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

The day she left Aidonia, she embarked on a journey to meet Thanatos, a journey with an unknown destination.

She repelled the creations of the black tide, and saved declining villages. She was no longer the Maiden of War from Aidonia, but she still kept her distance from others deliberately, hiding her own hands. Yet, she was no match for the children's sparkling eyes. When she first picked up the needle and thread, she fulfilled a child's final wish to touch a plush toy.
In the battlefield engulfed by death, she wrote letters back to the grieving families of the warriors who could not return home. She even learned from a prideful poet, and used poems to see off the dead…
“Death is an unavoidable inevitability,” “Death is a warrior's honor,” “Death is merely a walk out of time.” On that arduous journey, she heard plenty of discussions, some direct, some poetic. Yet, these answers were like a breeze that blew over the water surface, never reaching the depths of her heart.

“Then… someone said, that dawn enveloped the holy city's overflowing hope, perhaps there, I can also…”
The girl hesitated.
“Don't worry, it's fine if you don't want to talk about it now. Okhema welcomes you!!” The red-haired girl served her a cup of hot tea. The golden-haired lady examined the girl's gloves with interest—
“Such an aesthetically designed accessory, did you also learn to make it during your travels?”
She shyly interlocked her fingers.
“Yes, I wanted… farewells to be more formal.”

The sunlight in Okhema was parching and radiant, the unending announcement from the Dawn Device promised endless tomorrows.

Starting from that small cabin, she carefully began her second life.
The originally empty room was decorated with bits and pieces of her daily life, felt plush toys, chimera pillows, and thick collections of poems. They were no longer symbols of tragedies, but gifts, memorials, and blessings—
The habits she once had for the dead were able to give birth to warmth and strength for the first time, under Okhema's sunlight.

“The scenery outside this window
always looks the same.
Brilliant sunlight, gentle ripples.
I blew off the snow on my hands,
so that they wouldn't be too cold, for spring
was far too near.
…

—Written by a girl, a poem titled “Spring”