Iceborne Jewel

She had been running, breathless, for so long that she could no longer count the moons since her departure. She had even stopped glancing behind her—what lay in the past no longer mattered. All that remained was the desperate urge to flee, to outrun the dreadful nightmare that still clung to her shadow.

The fugitive had plunged into a mist so dense that she felt as though she no longer touched the ground. There was no turning back; her legs would not have allowed it. They carried her farther and farther, mechanically, while her mind grew foggy.

She panted, mouth agape, tongue heavy against her lips. Nothing could have stopped her—nothing but the fall ahead. The ground had vanished beneath her feet, swallowed by the mist’s deception, and when it finally withdrew its veil, it was too late. Azamora was already tumbling, rolling down the jagged flanks of the mountain, her body battered by the unforgiving rock, until at last, she crashed onto a surface as dark and unyielding as obsidian.

“Ouch!” she gasped upon impact.
Adrenaline carried her upright before pain could claim her. Her chest rose and fell in great, trembling gasps as she finally sat, her limbs splayed upon the frozen expanse. Her gaze roamed the landscape—trying to grasp, to make sense.

Where was she? When had she left the land of the Red Sands? Never had she imagined such a place could exist, where the cold gnawed deeper than the iron collar that had once marked her as captive. Nothing here was known to her, no scent, no shape, despite the many travels she had undertaken with her master.

In the end, she knew nothing of the world.

As her breath steadied, though her instincts remained poised for flight, Azamora’s gaze fell to the strange surface beneath her paws. A frozen mirror stretched endlessly, like a vast jewel born of an eternal night, where dancing hues weave the abyss into shades of blue.

Asaad would have sought to claim it. He would have seen not its beauty, but its worth, would have torn the sky itself if only to barter it for gold.
But she too bore the blood of the caravaners, and something in her stirred at the sight of this ethereal treasure. She, too, found herself mesmerized by the beauty of this jewel, oblivious to her surroundings, unaware of anything—or anyone—else...
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She had been so utterly enthralled by the jewel, spellbound by its beauty, that it took Azamora what felt like long drifting minutes to notice the presence. And when she did, instinct took over—like a well-honed mechanism, her legs folded beneath her, buckling under the weight of surprise and fear. Crouched low, yet exposed in the stark center of the frozen lake.

The figure before her did not seem much sturdier than she was, draped in a coat of deep, abyssal black, its fur studded with glistening shards of ice. With effort, Azamora willed herself to retreat, to put as much distance as the treacherous surface of the lake would allow. It mattered little who—or what—this soul was, whether it fled from something or not. The free woman she had become would not risk once again feeling the cold bite of shackles. She knew all too well how deceptive appearances could be—she was living proof of it.

And yet, had this wanderer harbored ill intent, would they not have acted sooner? When she had been lost, ensnared in the silent enchantment of the frozen lake, dark as polished obsidian?

Frowning, lips drawn into a faint snarl, her expression shadowed with wary contemplation, the desert woman made her decision. She advanced, slow and soundless, though ever cautious, a careful distance still held between them.

She had always harbored a quiet fondness for lost souls. Perhaps, in them, she glimpsed a reflection of herself.
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