Aidonia, the snowy land that respects and worships death, has already sunken into sweet slumber.
O Castorice, daughter of the River of Souls, the Chrysos Heir in searcher of the Coreflame of “Death,” set forth! Guard the lament of the souls in this world, and embrace the solitude of destiny.
— Life and death is a journey. When a butterfly rests on that dead branch, the withered will be reborn again.

Aidonia's snow had always been there for as long as she could remember. It was as if time had been frozen in this forlorn white ground.
WHen she was a child, she once asked Amunet what snow was. Amunet said snow is all the emotions of the mortal world.

She was always in a trance as she stared at the people in the city.
The short knight came for training in front of the temple doors every day. The middle-aged priest occasionally dozed off under her high tower. The ascetic scholars distributed Antila flower biscuits to the children.
The children pushed and shoved as they engaged in a snowball fight in the distance, their laughter falling to her heart like ripe fruits.
From the tower, she tried but failed to differentiate their faces.

Holy Maiden — Yet everyone called her that when she appeared before the people, and nobody dared to look her in the eye. She mustered the courage to move closer, but they stepped back, lowering their eyes even more. She still couldn't see any of their faces.

Until they were standing at death's door — the short knight suffered grievous wounds in battle, the middle-aged priest suffered from years of illness, and the ascetic scholar was infected by the patients they treated. At that moment, she was the closest to them. Life was no longer an agonizing struggle, but turning at her fingertips into flower petals in the wind.
When she finally had the chance to look at their faces, she turned away instead, for she could not bear to look.

“Some hands were born to sow plants, some were born to govern… Yours are carrying out the fated duty of parting.”
Amunet's words echoed in her ears. She once wondered what her hands could possibly leave behind.
When she came to her sense, she was looking at an incomplete ice sculpture in her hands — Young warriors wielding their weapons, mothers embracing their children who were going to war, couples cradling each other's faces with longing…
But this sort of thing will still happen again and again in the land covered by the snowstorm… and lands beyond the snowstorm.

She finally understood that even the snow in Aidonia will melt, just as everything must walk into Death's embrace.

“Nikolas who loved to smile, the kind Ilana
And Crito, who was silent as the wind…
At night, I help those
Forgotten names and forlorn memories,
And turned the sorrows of the day
into the boiling heat immersed in snow.
…”

— A poem titled “Aidonia” written by the girl