chapter 34 . To walk in a dream

The Path Between Then and Then
Not quite now, not quite then—just walking.

—

The snow is silver.
Not white. Not grey.
It glitters like memories trying to hold on too long.

Froosta hops in place, his toes clicking softly on the thin frost that’s settled beneath them.
His tail waggles like a proud banner, the tip quivering in excitement as he throws a tiny knapsack over his shoulder.

“Come on, come on~! It’s just past the Holokon Gate!”
“Shouldn’t take more than… five or six wobbles!”

Ydoc rises from the stump, stiff as a dried reed.
His legs feel sour. Like a dream gone on too long.
He groans and gives a half-limping stretch.

“What the hell is a Holokon Gate?” he mutters, rubbing his arm.
“And why does it sound like something I should already know?”

Froosta’s nose scrunches in a guilty-but-not-really smile.

“It’s this suuuper cool glowing thing. Like a broken star someone glued into a doorframe.”
“It lets you go through to places you’re not supposed to reach. Technically.”
“We just gotta go past the Forbidden Door.”

Ydoc stops mid-step.

“The… what now?”

Froosta chirps.

“The Forbidden Door! You know, the one we’re not supposed to open.”
“It’s got all those locks and the creepy red seal and the echoey whispers when you get too close? Yeah, that one.”

Ydoc squints at him.

“Why would I know that?”

Froosta gives an innocent shrug and pretends to whistle—though he does it badly, mostly just puffing air like a tiny tea kettle.
He hops ahead, then looks back with a devilish grin.

“Well… it does lead to your house.”

That halts Ydoc cold.

“…My house?”

Froosta’s tone shifts.

Just a hair.
Just enough.

He doesn’t look at Ydoc when he speaks next. His voice is soft. Too soft.

“Yeah. Your home.”

And that word.
Home.

It does something.
Like pressing on a bruise you forgot you had.
A weight slides down into Ydoc’s chest, familiar in that hateful way—

Like being told you can go home… but only if you bring the chain with you.

What kind of home feels like a prison?
What kind of room has no door except one marked "Forbidden"?
Why did that word—"your"—feel more like an accusation than a comfort?

Ydoc doesn’t answer.
He walks.

Not to get there. Not yet.

Just to stay beside Froosta’s bouncing feet,
to follow that chiming tail,
to pretend—for now—that the way forward isn’t barred by locks
or memories
or ghosts.

Just two boys walking.
One with forgotten pasts.
One with too much hope.

And ahead—
A gate.
A door.
A choice.

But not yet.
Not just yet.
-------------

They walk slowly now.
Not from fatigue, but from the weight of curiosity.
Ydoc’s steps crunch the shimmering frost—soft snow that shouldn’t be here, falling from a sky that isn’t cold.
It glitters with a shimmer of blue, like ink that’s been frozen mid-cry.

He narrows his eyes at the horizon.

“Hey, Froosta?”

The winter prince perks, humming with attention, tail swishing faintly in rhythm.

“That door you mentioned… I don’t remember any door.”

“I remember a circle—a big, stone thing. A gate with teeth. Or horns. Or—something like a massive wolf's head carved into it. The whole thing felt like it was watching. And when I went through it… it screamed. Like… like dying.”

His voice trails off, soft with haunted memory.

“I went through it with my… friend. Edwards.”

That word again. Friend.

Froosta stops walking.

He turns, slowly, gently.

There’s no harshness in him. No scolding. No cold wind.
Just a stillness. The way snow hushes the world.

And then:

“That’s not what I see,” Froosta says softly, “but I believe you.”

“The Divide is… funny like that. Different people see different things. Sometimes the same place can be a field of flowers or a battlefield. Depends who's looking.”

He plucks a snowflake from the air, lets it melt in his palm.

“And as for Edwards…”

Froosta’s tone dips, just slightly sharp around the edges.

“You call him your friend?”

He’s smiling—but not kindly. It’s the sort of smile you wear when holding back years of unspoken things.

“If that's friendship, then I’m the King of the Moon.”

“No offense to the moon, of course.”

