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The loose crowd began to close in, tightening around him until he was walking down a gauntlet of onlookers. Kru ignored them all. Yet, with each step, the shadows whispered—louder, until even he could not ignore it. “Do not continue this way, Kru. You are provoking him.” “Who? Jur? Let him come.”

The hallway ended. As sudden as a lightning strike, a single step placed Kru before a vast, expanding room. A glance back showed the passage stretching behind him. Before him, though, was something he hadn’t seen coming. No distant speck, no glimmer of what lay ahead. It was simply here, waiting.

Ceilings scaled the heavens, casting stained-glass light over rows of tables bowed under a cornucopia of meats, cheeses, and fine wine. The grand hall held bounty enough to feed a kingdom, its splendor suffocating. Torches blazing. Yet amid the roaring warmth of the feast, Kru stood utterly alone.

He walked the lines of tables, eating as he went—grapes, cheeses, breads, prime meats, and fine wine. His belly full, he dropped onto a bench and seized up a napkin, stripping off his rags. He wiped his face, arms, and legs. As a cloth turned black with grime, he tossed it aside and grabbed another.

Stripped of the filth and rags, he turned his back on the pile. He cleared a nearby table, gripping the cloth. Lacking a blade, he used his teeth—biting and tearing the fabric to size. He bound it tight, knotting a strip around his waist. Cleaned. Fed. Clothed. Once more, he was ready for power.

“Kru, stop.” The shadow whispered. “Come no closer. He is angry.” “You torture me, then claim to help? I go where I please, Ana. Once you would have admired that.” “Not here. Not like this.” Her voice dimmed like the last vestige of sunlight into the night. “You tread to far. You are not ready…"

An icy wind crawled across Kru’s skin. He locked his arms, his breath turning to silver smoke. A sharp crackle shattered the silence. Frost condensed, devouring the tables and chairs as it raced across the floor like a carpet of glass. As far as the eye could see, winter had claimed the ballroom.

The cold rippled down his back. He hugged himself tighter, scanning the room. The lights were all snuffed, gone in puffs of winter freeze, and a dim blue haze replaced the now-lost warmth of the candlelight. Amidst the stillness, between the tables, a silhouette formed and glided down the aisle.

The wind whipped through the chamber, howling, stinging his eyes. Kru convulsed, vast tremors racking his body as ice splintered from his skin. He screamed—a desperate war against the icy assault. Yet the shadow advanced, floating weightless on waves of cold, a shroud and cowl drifting ever closer.

A bitter chill seized Kru; his teeth chattered. He peered into the hollow of the cowl, searching for a face, a shape, any scrap of corporal reality—and found only nothingness. From the shadows of the hood, tendrils of smoke coiled outward, exhaled in ragged gasps that sounded entirely too human.

“What— who—are you?” Kru forced the words out. The cold swirled at his feet, rising, encompassing him—a whirlwind attacking his flesh with icy needles. Kru smacked his body, knocking off sheets of ice again and again. He fell to his knees, curling up tight, desperate to keep his remaining heat.

The shadows hissed in his ear. "I told you he was angry, Kru. Yet you never listen. Look at you—so fierce in your arrogance, so pathetic in your resolve." "Who is this?" Kru spat through chattering teeth, his breath freezing in the air. "What did I do?" "Not what — but everything you begged for."

Kru growled as the frost tore at his throat. “I beg for nothing!” The crushing weight of the ice piled over him, burying him alive. He lurched upward, shattering his frozen tomb in an explosion of crystals. The cloak whipped wildly around him, its fabric finding its own voice: “I am your magic.”

His arms flailed, his face contorted to scream at the heavens, “No! My magic is life—my knowledge rivals Jur’s!” From the shadows of his mind and the cold biting his ears, the voices fused in a cruel echo: “Those are not yours. You stole the magic from Ana, the knowledge from him. You are a fraud.”

The cloak swirled, wrapping an arm, a leg—devouring Kru’s flesh, crushing bones. His screams rose until they passed beyond what the ear could register. His body contorted, warping to the unnatural assault. “Accept your fate.” twin voices echoed. “No! I am the master here!” He bellowed in defiance.

Kru’s arms flailed like a mad tiger, ripping and shredding at the cloak as his teeth tore into its fibers. The cloak revulsed, thrashing to pull away, to escape. Kru held fast. He tied it off, slicing his own flesh. If this was his magic, he would dominate it—he would create his own damned reality.

A single speck, turning to a snowflake, freezing to ice. Thickened into bricks, the bricks into walls. No detail was missed. He wouldn't tolerate it. Kru, last Sovran Thaumaturgist and master of his world — built his cage. No—his Jur Portal. His home. Now, with magic in his veins, he ripped it open.

His breath misted in the air, floating across the shadows. A bright flash, then darkness; his eyes all but useless. Yet he could feel the pulses of magic around him, even the breath slipping from his lips. Sight would return; he would be patient — what was a few more minutes compared to a lifetime?

The circle was aglow around him. The darkness beyond gave way, blurry images giving form to a sharpened reality. Vibrant flowers, shrubs, and a multitude of vegetation grew in a well-manicured atrium—each plant tipped with frost, as if winter had come early. A smile on his lips, Kru stepped forward.

He trod a path spiraling around the atrium, where the vaulted glass overhead cast down a sickly, frozen dawn. He expected warmth, but the razor bite of dead winter choked the air. Reaching out to touch a rose—the frailest of pulls, it burst into crystalline shards like glass beneath a sledgehammer.

The atrium was a vast, frozen labyrinth, embracing Kru as he drifted from its center to the pale edges. He walked with a haunting calm, every step a slow ritual of peace. Ahead, the exit waited: massive glass doors locked in heavy iron frames, where deeply etched gears turned with cold precision.

As he approached, the doors swept open, the air hissing like a broken seal. From the shadows, a figure stepped forward to meet him. Sharply dressed in a long-tailed black coat, fitted pants, and polished shoes, his face held an unsettling familiarity—as did his voice as he bowed. “Welcome, my lord.”

Kru tilted his head, eyeing the man.“You look familiar. Have we met?” “I do not believe so, my Lord. I am Tam.” “I know a Tam. I see a trace of him—your eyes, your face.” “Ah.” Tam offered a small smile. “My family is vast. What we have in numbers, we lack in flair. There are many Tams among us."