The low hum of the subterranean city of Veridian was a constant thrum beneath Clementine's feet. A deep, resonant vibration seemed to linger in her bones, a primal reminder of the bustling life that thrived in the carved-out caverns and magically illuminated tunnels. But today, the familiar resonance felt heavy, laced with a disquiet that mirrored the knot in her chest. Every stone, every crystalline vein that pulsed with soft light, seemed to press in on her, a beautiful, glittering cage.
She navigated the crowded thoroughfares, her slender frame surprisingly adept at weaving through the throng of her kin. The Snow-Lycans of Veridian were a stark contrast to the whispered legends of their surface-dwelling brethren, the Night-Lycans commonly referred to as 'Werewolves'. Generations spent beneath the ice had refined their forms, lending them an almost ethereal pallor, their skin the color of fresh snow, their features finely chiseled like ice sculptures. Their most distinguishable features, their hair, in shades of grey, white, and shimmering silver, seemed to emanate a soft glow under the illumination of the luminescent crystals and ice shards that crisscrossed the cavern ceilings like intricate constellations. The city itself, from a vantage point, resembled a colossal snowflake carved into the very heart of the ground, a marvel of natural and magical architecture.
Clementine, with her pale skin and piercing blue eyes, felt like an anomaly amongst them. Her translucent white hair, usually left to flow freely, was now shaped in severe braids that dangled as she walked, and her delicate features bore a sharpness that hinted at a hidden resilience. She was a constant, living reminder of her mother – a woman from a lesser lineage, one of Boros's many fleeting fancies. The memory of her twenty-two half-brothers' sneers, the casual disdain in their eyes as they dismissed her as "the whelp of the outsider," was a familiar, searing sting. Each of them, a testament to Boros's virility and their mothers' higher standing, radiated a formidable strength. Clementine and Lyrien, born of different, less significant mothers, were the outliers, the weak links in their father's formidable chain, often overlooked, often scorned.
She , because she was born a girl and Lyrien…
The thought of her younger half-brother was a constant ache, a dull throb in her very soul. He was a fragile bloom in their harsh subterranean world, his darker skin a stark contrast to the healthy pale of their kin, his slight frame perpetually trembling with a weakness that baffled their healers. He coughed often, a dry, rattling sound that clawed at Clementine's nerves, each rasping breath a cruel reminder of his fading life.
She reached their shared dwelling, a modest alcove carved into the cavern wall, the entrance shielded by a wooden door with a woven tapestry of luminescent moss draped over it.
She stopped at the entrance, pain in her eyes. She heard her brother talking to himself, a soft, indistinct murmur. He was like that a lot nowadays, talking to himself at the slightest chance, a testament to his isolation. It made her heart bleed even more.
Clementine pushed open the door to the room she shared with Lyrien, the lingering rage from her confrontation with her father still simmering beneath her skin.
The chamber, though small, was a testament to their paradoxical position within the family. Two beds, carved from wood but softened with thick, surprisingly plush furs, occupied most of the space. A small, magically contained fire in the fireplace cast a steady, comforting warmth, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside their private dwelling.
Yet, despite these.... comforts, the room felt isolated, set apart from the bustling heart of the chief's igloo within the compound, a silent declaration of their outcast status. Lyrien sat on the ground in the middle of the room on a large carpet, a plain wooden bowl of broth clutched in his small hands, a faint smile on his face as he spooned a mouthful.
"Lyrien," she said, her voice softening instantly at the sight of him. She crossed the room, sinking onto the bed facing him.
"How are you feeling, little brother?"
He coughed before answering.
"Better, Clem. Just a little tired."
There was a heavy silence between them, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the distant hum of the city.
"Hey, remember when we used to sneak out to the old training grounds, just us and our brothers? Before… before they started training with the warriors, and everything changed?" His eyes, though still bright, held a distant, wistful look, recalling a time of innocent camaraderie that had long since fractured.
Clementine's jaw tightened, her hands clenching into fists.
"They changed because of that," she spat, her gaze hardening, fixed on some unseen enemy.
"They claim to be warriors. They train every day but can't do anything with their strength. It's just air. They should use that strength to stand up against the surface dwellers, who're always looking down on us. It's their fault we're like this, Lyrien. Their fault our people suffer, their fault our family is.....broken." Her voice was a low, fierce growl, a deep-seated bitterness that had festered within her for years.