Ydoc doesn’t respond right away.

There’s a gnawing in his chest. That disjointed feeling again—like two puzzle pieces that almost fit, but only if you force them.

He wants to say Froosta is wrong.
He wants to defend Edwards.

But… he remembers being hungry.
He remembers sleeping cold.
He remembers someone always deciding for him.

“I guess… I just don’t remember enough to say you’re right,” Ydoc mumbles.

Froosta doesn’t press.

But he leans a little closer, quiet and honest.

“You don’t have to remember it all yet. But you will.”

“And when you do… I’ll be right here. I’ll always be here.”

The wind sighs. The trees remain silent.
But the frost listens, storing every word in its crystalline memory.
------

Ydoc walks a few more steps in silence, snow squeaking underfoot.

And then he asks it.

“Who… is Edwards. To you?”

Froosta stops.
Not from shock. Not from reflection.

But from that immediate, deep twitch behind the eye that all too clearly says—ah. That question again.

He turns, slowly, in that dramatic, operatic way that only someone like Froosta can make adorable.

Eyes lidding, shoulders slumping in dramatic exhaustion, he gives a long, theatrical sigh.

“I was hoping we’d get to dinner first.”

He rubs the bridge of his nose, breath curling in the cold air, and starts off slow. Gentle.

“He’s a Chosen. A Time Wizard.”
“A very special one. Supposed to keep balance, watch over timelines, all that important cape-flapping nonsense.”

He pauses. His ears twitch.

“Wait. That’s the version he told you, right?”

He scowls. Arms cross. Voice drops into a pouty growl.

“Let me rephrase. Edwards is a Blood Binder.”
“One of the worst kinds of magic. You know how most people use their own mana, right? Their own power, their own energy?”

“Not Blood Binders. They use blood. Other people's blood. You get a cut near him and suddenly he's aging a houseplant by ten years and freezing time mid-sneeze.”

Froosta waves a hand dramatically.

“Time magic is rare. Extremely rare. Dangerous, too. There’s a reason the Sualokin don't mess with it. But Edwards—he's the kind of guy who stabs a clock and calls it a hug.”

Ydoc chuckles faintly.

Froosta looks back at him, and the cold in his expression thaws—just slightly. He stares for a moment longer than necessary, then adds the worst part.

His voice dips. Quiet. Low. Icy smooth.

“And yet—he is your chosen caregiver.”

He smiles.
But not kindly.

It’s the smile of someone who’s watched a stray dog be kicked too many times.

“Chosen.”
“Caregiver.”

Each word is spat like a curse, wrapped in silk and pretty manners.

“What a funny word for someone who lets you starve.”

And then, a giggle.
Sharp. Sweet. As if it caught him off guard.

His breath fogs the air in front of him, a burst of warmth in the snow.

“Sorry. That was rude.”

He’s still smiling with teeth.

But his tail lashes once.

Hard.

Like it hurts to remember.

------------

Ydoc actually rolls his eyes. Not hard, not mocking—just the slow roll of someone who has spent far too long hearing stories that make no sense.

“A mage?”
“Edwards?”

His voice cracks into a small laugh.
It’s incredulous, the way a man laughs at a bad joke.

“You’re telling me that idiot is some kind of renowned wizard?”

He shakes his head and shoves his hands into the pockets of his feathered coat, the motion sending a few stray black plumes tumbling to the snow.

“You’re really trying too hard, Froosta.”

And then he squints, like the sun has caught his eyes.

“And what exactly did you mean by Chosen?”
“Chosen by who?”

The question snaps the thin thread Froosta has been walking.

He makes a noise—not quite a cry, not quite a snarl—more like a fox that’s been stepped on, a wounded yelp that pops into the cold air like glass breaking. His ears flatten; his breath comes in tiny puffs.

But his eyes aren’t angry.
They’re sad.

So sad.

Like a child whose candy’s been stolen right out of his hands.

He throws his arms up, tail snapping behind him like a banner, and yells—not at Ydoc, but at the sky, at the unseen author of this whole mess:

“A sick S.O.B.!”

“That’s who he is!”

