The wind does not lie, old serpent. It carries the scent of a thousand dying hearths. You feel it too, don't you? That faint, rotten sweetness of embers. It clings to your scales like a fever.
Let them come.
We do not need to burn brighter. We only need to wait. For even stars grow tired. Even suns go dark. And when the last ember sputters and dies, who will rule the echo? snowqueen icedragon
You carry the abyss on your back. Every shard of ice in your spine is a forgotten memory. Not of love—love is a fever dream. But of clarity . When you breathe your frozen breath, you do not kill. You preserve . You stop the rot. You turn the screaming, messy, bleeding world into a cathedral of diamond.
Now sleep. Dream of continents of glass. The wind does not lie, old serpent
They think we are the enemy. The warm ones. They pray to their sun gods and stoke their bonfires, believing that light is good and cold is a slow death. Fools. Heat is chaos. It is frantic, desperate movement. It makes blood boil and nations crumble into war. Heat is the lie that change means growth.
We will.
We know the stillness .