The academy's infirmary was enveloped in a suffocating silence.
Broken only by the ragged gasps of the school's healer.
The old man sat hunched on a stool.
Cradling his hand, where the tips of his fingers had been cleanly severed by an unnatural frost.
His agony filled the room.
But even his groans couldn't overshadow the icy chill that radiated from Noah Ashbourne's unconscious form.
The room was deathly cold.
Every breath released by those present turned into a visible cloud of vapor.
A testament to the biting cold that made the room nearly uninhabitable.
Despite the healer's protests, the academy had called for reinforcements from the Church of St. Eldred.
Whose priests were renowned for handling curses and unnatural phenomena and were originally present due to the princess.
When the door opened, the sound of boots against the stone floor echoed.
Three priests entered.
Their white robes edged with gold embroidery fluttering in the icy draft.
Behind them came the archbishop, a towering man draped in crimson and gold vestments.
His presence commanded reverence, and his sharp blue eyes scanned the room with the precision of a hawk.
"Where is the boy?"
The archbishop asked, his voice firm but laced with curiosity.
One of the priests gestured toward Noah, lying motionless on the bed at the center of the room.
The archbishop's gaze fell on the young man, and his brows furrowed as the cold emanating from him washed over them.
"This cold..."
One of the priests whispered, wrapping his arms around himself.
"It's unnatural."
The archbishop nodded, his expression grim.
From within his robes, he withdrew a gleaming artifact.
Its surface etched with runes that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light.
The artifact, known as The Eye of Vythar, was a relic capable of detecting the presence of curses, diseases, and otherworldly influences.
"The Eye will reveal the truth, but not all truths are easy to bear."
The archbishop said.
The priests formed a semi-circle around Noah's bed as the archbishop approached.
With deliberate care, he raised The Eye of Vythar and held it over Noah's chest.
The artifact pulsed, emitting a soft glow that soon grew into a blinding light, illuminating the room.
The priests began murmuring prayers, their voices trembling as the glow intensified.
---
The archbishop found himself in a different place altogether.
A world consumed by an endless blizzard.
Snow whipped around him with ferocious intensity.
Biting into his skin and chilling him to the bone.
Through the storm, he glimpsed a figure—ethereal and commanding, yet terrifying in her beauty.
She was a woman of unearthly grace, her hair as white as the snow swirling around her.
Her face wasn't visible only covered by the white strands of hair.
But her pale blue lips curved into a haunting smile.
The air around her seemed to freeze, crackling as frost spread with each of her steps.
The archbishop tried to speak, but his voice was stolen by the storm.
The cold intensified, and he felt his face begin to crack, his skin splitting as frost claimed half of his body.
Pain lanced through him, and he fell to his knees, helpless against the onslaught.
The frost on his hair glinting in the faint light.
Her breath hitched, and she took an unsteady step forward.
The archbishop's gaze fell on the school's healer, who was still cradling his ruined hand.
"Anyone who touches the cursed will suffer the same fate.
The frost will claim their flesh and shatter their limbs.
There is no way to heal wounds inflicted by the Witch of Envy."
Iris gritted her teeth.
"So, what? We're just supposed to stand here and watch him die?"
"No," the archbishop said firmly.
"Life will go on as usual for him—for a time.
He will wake, and he may even seem normal.
But the curse will continue to feed on him, and the cold will linger around him.
He will live with this burden until..."
He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Iris's fury boiled over.
"Until what?
Until he dies?"
She slammed her fist against the wall, her frustration echoing in the frozen room.
"This is insane! There has to be something we can do!"
The archbishop regarded her with a mixture of pity and sadness.
"The last known victim of this curse was an archbishop from a church in the Northern Continent.
No one knows if he survived, but even if he did, he was never seen again."
Maya's breathing grew erratic as she processed the archbishop's words.
Her vision blurred, and her heart pounded in her chest.
Noah—her fiancé, the one she had always pushed away—was now tethered to a fate she couldn't comprehend.
"Will he wake up?"
"..."
Iris turned to the archbishop, her gaze sharp and demanding.
"Well? Will he?"
The archbishop hesitated before nodding.
"Yes, he will.
The curse does not claim its victim all at once.
He will wake, and he will live, but his life will be a shadow of what it once was.
The frost will remain, and so will the curse."
The thought of not being able to touch him—of being unable to hold his hand or feel his warmth—made Iris's chest tighten with rage and despair.
"There has to be a way," she said through gritted teeth.
"Tell me there's a way to lift it."
The archbishop sighed heavily.
"..."
"...No mortal has ever successfully undone a curse of this magnitude."
The words hung in the air, heavy and oppressive.
Maya pressed a hand to her racing heart, her mind a whirlwind of emotions.
She had always thought of Noah as an inconvenience.
A reminder of obligations she didn't want.
But now, as she looked at frostbitten form, she realized just how much she stood to lose.
The frost continued to spread, and the cold continued to seep into their bones.