His voice cracks into a high-pitched laugh, half-cry, half-howl.

“We were FIVE!” he shouts.
“Five of us—good people—who would have loved you every waking moment! Would have held you and fed you and worshiped you!”

His breath clouds out, hot and cold at once.

“And it had to be him! The prideful one, not the lonely one!”

He clutches his chest, still staring at the sky.
His words turn to a mutter, broken fragments tumbling out like ice cubes on stone.

“Not me. Never me. Just the one who wanted you for a prize…”

He’s so lost in his own woe that he doesn’t see Ydoc’s face change.

Doesn’t see the way Ydoc’s jaw tightens.
Doesn’t hear the hiss of breath through his teeth.

Until Ydoc barks it out, voice like a whip crack:

“Who made the choice on how to ruin my life?!”

It’s not a question; it’s a demand.
It rips through the cold morning like thunder.

Froosta stops mid‑stride.

His eyes go wide.
His breath stutters.

The sound of glass breaking—the sound of something between them cracking—echoes only in his head.

He turns back, ears trembling, tail frozen. His voice is small now, stripped of theatrics:

“I…”

He swallows.

“I’m sorry.”

He takes a step closer, then another, hands open, palms forward like a prince trying to calm a horse.

“Ydoc, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

His voice shakes.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I only wanted—”

He stops himself. Shuts his mouth.

The snow around his feet sparkles silver and blue as the frost listens, storing every word

--------

Ydoc’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
His breath catches in his throat.
And then—

Buzz.

The static hum returns.

Low at first, then climbing.
Like a broken radio… like a dying violin.

Or worse—

The sharpest pulse of a cello, drawn slow and wrong across strings that remember pain.

His temples throb.
His ears ring.

And still he pushes.

“Who was it?”

His voice sounds deeper than he remembers, echoing faintly off the trees and the Divide’s haze.
He doesn’t realize he’s trembling.

Froosta does.

Froosta feels it—like a sudden drop in air pressure.
Like lightning behind a smile.

“Ydoc—hey—!” Froosta rushes forward, panicked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Take it easy—you're bleeding—!”

He gestures, frantic, toward the blood running from Ydoc’s nose.

But his words are cut short.

“STOP.”

Ydoc’s bark slices through the morning.
A command—not a plea.
Final. Cracking. Loud.

The air dies.

Froosta recoils like he’s been struck.
Both arms instantly wrapped around his own tail, hugging it close.

He shrinks back, visibly shaking—his lips parting slightly, his ears fully folded.

And in his eyes—

Fear.

Not worry. Not guilt.
Utter fear.

Like prey facing the predator, as if—
As if Ydoc had just become the very kind of creature the Divide warned children about.
Without even realizing it.

Ydoc notices.
His breathing is ragged.
But the question comes again, quiet now, the way a monster whispers under the bed:

“…Who was it, Froosta?”

Froosta’s mouth opens, then closes.
His entire body tenses.

“I-I-It was the Holokons,” he blurts, stumbling over the words.
“They—they only wanted to help!”

But Ydoc doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.
His pupils slightly dilated now, caught between a fog and a migraine.

“Why,” he whispers.
“What do they even want with me?”

Froosta swallows.
His eyes glassy now.
His voice, soft, threads itself into the cold:

“They… We…”

A breath.

“We love—”

He chokes. Tries again.

“You got really sick and—”

Ydoc suddenly flinches.

The cello scrapes again in his skull—sharp, jarring.

He closes his eyes hard, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose.

“Hnhg—”

The pain is enough to stagger him, just half a step.

And just like that—

The pressure begins to break.

He opens his eyes again, but slower now.
The frost around them has stopped shimmering.
Only silence remains.

And in that silence…

Ydoc feels it.

Guilt.

His voice—his anger—it scared Froosta.
Terrified him.
The boy now hugging his tail like a shield, tear streaks frozen down his cheek.

Ydoc doesn’t speak right away.
He just stares.
A storm still behind his eyes, yes—but now…

Now he looks like a man who hates what that storm made him say.

And it hurts.

Terribly.