In Gravenholt, the wind has no name. It’s a salty, cold breath that shapes the cliffs, bends the trees, and carves deep wrinkles into the faces of its inhabitants. Neryll was one of them, though once his home had been the sea. He was a sailor, one of the most skilled in Gray Fish Harbour, a port where tales of storms and sea monsters were told like bedtime stories. His skin was etched by salt and sun, each scar a chapter of a life spent chasing unknown horizons. He had sailed far, braving deadly currents and skimming the depths of marine chasms. He had seen monsters and mermaids, treasures and wrecks.
But above all, he had loved a woman, Elysia, whose smile was his only compass. Elysia had been swallowed by the sea during his last storm. After losing her, Neryll decided to hang up his anchor, seeking refuge from pain and the tumultuous life that had cost him everything. He found a remote islet, one of many that made up the Gravenholt archipelago, a place where the land was harsh and silence was the only companion. There, he discovered a new passion, a form of prayer: cultivation. His garden was a testament to resilience, an oasis of stubborn life in a grey and desolate landscape. But one flower, kept in a tiny greenhouse, was different. It had no name. Neryll simply called it “the snow flower”.
The flower was a secret, jealously guarded. Neryll had found it embedded in the wood of a shipwreck. It wasn’t just any wreck—it was what remained of his beloved ship, the one Elysia had boarded for the last time. The seed was tiny, insignificant, but Neryll had picked it up and planted it in his new home. It was a seed that should never have sprouted in such a hostile place. It was delicate, with petals of pure white, almost transparent. Despite its fragility, it thrived, becoming the only flower of its kind in the entire archipelago. Sometimes, when loneliness became unbearable, the old man would sit beside the flower and speak, sharing his most precious memories. He knew his days were numbered. In that flower, he saw not just a plant, but his bridge to a world he was about to reach.
One afternoon, an unusual breeze, almost a whisper, entered the greenhouse. Neryll straightened with effort, knowing he was not alone. In the corner, a figure awaited him.
It was the Lady in Black, not a shadow but a well-defined presence.Her dress was as dark as night, but her long hair was molten silver, glowing against the dark fabric. Her eyes, deep as the abyss yet kind, betrayed no emotion.
Neryll was not afraid. He knew who she was. The Lady in Black is death that comes for those who accept her, and he had always awaited her. The air around her was not cold, but of an otherworldly stillness. Neryll felt no fear, only a profound serenity. He knew the stories he had told his flower were no secret, and the Lady in Black had come to hear the end of his tale.
The following days passed in unreal stillness.Neryll’s hands grew weaker, his vision blurred.
The Lady in Black was always there, in a corner, waiting. Neryll spent his days tending to the flower, as if his life had been reduced to that single, delicate gesture.
On the morning of his final day, he dragged himself into the greenhouse. The flower seemed to shine with its own light, its petals almost vibrating with life. The old man smiled, knowing his time had come. The air was still. Time no longer had meaning.
The Lady in Black approached gracefully. Her eyes were as deep as the night, yet within them shimmered an ancient, magnetic light. She did not move toward Neryll, but gently bent over the snow flower. And with a tenderness befitting a lover, she touched it, as if to feel its essence. With a slow and gentle motion, she plucked a single petal from the flower and placed it on Neryll’s now cold hand. In that moment, the flower vanished, transforming into a soft, luminous dust that dissolved into the air. Neryll no longer felt his body, only one final, indescribable sensation of peace.On his hand, the petal shimmered with an intense blue light for a moment, the color of Elysia’s eyes, before fading away.
"Each soul finds its path. Some encounter calm, others chaos. Death comes, but how we face it is ours to choose."
Serath Eilun, chapter IX