The sky is a bruised purple, choked with the alchemical smog of OAKHAVEN. The summer heat is a physical weight, pressing down on the crumbling tenement towers.
On the roof of the GILDED LILLY, five stories up, SIMON (16), scrappy and pragmatic, hangs precariously from a wrought-iron gutter. His fingers are white, straining.
On the narrow ledge above him, MARIE (16), fiercely independent, crouches. Her heavy canvas coat is absurd for the weather. The heel of her boot is planted firmly on Simon's knuckles.
Simon grunts, gritting his teeth. He doesn't move his hand. He can't.
She shifts her weight. The boot heel digs deeper into Simon's pinky finger.
Simon stares down at the dizzying drop to the alley below—a dark abyss laced with laundry lines and flickering neon runes.
A vast, leathery SHADOW sweeps over them. The THUMP-THUMP of massive wings vibrates through Simon's chest.
A WYVERN-CLASS PATROL BEAST, the size of a carriage, banks hard, circling the chimney stack they're hiding near. Its screech is like tearing metal.
The wind from its wings blasts hot grit and dust into their faces. Simon squeezes his eyes shut, sweat stinging them like acid. He counts the wing beats. One. Two. Three.
Silence returns, heavy and suffocating.
With a groan, Simon hauls himself up, muscles trembling. He rolls onto the flat tar-paper roof and collapses, wheezing, staring at the sky. His shirt is pasted to his back.
Marie sits against the brick chimney, knees pulled to her chest. She's as wrecked as he is, dark hair frizzed with humidity.
Simon instinctively pats a satchel at his side.
They sit in silence, the roof radiating stored heat. Marie pulls out a canteen, shakes it—it's empty. She tosses it aside with a CLATTER.
His eyes scan the roof—a wasteland of rusted fans and pigeon coops. He stops. Near the center is a large, wooden crate covered in faded shipping runes. Stamped on its side: a BLUE SNOWFLAKE inside a circle.
Marie follows his gaze. She squints.
She scrambles to her feet, stumbling slightly in the heat.
They reach the crate. Simon pulls a heavy iron pry-bar from his belt and jams it under the lid. Marie grabs the other side.
They HEAVE. Wood groans, nails SHRIEK, and the lid flies off.
A puff of COLD AIR, visible as white mist, rolls out of the crate and vanishes in the heat.
Inside, packed in straw, are dozens of glass spheres, each swirling with a milky, pearlescent fog.
Marie carefully picks one up. The glass instantly frosts over in her grip.
Marie looks at him, then at the sphere. A mischievous light flickers in her tired eyes.
A grin splits her dusty face.
She tosses the sphere high into the air.
Marie whips a small slingshot from her pocket. With a SNAP of her wrist, she fires a ball bearing. It strikes the glass sphere perfectly.
CRACK.
A sound like a thousand wind chimes. The air above them ripples.
The temperature drops forty degrees in a heartbeat.
Simon GASPS, the cold air a shock to his lungs. He looks up.
SNOW. Thick, heavy flakes spiral down, blanketing the rooftop.
He holds out his hand. A perfect snowflake lands on his palm and stays for three whole seconds before melting.
She spins, arms wide, letting the snow catch in her hair. The oppressive city vanishes. They are inside a bubble of pristine winter. A low fog swirls around their ankles as the cold magic battles the hot roof.
A laugh bubbles up in Simon's throat. He reaches into the crate, grabs another sphere.
He smashes it on the ground. A GUST of wind howls, swirling the snow. He shivers. It's the best feeling in the world.
She's already packing a snowball. Simon tosses her a sphere marked 'Glacial Calm'. She smashes it against the chimney.
The wind dies. A profound, heavy silence descends. The air turns a crystalline blue.
The rooftop is a winter wonderland floating above the miserable city.
Simon flops backward into a snowbank. It CRUNCHES. He stares up at the sky, now filtered through falling white.
Marie drops down next to him, her breath pluming in white clouds.
They lie in the snow, side by side. The city noise is muffled, distant.
A moment of quiet connection.
Simon closes his eyes, feeling peaceful.
Simon snorts, but sits up to help. They work in comfortable silence, using roof debris for features: a rusted bolt for a nose, two dead mana-batteries for eyes, a jagged piece of wire for a sword.
Their creation, BARON VON MELTY, stands three feet tall, listing slightly, armed with a wire shank.
He looks at Marie. Her cheeks are flushed pink, her eyes bright. She looks like a girl. A pang of melancholy hits him. This isn't real.
They look up. The snow has thinned to slush. The magical chill is losing its war. The smell of sulfur creeps back in.
She reaches for the crate. It's empty.
Baron Von Melty is already drooping, his wire sword slipping.
He offers her a hand. She hesitates, then takes it. He pulls her to her feet.
The snow vanishes, revealing dirty tar paper. The heat and noise of the city CRASH back in. The moment is over.
Marie lets go of his hand. Her eyes harden.
He walks to the edge of the roof and peers over. Down in the alley, parked five stories below, is a carriage with no horses. It's silent, black, hovering slightly. On its door, a silver crest: A WEEPING EYE.
The Inquisitors.
The sweat on Simon's neck turns to ice. He turns back to Marie. She's staring at the puddle that was their snowman.
She looks up, annoyed.
Her face goes pale with understanding.
From the stairwell door—the only exit—comes a soft, metallic CLICK. The sound of a lock being disintegrated by a void-spell.
The door handle begins to turn. Slowly.
Simon looks at Marie. All joy, all connection, gone. Only survival remains.
He mouths the word:
But there is nowhere to run.
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