The air whistled like a soft crisp. Zmey could sense a rushing wind trying to slap his posterior part. Still, it amounted to only a twisting sensation. Like the material moving that way, or perhaps, billowing, remained attached to him.
His sight opened. Zmey grinned, seeing the path before him. Nothing like the red-carpeted throne room. He remembered the sensation of magic washing over him, the promise of transformation.
"Didn't know the magic would yield." His voice was barely a whisper, filled with wonder and trepidation.
His eyes rolled from left to right and vice versa. But there were black materials flanked on both sides. His brows creased. They both seemed to be within his reach, so he first held one. And just like that, it weighed that light as his hand pulled it down his head with rather no effort.
Air brushed over his hair; he felt a sharp sting run through his skin. He shivered.
'A hood?' With that thought, he grappled with something. His sight washed from his chest level down to his toes.
Zmey didn't furrow his brows or tense on noticing he was no longer in the long trailing red cloak – instead, he was now in a black cloak with a hood that pinned close to his head.
His eyes shifted to the flowing full-length designs on it. It had loose sleeves with a silver clasp at the collar and subtle embroidered patterns along the edges. The texture felt glossy when he touched it, and the dark, moody aesthetic was undeniable.
He raised his eyes to the road ahead. No traces of any living being around. Not even one. Snow drifted airborne, staying on the road like cobwebs stay on their targets. Everything was as clear as a white ocean. The wall color of the visible houses contrasted to him. Looking in front and behind him, houses lined on, keeping him in the middle.
But it wasn't like the pattern was so lengthy that there wasn't an end to it. He saw tall trees shrouded in mist in the distance, their leaves dancing in sync with the drifting snow. In the far spot, it was as if dews were forming around the towering but thin trees. Zmey knew it was only unclear.
Placing buildings in this place was of linear style. The houses were small and sturdy. Dark stone and weathered wood made up each of them. Zmey was standing in the narrow road between them, his thick-skinned cloak billowing in the chilly air.
Fallen ice covered the mossy roof of each house – the same which had turned the road into a slippery path. He could smell something – the smoky aroma of grilled meats. And the savory scent of steamed rice balls layered with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg.
Zmey turned around; looking at every house around him. 'This can't be the world I recalled back then. Though the visuals were chaotic, the vastness of both inhabitants and the world itself was very obvious. Or are they still suffering from Ashbane's ruthlessness?'
The thought flooded his mind, periodic warm light glowing from the arched window of some houses, catching his eyes. In his memory, there had been lofty structures that stood their ground amidst the bolts of fire. Many wide areas, and an uncountable number of people sprinting away from the range of flame reach.
If so, why does the life force feel drained from this area? Were they still recovering from the dragon's plague that made them stay at home in broad daylight? Were they still suffering from anxiety developed from that brusque experience? All of them?
Zmey's chest tightened, seeing a shadow cast on the window shield of one house. By the body size and non-tenderness, he could tell right away it was a kid.
'Seriously… are you guys being cowards? Why would a single misfortune hinder you from continuing living?' He walked over the icy road, forward. At some points, his leg would feel stuck in the snow. But the pressure was negligible to the unseen force pulling his legs upwards to ascend on.
Scrap!
The sound hollered at him on reaching the front of one house, which had its façade as clean as if unattended to in a century. His shoulders tensed as the window of the house creaked shut immediately. Zmey's expression was as though devoid of emotion, just blank that his arched eyebrows leaned otherwise.
However, deep inside, contemplation filled him. Why was the window shut when they noticed him? As if each and every one of them had shared a signal just now, creaks roamed like thunder in his ears.
He turned around every time he heard one, only to see the windows being locked. "When was the last time I warned you from looking through the window?! Do you want to get me and your siblings killed?!" From the house that began the signal, the voice of a woman scolded someone else. Zmey continued moving, as though he heard nothing.
'Just another bunch of losers! You had the privilege of living with those you really care about, yet you refuse to live? They don't realize just how lucky they are. A life some dream of. A family-driven peace of some desire. So what if you experienced something terrible before? Does that mean you should deprive yourself and your children of the right to live?!
I came here to create a scene without harming. Just my death… not anyone else's. But I thought I would have held back, perhaps for some moments, in transforming. That I would have found somewhere that's less populated. However, you guys are unworthy of such respect. I had held so tight to life in my original to my seven fabricated ones – not minding if I died. I wanted to live so badly. Yet, I'm seeing those who have the freedom to refuse.
So what if the Western dragon attacked you once? So what if it's another thing? At least your entire world wasn't closed on you. And just YOU… only you live in different unreal ones.
Cursed bastards! INGRATES.'
His fists clenched. Thrills coursed through his arms, running across his neck to his lower body. His knuckles whitened under the cold weather. His breathing shook. They lived away from life to escape reality. Sometimes some occurrences have no way of handling. And just like that, one has to stand back on their feet. Failure? Powerlessness? The opposite of them comes when one tries more and more, then again.
Fate left him with no other option than dying, Zmey thought. The same rehearsal. The same tragedy. Repetitions! Amidst all that, he had always hoped that before automatic death or suicide, he would see a tiny chance to end the ritual cycle. Be able to live like himself, but not like other people. Grow memories.
He halted, a slipping sound playing from the contact between his shoe and the surface. The sight moved over his shoulder, glancing at a nearby house with a hand-carved wooden shield hung on the wall. It had the faded paint of two spears crossed over each other.
"Well, they really have a tragedy behind all this. I wish I could be a normal human without fabrication," he said, an edge to his voice exuding consideration yet resentment. His eye cover closed in.
"Cursed cowards. Conquer your fear before anything else. I will let you witness the reality you're so much hiding from all this while."
With that ultimate statement, he straightened his back. He recalled something – the original owner, being a Transformer, had a spell he recites when about to turn into his authentic form.
'Keep your eyes wide open, ingrates.'
Zmey recited, the words flowing like a symphony from his mouth: "Ancient blood, awaken and rise. By claws that rend and flames that burn. Let my bones break, my flesh churn. Wings of wrath, scales of night. Grant me the fury of draconic might!"
WUSH!
The air roared like a wolf. Stillness settled in, hanging like a pendulum.