The Color of Snow

TW: Mild body horror, mentions of blood/child murdered

Ask me what the color of snow is.

I’ll tell you it’s blood-red.

Always has been.

I’m only fourteen—that shouldn’t be my answer.

The ground beneath my bare feet burns from ice.

The white horizon stretches in every direction, hypnotic, like the lies we’ve been fed.

“Father…” My voice is soft, innocent.

The violence is still dormant.

“Why do you want me to be a killer?”

The man behind the white veil is level with my gaze, though I see no eyes.

Silk cascades over his face; it spills from the wide-brimmed sun hat,

a curtain that surrounds his head with honor.

He wears the color of surrender; his suit, crisp purity.

No.

Fire burns beneath the clean shade.

Greed and destruction are his fuel.

He’s trying to make me see.

Trying to mold me to his image.

My fists are tight—a frozen rebellion resisting his flame.

We’re called by our weaknesses. Mine? Spotted Skin—Spots, to belittle me further.

“Spots,” he lulls, the silk over his lips ripples softly. “Our lineage is elite.

Blood and breath. Worship and power. Our name stays eternal.”

He says it like God blessed us; holy malice.

Taking my hands, he holds them meaningfully.

His skin is pale perfection; the underside of his hands, slick obsidian, though

they move like soft leather.

They’re hot.

Mine are cold—but the warmth doesn’t reach me.

Only pressure from his grip speaks.

“You were born with a gift. Something divine lives inside of you.

Something only a Veilstrider can carry; one you’ll soon become.”

That predatory calm watches me.

I don’t need to see that his stare is unblinking. I can feel it.

He hunts my eyes for the switch to make me submit.

I stare back. Defective.

He’s disappointed.

I understand.

My mind is empty. Nothing remains for him to take.

I threw everything away the day my brother, Stutter, died.

Mother, a Half Veil, had kept the lights on in my mind, only a flicker, but a soft

amber that kept breath in my lungs.

But when she was executed—a void. As barren as my heart.

When Father replaced Stutter with Black Hair, one child for another…

I sealed the iron rot that is my heart with a lock.

And if he were to unlock it—he’d see his demise.

But I don’t want it unlocked.

I don’t want to be like him, like all the Veilstriders.

“Spots,” he says, reaching for me. “Tell me you understand what you must do.”

Something beyond the skeletal trees breaks through the snow’s glittering crust.

The crisp sound spikes my pulse along with his words.

His thin hand slips under his vest and he replaces the heat in my hands with cold metal.

It bites into my palms like dry ice—searing, my nerves dying beneath it.

Seamless chrome glints at every angle.

The dagger’s edge is surgical.

It shines without flaw—our purpose—but it’s nothing but flaw.

It’s the very thing that’ll rob me of everything.

An endless life of mistakes and pain.

I want its weight out of my hands, but a trained thank you nearly crosses my lips.

I swallow it.

I can smell the heat rise off of him—a whisper of ammonia and burnt flesh.

I quietly exhale it from my lungs.

I glance at his absent face.

His presence is almost camouflaged in the soon-to-be whiteout.

There are other Veilstriders here too—unseen but watching.

The air is starved of breath.

You can hear the snowflakes fall to their death; I envy them.

Father looks immaculate; I don’t.

I wear rags of the slain—fabric that was stiff this morning.

Now its rust stains absorb the moisture and bleed for a second time across my skin.

He waits for my answer.

Patience is a virtue of theirs—even when faced with endless screaming and sobs

for mercy.

My eye catches a fat snowflake.

It would’ve caught on his shoulder if it could’ve.

But it evaporates the instant it tries to touch him.

They are untouchable—not by nature, or by enemy, not even God.

The flakes clump to me instead. Slowly consuming my existence.

My shivering is meaningless.

I want to go back inside.

But there isn’t one—not until I’ve accepted.

Refusal feeds the whiteout.

I want to refuse.

But one thing threatens my resistance.

The blade catches my dead stare.

Rime has begun creeping around the handle.

With each blink, spider cracks weaken my morals.

My eyes flick to his.

I feel the shift—see the grin spread underneath the veil.

“Can I choose anybody?”

My words are too dark, like someone else spoke them.

They were everything Mother taught me not to be.

But want blooms beneath my skin.

Electricity sparks my heart.

I’m ready to become like him.

He places his palm on my shoulder; practiced warmth.

Then it happens—his veil begins to lift.

Just a touch.

Enough to reveal a grin made of parchment and bone.

It peels back my nerves.

I’ve never seen the face of a Veilstrider.

His joy is sick.

And his smile… as trustworthy as thin ice.

“Yes. You may choose anyone.”

Approval makes the foreign object in my hands feel safe.

I straighten, locking in my decision.

The corner of his mouth curls—eager to swallow my words.

“I want Black Hair.”

My voice is solid. Certain.

His smile retracts.

“No.”

“He killed Stutter.”

He exhales through a new smile.

It should heat the air—it doesn’t.

“Spots.” He says the name of his favorite daughter slowly.

“He made a mistake. Black Hair has proven himself as worthy. As an asset.”

I challenge the demon before me.

“It was no mistake,” I whisper.

The veil rises further.

The shake in my limbs isn’t from the snow.

We never see their eyes.

Never.

Time fractures.

The reveal is complete.

Facial features as hard as marble.

And his eyes… the shape is there, but the socket is packed with rows of

blue-gray lashes—feathery bristles.

When he blinks, it’s soft.

You can almost hear it brush.

Our gaze holds.

His smile is artificial.

“It was. He stays,” he says, even and insistent, protecting his favorite son.

I look at the dagger.

This time with anger.

My blonde hair crawls over its reflective surface, my blue eyes warped.

My finger trails the edge of the blade.

It effortlessly cuts.

I feel nothing.

I swallow and choose another victim: him.

He is no longer my father.

But I know he is off-limits.

For now.

My sigh clouds.

I hand back the weapon.

“Choose for me.”

His smile twitches.

Then it spreads.

His teeth are human—too human.

Skewed perfection.

“I admire your bravery.”

His tone is an anesthetic.

It tries to numb me.

I don’t allow it.

“You will do well. I’m certain.”

I force a smile, despite my chattering teeth.

“Thank you… Korvath.”

The disrespect smudges his polish.

He corrects me gently.

“It’s Father. Always.”

I nod like a proper daughter.

Lie like one, too.

He doesn’t see the truth—not yet.

Father is a title I’ll bury with Stutter.

I silently apologize to Mother.

I am not proud of this.

Their cult is built on blood and ruin.

But ruin is a language I speak fluently now.

Let him choose my first kill.

Let him think I belong to him.

I will learn their rituals.

Master their blades.

Wear their veils.

Walk in perfect skin.

They kill everything that crosses their path.

But so will I.

His veil restores itself, and he turns, silk dancing with the wind.

I force my dead limbs to follow.

Winter stole my warmth.

He claimed my innocence.

But I keep my truth.

And hold my secret.

The snow will hold the blood of many.

But one day, it will learn his blood, too.