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

Chapter 4

The Black Fox

In shadows lurk creatures with faces angelic,

Mouths of wolves, fangs gleaming with night’s dark stain,

Their hunger for mischief mocks the moon’s pale glow,

Venturing beyond where its silvery light dares tread.

Retrieved from Otherworld Creatures Guide: Banshees &

Other Terrors by Unknown, Ch. 3, p. 35.

Four Days Before the Incident

Seraphine Ashcroft

The early morning air was brisk when Seraphine entered the town, and the sky still clung to the soft tones of night. Although she knew she should rush home to rest, something compelled her to linger.

Navigating the quiet, chilly streets, she reached the town center. She looked up, ostensibly examining the clock tower’s sturdy stone structure adorned with roses and thorns frozen in time. Legend had it that this area had once been a vibrant spring haven, and these frozen flowers stood as a stark reminder of what once was—a marvel of preservation, silent witnesses to the passage of centuries.

However, Seraphine wasn’t there just to admire the roses. She was hunting.

Closing her eyes, she focused, attuning herself to the ambient sounds—the wind’s whisper, the ticking of the clock, and the tingling sensation on her neck increasing with each passing second. Then, as expected, she picked up the faint but distinct sound of steps behind her. There you are. She smirked, though she saw no one.

Seraphine first noticed this sensation a few years ago—a subtle warmth on her neck, a presence that followed her from the Weeping Forest back into Coldhaven. Recently, the feeling had intensified. It wasn’t accompanied by fear but rather a soothing familiarity that sparked her curiosity.

Despite devising a routine to try and catch a glimpse of her unseen follower, Seraphine never managed to spot the elusive presence.

Yet, she was certain it was there—something observant and stealthy was watching her. It might even think she was unaware of it. Sometimes, she wondered if it was all just her imagination, a figment conjured up by her need for company. Nevertheless, she hoped it wasn’t. I will find you someday. You can bet on it. She inhaled slowly to center herself and resumed her walk to the family cottage.

Her steps were deliberate, each a calculated move in her silent game of cat and mouse. She could almost feel the eyes on her. A part of her relished the thrill, the unknown dance between hunter and hunted. It made her heart race, a stark contrast to the cold morning air.

Seraphine would uncover this mystery, but for now, she played her part, feigning ignorance, biding her time.

The sun bathed her family cottage in the cold morning light. It was old and plain, yet her father had raised her there, making it the most special place in town. Leander engaged her in games of hide and seek, filling their home with laughter from his many tales. The walls, covered in scratches and fox drawings, showcased their painting sessions. The warm, woody interior created a cozy sanctuary.

Unlike for her, most folks deeply admired her father, praising his prowess as a hunter. Even so, Leander never spoke of her mother, unwilling to share a tale or a name, as if her memory was forbidden. No paintings or keepsakes hinted at her mother’s existence. Sometimes, Seraphine wondered if her distinctive eyes were a legacy from her mother since Leander’s were hazel and gold.

Warming her hands by the fireplace, Seraphine knelt and placed a piece of cheese in a corner. Nearby, Scarlet, the crimson-eyed bunny she had captured years ago, hopped toward the treat. She hoped her slight tardiness wouldn’t unsettle the household routines.

Thalassa, Leander’s new wife, was probably still asleep, as was her half-sister. Usually rough and indifferent, Thalassa disliked Seraphine, a fact Seraphine kept from Leander, who had enough burdens. With frequent, prolonged hunting trips due to game scarcity, her father was mostly away, sometimes for months. To help out financially, Seraphine had begun picking up odd jobs.

After setting down the cheese, she grabbed a piece of bread from the wooden kitchen table and peeked back at the fireplace. The cheese had disappeared—too fast to attribute to the bunny.

“I’m hungry too,”

she whispered to the nearly empty room, then moved to her bedroom. The room was plainly decorated but filled with wall drawings of flowers, roses, and foxes. In the center was her bed, surrounded by books scattered everywhere. Her large window offered a stunning view of snow-covered landscapes and distant mountains.

Too tired and with work looming in the afternoon, Seraphine quickly undressed and stepped into the small bath area. There, an old tub awaited her alongside a broken mirror. As she bathed and brushed her hair, she considered decorating the mirror with roses, imagining it as a doorway to her library in the Otherworld.

Looking at her reflection, Seraphine noted how pale and thin she had become. She told herself years ago that one should always be as cold and unfazed as winter, and she had been—most of the time. Still, she felt like she was slowly drowning in all the sorrows she could never express.

This time, she not only let some tears fall, but she also stepped into the old tub and dove as deep into its waters as she could, her tears mixing with the water and her screams silenced by its density. She could see her hazel hair moving in dazzling waves around her while she finally shut her eyes and the world outside her. She held her breath, preferring to see how much she could bear without air.