"No, Clem," Lyrien whispered, shaking his head, his small hand reaching out to her. "Don't say that. If you're still angry about what happened, don't. It was my fault. I shouldn't have been so curious. I disobeyed."
Liar.
They'd degrade you regardless.
They always have.
It is their fault.
The voice of his 'friend', a cold, silken whisper, slithered into Lyrien's ear, affirming Clementine's words, twisting his self-blame into resentment. He felt 'her' arms wrap around him.
What kind of 'Goddess' allows such prejudice?
There is no goddess.
Only their sin.
"No. You're wrong," Lyrien murmured, almost imperceptibly, as if arguing with an unseen presence.
He was about to speak again but a violent fit of coughing seized him, his small frame convulsing. Clementine watched in horror as he spat blood, stark red against the fur carpet. Her heart seized, a cold dread gripping her.
"Lyrien!" she gasped, her hands trembling as she reached for him, pulling him close. "Lyrien! I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. I couldn't get the Snow Lily. I tried, but…" Her voice broke, tears welling in her eyes, blurring the sight of his fragile face.
He reached up, his small, cold hand touching her cheek, wiping away a tear.
"It's okay, Clem," he murmured, his voice weak but clear.
"It's not your fault. I've always been weak."
"Don't say that!" Clementine cried, her voice fierce with a protective love that defied all reason. She scooped him into her arms, his light weight a desperate burden.
In Veridian, weakness was not tolerated, often seen as a burden, a drain on precious resources. Boros, their powerful and distant father, rarely spared them a glance. His attention was focused on his strong sons, the future leaders and warriors of their clan, leaving Clementine and Lyrien to fend for themselves in the cold shadows of their family. Clementine had long understood that their survival, their well-being, rested solely on their own shoulders. And yet she found it absurd. A people who value strength but we're subservient to the people of Ezkanur.
"We're going to the healer," she declared, pushing those thoughts out of her head,her voice fierce with a renewed, desperate resolve.
"Right now...." She cradled him close and ran out, her steps quick and determined, a blur against the glowing walls of the corridor.
They got to the healers' hut, a larger, more bustling igloo filled with the scent of herbs and the soft murmurs of incantations. She left her brother in their hands, her jaw tightened as she watched him disappear into the depths of the igloo, a silent prayer on her lips. She knew the healers would do their best, but the Snow Lily was their only true hope, a legendary bloom said to be the only thing that could keep him in the realm of the living, if only for a little while. She turned and walked away.
The laws of Veridian, etched in generations of fear and isolation, had always felt like a cage to her. The whispers of a world beyond their subterranean city, glimpsed in ancient tapestries and half-forgotten songs, had always held a strange allure. Now, that allure was intertwined with a desperate hope. She had to find the Snow Lily for her brother.
Returning to their meager dwelling, she gathered a few essential items – a waterskin, some dried meat and preserved berries for sustenance, and a small, intricately carved stone that had belonged to her mother, a silent promise of courage. Her eyes then fell on the central igloo, her father's council chamber, a place she rarely entered.
With a grim set to her jaw, she approached it. Behind her father's seat, frozen into the very ice wall, was a weapon, a relic of a forgotten age. It was a battle-axe, its head gleaming with ancient runes, its handle wrapped in what looked like petrified bone. She reached out, pushing her fingers into the solid ice, a surge of raw Arcana flowing from her. The ice around the axe shattered with a sharp crack, shards scattering across the floor. She pulled the axe free, its weight surprisingly balanced in her hands. This was a weapon of her ancestors, a tool for breaking through the toughest barriers.
She left Veridian, throwing a final look at their city, a city that had been both her prison and her home.
At the city center, two colossal pillars, like the frames of a great, forgotten door, stood sentinel. Staring at it gave her a strange, ominous feeling,but she shrugged it off.
"I will not return until I have the Lily. Mark my words, I will heal you, Lyrien." Her vow, a fierce whisper, was lost in the rising wind of the ascent.
Then, with a deep breath that tasted of rage and desperation, Clementine turned and went through the familiar tunnels, her steps quickening as she approached the ancient ascent. Clementine, the despised daughter, the protector of the weak, began her arduous climb towards the unknown world above. The weight of Veridian, the weight of Lyrien's fragile life, rested squarely on her powerful, determined shoulders. The surface held both peril and the faintest glimmer of hope, and Clementine would face whatever lay ahead.