You Choose to Become the Winter Fey

You nod, barely daring to breathe. The weight of your choice settles into your bones, cold and unyielding. The circle tightens around you, the stones pressing against your skin like the forest’s own heartbeat. You give your consent, your surrender whispered in the silence between the bells.

Without warning, his hand lashes out—sharp, brutal. It pierces your chest, savage and without mercy, plunging deep inside; tearing through the fragile veil of your mortal flesh. Your breath hitches in a scream that dies in your throat as your heart is wrenched free, slick and trembling in his grasp.

You crumble to the earth, limbs folding beneath you, your vision blurring and darkening at the edges. Above you, his eyes gleam—a predator’s hunger tempered by something ancient and sorrowful. You watch, powerless, as he brings your heart to his lips. Teeth bare, he devours it with a feral grace, tearing the last fragile tether to your humanity. Blood dripping from his face, he looks down upon you with pity.

A cold fire ignites within you, sharp and consuming.

Your skin tightens, hardening like ice forming over a frozen lake. Frost blooms along your arms and spreads like slow wildfire, delicate crystalline patterns tracing the veins beneath. Your breath escapes in shimmering clouds, each exhale a whisper of snowflakes dissolving into the air. Your fingers lengthen, tapering into spindles of gleaming ice that catch the fading light and fracture it into cold prisms.

Your legs meld and shift, the bones grinding softly as they reshape, elongating with the sleek strength of winter’s stalking shadows. Your spine curves, supple and unyielding, like the sweep of northern winds carving through bare trees. Your eyes flash—pale and unblinking—mirrors of glaciers and frozen lakes, depths that hold secrets older than memory.

Your hair falls away, replaced by a crown of frost and glistening shards, shimmering like the northern lights captured in frozen form. Your breath quickens, and with it come the memories—fragments sharp as icicles and fleeting as smoke.

You remember the biting cold of a winter dawn, the way the first light fractured against frozen branches, turning the world into a cathedral of glass. You recall the crackle of magic humming beneath the surface of snowdrifts, alive and restless like sleeping spirits. You feel the thrill of power coursing through veins of ice, the whispered promises of transformation in the hush of falling snow.

And through it all, a name resonates: Ursa. The man before you, no longer just a shadow, but the ancient Earth Fey himself, bearer of hard truths and silent stone.

Memories flood your mind, swirling like snow caught in a bitter wind. You see yourself moving through this forest with him, step for step, for a thousand years—centuries folded into moments, time bending like ice beneath your feet. You remember the way the frost deepened at your passing, how the trees bent their limbs to whisper secrets only you could understand. You recall the quiet power of winter’s silence—the hush that blankets the world and forces it to listen.

But further back still, before time had shaped you, before you had become more than flesh, there is another memory—one faint and shimmering, like the first breath of dawn through frozen branches. You stand here, together, when the land was young and wild. You breathe magic into the soil, the air, the roots. Together you called the seasons, wove the first frost and spun the first storms. Your hands carved the crystal patterns that would bloom on every leaf, every blade of grass, a language only the forest could read.

That ancient magic pulses now, a steady heartbeat beneath your new form. It is yours, as much as it is his—woven deep into your bones, cold and infinite.

Slowly, the changes cease, leaving you standing tall—no longer flesh-bound, but something beyond. An embodiment of winter’s fierce grace and relentless will. Your senses sharpen; the world glows with frost-kissed clarity, the forest breathing in sync with your own new pulse.

Ursa extends his hand, steady and sure. You take it without hesitation, fingers intertwining with ice and shadow.

Together, you step forward, moving deeper into the forest’s waiting arms—two figures carved from the elements and whispered legends, bound by blood, magic, and the endless forest to come.