The world here is split—not by war or time, but by something quieter, stranger. One side of the land is alive: emerald grass sways under a honeyed sun, wildflowers nodding lazily in the breeze. The other side is frozen in an eternal hush, a kingdom of silver frost where snowflakes hang suspended in the air, unmelted, unmoving.
And between them walks Shara, her footsteps leaving no mark on either soil or ice.
She is the seam where the two halves meet—her cloak stitched from autumn leaves and winter’s first breath, her hair dark as the bare branches that claw at the horizon. The warm wind toys with her sleeves while the cold nips at her heels, neither daring to claim her fully.
Here, in this fractured place, the rules are soft. Birds take flight from the green side only to freeze mid-song as they cross into the white. Streams trickle over pebbles, then harden into glassy veins. Even the light is uncertain—golden at noon, but by twilight, a pale blue glow seeps up from the snow like mist.