GAMES OF FATES (H.P/T.M.R)

Bandaged Guardian

Cassopiea woke with a start, her breath hitching in the frigid air of the cave. The memory of the boulder crashing toward her was vivid, the sensation of impending doom still clinging to her skin like frost. She sat upright, her eyes darting around the unfamiliar surroundings.

The cave was dimly lit, with a small fire crackling in the center, casting long, flickering shadows on the icy walls. It was strangely warm despite the snow outside, and the icy drafts were somehow kept at bay. The air smelled faintly of herbs and smoke.

Her first thought was of her child. Instinctively, her hand moved to her stomach, her fingers brushing the small but noticeable swell. Panic flared briefly as she reached out with her magic, searching for the tiny life force she had sworn to protect. Relief flooded her when she felt it—strong, glowing faintly, but a little distressed, likely mirroring her own turmoil.

Her heart calmed as her magic gently wrapped around the child, soothing and protective.

Cassopiea's memories then started clearing up, she remembered as she had trudged through the icy expanse, her boots crunching on the snow as her breath formed fleeting clouds in the frigid air. The icy valleys of the Himalayas had turned into a labyrinth of solitude, a place where silence screamed louder than any roar. Her companions, Calliope and Veda, had been separated from her hours—perhaps days—ago, and now she was utterly alone. For miles, there was nothing but white. The snow was blinding, the cold biting, and even her formidable magic seemed like a fragile candle against the relentless blizzard.

She could feel her temperature dropping, her body protesting against the unforgiving elements. Her magic, which had been keeping her alive, flickered weakly, too strained to sustain her much longer. Despair began to creep in, mingling with the frost in her veins. Just as she skidded along the edge of a steep slope, trying to discern any semblance of a path, the ice began to tremble.

The ground beneath her feet groaned ominously, the sharp cracks of shifting ice echoing like distant gunfire. Her stomach sank.

"Oh, fucking avalanche," she muttered, her voice lost in the roar of cascading snow.

The world began to slide away from her, an unstoppable force of nature pulling her into its chaos. She grabbed desperately at a nearby vine, its frozen surface slick and unyielding. Her fingers burned with the effort, but the ice-laden plant was no savior.

Her magic sparked to life—a desperate attempt to levitate, to push herself out of harm’s way—but it faltered almost immediately, drained by the sheer effort of keeping her warm. As the icy torrent swept closer, a massive boulder rolled in her direction, promising a swift and brutal end.

"This is it," she thought grimly, her breath ragged.

But then, something happened.

Out of nowhere, a strong, calloused hand gripped her wrist, pulling her with a force that stole the air from her lungs. Disoriented, she felt herself collide against a broad chest, rough fabric scratching her cheek.

Her first thought was that one of her friends had miraculously found her. Calliope, perhaps, or even Veda. But no—this hand was too large, too rugged. Not even Agastya, with his warrior’s build, could claim such strength.

She glanced up, her vision blurred by exhaustion and snow. What she saw froze her more thoroughly than the cold ever could.

A man—no, something ancient—stood before her. His hair, white as the snow itself, was tied back with rudraksha beads, thick and gnarled like roots of a tree. His face was obscured by bandages, leaving only his eyes exposed: piercing, weathered, and filled with a deep, unspoken wisdom. The center of his forehead bore a grisly wound, raw and unhealed, a grotesque mark that seemed almost sacred in its brutality.