Ten seconds, not wanting to dwell on her best friend who had abandoned her. Twenty seconds, drowning her stepmother’s disdain. Thirty seconds, biting hard at the wary glances of the townspeople or the rumors of her being a monstrous creature because of her eyes. Forty seconds, freezing all the unknown that would surely come after her. Fifty seconds, burying deep all the ungraceful things she had done. Sixty seconds, camouflaging how much she sometimes enjoyed those ungraceful things.

At that, she resurfaced and coughed violently, her gaze unfazed as droplets of water clung to her lashes. One nightmare at a time, she told herself. Stepping out of the tub, barely covering herself with an old towel, she laughed softly at her reflection in the broken mirror. Instead of feeling angry, she was amused by the ungraceful things she had done. She didn’t feel bad for being considered evil incarnate. Sometimes, Seraphine liked it too much. What is wrong with me?

Her reflection suddenly spoke back to her with an ethereal, distorted voice. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Shocked, she heard the mirror crack again, splitting her reflection into three. Maybe it was the wind, and the mirror was already partially cracked, she thought.

As Seraphine moved away from her cracked reflection, she heard the voice again, clearer, nearer, right in her ear. “How much can your heart hold before it breaks completely?”

Instead of being shocked this time, she decided to answer, voicing a raw truth she had been afraid to consider. “I-I don’t know.”

“Are you taking enough gigs these days?”

Thalassa asked. She was tall and elegant, her long, flowing raven hair and brown eyes speckled with green nothing short of enchanting. It was no wonder Leander had fallen so quickly for her, though Thalassa clearly loved him.

“I’m doing what I can, Thalassa,”

Seraphine replied dryly, petting Scarlet, who was licking the cut on her finger that the black rose had made. She watched as Thalassa counted the seven coins she had earned at the Shadowmarket. Seraphine always saved one extra for herself.

“This barely covers the needs of this house. Your father works hard enough, and this is the best you can do?”

Thalassa scoffed. Seraphine bit her tongue so hard she was certain that if she opened her mouth, the blood would perfectly match the crimson fury in her eyes.

“Your poor sister is studying to become a proper lady while you go out and do what exactly?”

Thalassa continued, glaring at Seraphine with disdain. She flicked her glossy hair back and cupped Seraphine’s face, causing Scarlet to hop away. “Do your job, or you might as well be gone.”

One nightmare at a time.

Thalassa was the night to the mare, so hard to avoid. She would wish for her to be just that, a bad dream where she could snap her fingers and Thalassa would disappear.

Seraphine would love to be gone. As soon as she could ensure her sister and father no longer needed her to work, Seraphine would leave—either to the Otherworld or perhaps to explore the world beyond Coldhaven. One day, I will be so far and surrounded by warmth that all you’ll have left to quarrel with is your own wicked reflection.

Seraphine pulled her face from Thalassa’s firm hold. “I’m working with the fisherman later today. You’re welcome to join me so we can double the earnings,”

she said, knowing that Thalassa would never lift a finger. She sometimes wished she could push Thalassa into the Otherworld—maybe a kelpie would fancy her glossy hair.

How do I bring a kelpie here?

“I would be delighted to see that. Do it,”

the ethereal voice Seraphine had heard in the bathroom whispered in her ear, and she closed her eyes. She wasn’t afraid, having long decided she was losing her mind and was fine with it. It might be her own thoughts manifesting, but something about the voice made her fingers curl.

“Just stop,”

Seraphine whispered to no one, to someone, to herself.

“What?”

Thalassa stopped pacing in front of the fireplace, looking at her curiously.

She opened her eyes and faked a sweet smile. “Nothing.”

Thalassa’s smile broadened, confirming the assumption that whatever Seraphine had heard had been only for her ears. “Oh, my dear Seren, that is exactly what you are! Nothing. And you know I have more pressing matters to attend to than fish guts and dockside chatter. That’s more your style, and what else can you do? It’s not like you can study or get married. You have a... reputation,”

she quipped. “But perhaps a change of wardrobe could do you some good. You’re far too comfortable in that ragged cloak of yours. One might think you’re ashamed to be seen in anything else.”

Thalassa was fully aware the cloak had been a gift and that she could not afford new dresses either.

Seraphine clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to retort. She knew better than to get involved in such petty arguments or to seek Thalassa’s approval. Brushing past her stepmother, she decided to check on her sister before leaving to work with the fishermen.

Aeliana’s room was chaotic, strewn with books and dresses. She was nestled among a pile of cushions, clutching a book and studying its pages with furrowed brows. Aeliana was not a fan of reading, but Seraphine and Leander worked hard to pay for her tutors and proper education.

“What’s got you looking so serious, Lia?”

Seraphine teased, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Aeliana eyed up from her book. Her eyes, reminiscent of Thalassa’s, contrasted with her hazelnut hair and the soft smile she shared with Leander. “It’s this blasted tome on Eldorainian history, something about the veil’s creation and the Ancients. I can’t make heads or tails of it. The language... it’s like nothing I’ve ever encountered,”

she admitted, exasperation creeping into her voice.

