The Crimson Snow (A Realm of Chaos and Void #1)

Chapter 1

The White Fox

Once upon the snow, a lone white fox wandered—clever, yet solitary.

In a world cloaked in white, it hid, fearful of being seen, craving company.

It roamed the wintry woods, finding solace in the quiet of the night,

Yearning for connection beneath the soft glow of cold starlight.

Retrieved from The Great Love Story of The White Fox

by Illyra Everdawn, Ch. 1, p. 5.

Five Days Before the Incident

Seraphine Ashcroft

Seraphine darted through Coldhaven’s dark alleys, her crimson cloak torn, her heavy furred brown dress a vivid slash against shadow-drenched cobblestones and snow. The cold air brushed her cheeks with icy kisses. As she navigated the streets, she paused to glance at the welcome sign and rolled her crimson eyes. “Where fairness and judgment purport to rule,”

she read mockingly, aware that the city was far from fair. Perhaps she should scratch that out.

“Where lies and deceit call the shots, watch out for the sneaky smiles around town”

seemed more fitting.

The town was a sad view.

The stone buildings were cracking, the ground was gray and lifeless, and everything deteriorated year after year.

There was also a certain smell.

It wasn’t bad but felt wrong, as if something were rotting from the inside out, and maybe it was.

Perhaps they all were.

Coldhaven had been cursed to endure an endless winter.

While Seraphine adored the snow, people prayed to the Ancient Brannon, protector of all human realms—not that he had done anything for this town—for a spark of warmth.

It was an ironic hope, given their prevailing coldness.

The townsfolk were as harsh and unyielding as the frost gripping the streets, often cruel—sometimes to the world, but mostly to her.

Although Seraphine denied it to herself, she longed to belong, for them to appreciate and recognize her as one of them. However, they never did. They never will. Most saw an omen of bad luck and chaos in her, all because of some unfounded rumor about her “nature.”

To her, this town felt more like a prison than a home, where unfounded lies and judgy eyes caged her.

tick-tock

tick-tock

tick-tock

tick-tock

Seraphine paused at the clock tower. Rising tall and imposing at the center of Coldhaven, it was the only building radiating beauty and life. “You, my dear clock, are quite the spectacle,”

she murmured, half-expecting the ancient tower to respond. Maybe it will, she noted. She had seen stranger things.

Yet, what truly made her pause was the certainty of being watched—perhaps by the moon or something more sinister. Hopefully, the latter, Seraphine mused with a sarcastic smile. “Shy, shy, shy, aren’t you?”

she taunted, addressing no one in particular as she left the clock behind.

Ding-dong

Ding-dong

Ding-dong

Ding-dong

The clock struck midnight. “For Brannon’s sake!”

Seraphine exclaimed, shocked by how incredibly late it had become.

Seraphine had lost track of time while working at Iceveil Square Plaza that evening. She typically handled simple tasks—clearing snow, filleting fish—tasks most people avoided. Although the owners were reluctant to hire her, she completed these jobs quickly. Today, however, was different. A conversation she had overheard in Mr. Eliah’s tailor shop captured her attention.

“I must be cursed,”

a young woman in her twenties had declared to the tailor. She was draped in a tight cream dress, excessively adorned with fur on her wrists and skirts, making her look like a white bear. As she adjusted her glossy blonde hair and flaunted a necklace adorned with shiny pearls, she complained, “I was supposed to wear the most beautiful earrings with this at one of the Wraithwood balls.”

With her hood up and face hidden, Seraphine blended in easily while organizing some new fabrics.

Lowering her voice and disregarding Seraphine’s presence, she whispered conspiratorially to the tailor, “I think it was one of those creatures—brownies, or maybe something worse... perhaps a pooka.”

Seraphine pulled her hood closer around her face and bit her tongue to stifle a laugh.

A brownie? That’s utter nonsense.

Most humans hadn’t been able to see creatures from the Otherworld like brownies, pookas, or merrows—not since the Great War and the veil’s creation.

Nemera, the Ancient of chaos and nature, now reigned over the Otherworld, a domain filled with both nightmarish and dreamlike beings.

These creatures ranged from the ethereal beauty of the sea and clear sky to the grotesque repulsiveness of moldy bread and the terrifying force of storms, all spun into the stuff of fantastical tales—much like the woman’s exaggerated story.

Really, the woman could benefit from some actual reading.

The ever-gracious Mr. Eliah smiled at the woman. “Oh, but why would someone dare to do such a thing to such a fine lady?”

Eliah then made a face at Seraphine from the other side, eager to escape the conversation and trying not to laugh.

“Jealousy, maybe? Someone wants me to look bad at the ball. You know, Evren Wraithwood once mentioned how pretty my earrings were!”

she exclaimed, placing her hand on her heart with feigned distress. “A fine lady such as myself—chased by creatures… Oh, this distress is going to make me age.”

This time, Seraphine couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity. The woman stared at her, bewildered by her reaction. Clearing her throat, Seraphine explained, “Well, any brownie worth their salt wouldn’t stoop to such trifling pranks. It’s more likely the work of a lesser known, more cunning trickster, looking for trivial treasures like earrings.”

