their Ascension. And those cases were never simple.
It could be anything.
A robbery gone wrong. A lone madman.
But not two cases were ever alike—so there was no generalizing.
Once, a young woman had died from her husband's relentless beatings. With her final breath, she cursed him. Her soul was so furious that the curse wiped out the entire village, choking everyone—husband, son, neighbors—in their own blood.
That was the problem with curses.
They didn't discriminate.
But the ones that win by far in terms of collateral damage, are love related curses.
Curses like that usually emerged at the moment of death, triggered by rage and sealed in blood. Most were unintentional—grievances twisted into power at the last breath.
But once, the five of them had encountered something far worse.
A true curse. One created intentionally, through the sacrifice of living beings.
That was the kind of curse the Seasons never forgot.
The kind they still carried with them, like a scar they didn't speak of.
They never wanted to face that kind of horror again.
Winter's curiosity sharpened—but so did his anger.
He would never forgive Dante if Spring was made to suffer through something like that again.
And yet, there she stood—calm, resolute, that familiar glimmer of purpose in her eyes.
"We'll leave at once!" she said, her voice strong.
She was eager to help. But she also knew—this had to be connected to the greater issue Dante had hinted at. It couldn't be coincidence.
If it were just a task… a dirty job dumped on them…
Winter would've killed him.
They all knew it.
"Thank you, darling," Dante said, smiling—but he was looking at Winter when he said it.
His expression read: Take notes.
Winter sighed, turned to Spring with a smirk.
"Let's go, darling."
The emphasis made both of them smile.
Then Winter raised his hand.
And a rift opened again.