Seraphine leaned over to inspect the book, her fingers tracing the intricate script on its pages. She had grown accustomed to deciphering such old languages, a skill honed through years of practice in the Otherworld. The book did indeed talk about the veil’s creation. Why is Aeliana reading something like this? That topic had been forbidden. Their continent of Eldorainian had suffered the most after the war. “Where did you get this book?”

“It was in a bag that one of the tutors gave me last week to read through. Why?”

Aeliana asked, confused.

Maybe they didn’t even notice they gave her this book, Seraphine mused.

“Nothing. It’s all just tales and superstitions. Nothing worth losing sleep over,”

Seraphine reassured her, her smile wistful. “And why read about the Ancients? They seem to have forgotten all about Coldhaven. About us.”

Aeliana’s eyes widened, a flicker of fear crossing her features. “But, Seren, you can’t say such things. What if they hear you? What if they curse us for our blasphemy?”

Seraphine chuckled softly, the sound bittersweet as it echoed through the room. “We’re already cursed. Winter town, remember? What harm could a few more curses do? Look at me. I’m still on my feet despite my eyes.”

Her sister hugged Seraphine tightly. As she looked up, Aeliana’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “You know what I heard?”

“Indulge me.”

Aeliana was a couple of years younger than Seraphine and an image of innocence, so she could only imagine what she was about to say.

“I heard that Evren Wraithwood is some kind of god,”

she whispered, the sparks in her eyes seemingly brighter than the sunrise. “They say he’s as mysterious as the night, as untamed as the wolf, and oh-so handsome, like a prince.”

Seraphine snorted derisively, her cynical smile deepening. She had never met Evren Wraithwood, who was known for hosting lavish balls. “More like a dirty wolf lurking in the darkness, preying on the unsuspecting and probably reeking of filth.”

Aeliana giggled at her sister’s jest, and they stood there for some minutes, sharing jokes and dreams about escaping Coldhaven. Seraphine soon left for her room, but not before taking the forbidden book from Aeliana’s delicate hands.

The ethereal voice returned, whispering in her ear, “Wouldn’t you like to meet him? I bet you would.”

She rolled her eyes, moving across the cottage. “Wouldn’t you like to shut up? I bet you do.”

Slash!

Since the crack of dawn, Seraphine had been laboring away, peeling and slicing through the icy flesh of freshly caught fish. Mr. Vale, the fisherman, had stepped out for “just a moment,”

but hours had passed. She hoped he would increase her payment to compensate for his prolonged absence. Unlike the tailor, who was fond of her, Mr. Vale gave her occasional gigs. Like many others, he could hardly look her in the eyes.

Aside from her rare ability to traverse the Otherworld, Seraphine saw nothing cursed or evil about herself. Her education was decent, albeit cut short by the need to support her family. Yes, her eyes were unusual and linked to the Underworld, but she was not a monster, creature, or omen of bad luck. She sighed, knowing there was no fixing any of that.

She took the head of another dead fish and cut again, enjoying the melody of the knife against the hard scales.

Slash, slash, slash.

Somehow, the raw smell of the fish she despised made her think of Evren. Had Seraphine been born appearing more ordinary, she would’ve probably joined her sister at the mysterious soirées hosted by Evren Wraithwood. Despite knowing little about him, Seraphine was convinced he was utterly insufferable, imagining him as a real-life abhartach—a legendary, dwarf-like creature, not particularly pleasant to behold. She couldn’t suppress a laugh at the thought.

For years, her family had never received an invitation to the Wraithwood estate, causing Seraphine to wonder if she was somehow to blame. Whenever she passed the imposing, ostentatious Wraithwood castle on her way to the Iceveil Square market, she couldn’t help but stare. Ancient and solid like the town’s clock tower, its massive stone walls were adorned with symbolic carvings, surrounded by frozen flowers and vibrant red roses, eternally suspended in time.

Still, if an invitation were extended, Seraphine vowed she would never attend. Or perhaps, she pondered, I may go just once. She was curious to glimpse the life from which she was barred, to dance like the snowflakes she so loved.

Or at least I’ll try. It’s not like I know how to dance or how to be close to anyone, anyway.

Max, her former best friend, was invited, but she decided to pay no mind to that name. He left with millions of questions unanswered. If I could see him again… “No, no, no,”

she said, cutting her thoughts short and slicing more raw fish instead.

Slash, slash, slash.

The shop door chimed. Seraphine mustered a strained smile and looked downward, hoping to avoid making eye contact with the patron. “Hello, can I assist you—”

Her voice trailed off, choked by the sudden lump in her throat when she recognized the pair of shoes she had seen countless times.

The knife she was holding fell to the floor.

Before her stood Maxwell Everhart.

Max.

Brannon truly hates me.