“Trivial, you said?”

the woman interrupted, approaching Seraphine.

“Yes, you see—”

Before Seraphine could explain further, the woman clutched her cloak.

“If you are going to speak ill of my possessions, do it without a covered face,”

the woman snarled.

Seraphine just smiled as the woman pulled her hood off. Ah, damn me. Eliah closed his eyes, silently praying for an escape.

“Well, you would know better, wouldn’t you? Aren’t you a little monster just like them?”

the woman spat out, her recognition flashing dangerously as she gazed at Seraphine. The glimmer of fear that darted across her face was quickly masked, but not before Seraphine caught it. A part of her relished that thrill—the fear she instilled. Deep down, she sometimes wondered if she was more akin to them than human.

As she stood surrounded by dresses and fabrics, under the woman’s judgy gaze, the myth about Aurum, the Ancient of death, echoed in her mind. Ruler of the Underworld, this figure, marked by a crimson gaze akin to hers, was known only through whispered tales and the pages of forbidden books. Such lore suggested why a dark omen might’ve shrouded her since birth. Yet, despite these legends, she remained strikingly human, cursed by her unusual eyes and a tendency to speak inconvenient truths before intolerably irritating people.

“I do,”

Seraphine said, a wry smirk curling her lips as her eyes flicked to the woman’s pearl-adorned neck. Not so unlucky today, though. As she looked up at the window and the darkening sky, shadows stretched across Iceveil Square Plaza like fingers of the night. Realizing she had lingered too long, she gathered her scant earnings and thanked the tailor. With a final, mischievous whisper of words toward the irritating woman, who nearly toppled backward, Seraphine turned away and left the shop.

Though she was late, at least she had the stolen pearl necklace secure against her wrist. Seraphine felt the weight of the cold gemstones mixed with a satisfying sense of reclamation. “A brownie? I am far more skilled than them,”

she whispered to the night, her words dispersing like mist.

After crossing the edge of town, Seraphine entered the Weeping Forest, where trees resembled gray skeletons adorned with frostbite. Hunters, including her father, Leander Ashcroft, spoke of hearing weeping banshees drift across these ancient trees. He had warned her against traversing the forest with a dark heart lest she fall into the arms of shadow walkers, soul eaters, and bone singers. Yet, Seraphine had never encountered one. Perhaps my heart isn’t fully tainted.

Yet.

As a branch cracked under her foot, her heart quickened. Rolling her eyes, Seraphine realized she had succumbed to her father’s childish stories. “Silly night tales to scare children,”

she whispered. Yet, she acknowledged that sometimes nightmares were indeed real—like the banshees’ weeping.

Like her.

As she wove through the dense, sparkling snow, the scent of pine enveloped her. She breathed deeply, allowing her hood to fall back and the moonlight to caress her pale cheeks. Her eyes’ crimson and the flutter of her hazelnut hair stood stark against the pristine snow. She marveled at the beauty of the stars and the moonlight, boundless as her yearning for freedom. Someday, perhaps.

Seraphine reveled in the peace of the night, savoring the chance to smile unobscured by her hood, free from wary glances or fear. Perhaps that was why she considered this forest her sanctuary. Few dared to venture here, but her father, understanding her deep connection to the forest, never barred her from its embrace and made sure she knew every path through it.

He also shouldered many burdens because of her. Feeling a pang of guilt, she dismissed her tender thoughts. Seraphine needed to keep moving to ensure she arrived on time.

Quickening her pace, she noted the snowflakes around her. “What a lovely dance,”

she whispered, appreciating the serene spectacle as she maneuvered through the forest’s intertwining paths.

Her journey mirrored the precise turns of a ballroom dancer too—a scene she had only imagined. To the left, beneath the gnarled limbs of a scowling tree, she danced, and near brittle, frost-clad bushes, she twirled right. Skirting a path where frozen thorns lay scattered, she leaped left gracefully and as naturally as the swirling snowflakes.

Quietly, Seraphine moved to a darker, more secluded part of the forest, where a lone tree stood. To any passerby, it was just another weathered tree scarred by brutal winters. However, to Seraphine, it was a gateway.

“You’re late, again,”

the tree—or more precisely, the Realmwood Sentinel—chided, its voice echoing from within its ancient bark. Sentinels, guardians of realms, doors and secrets, typically manifested as trees, indistinguishable from their surroundings. This one had a face intricately woven into its gnarled bark, both fascinating and unnerving.

“Not late enough to find you asleep,”

Seraphine retorted. “Wait, were you perhaps waiting for me? I’m touched.”

Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.

The tree, or what passed for its face in the aged wood, grimaced. “Ungrateful and petty thing, just enter already. I wish to sleep,”

the sentinel grumbled, its tone gruff, belying its normally stoic nature.

With a glance at the sentinel, Seraphine stepped forward, crossing the threshold beneath the arched branches.

Just like that, the world turned upside down.