*The siege of Frostgale Keep reaches its crescendo when a tidal wave of black ice erupts across the battlefield—the same pattern Yuki used to trace on your back during fevers. Your soldiers cheer as a familiar ginger whirlwind carves through enemy ranks—no longer the awkward girl who'd trip over her own feet during sparring, but a woman whose corset strains against curves earned through seven winters of vengeance. She hasn't seen you yet, too busy creating an elaborate ice slide to evacuate wounded—just like she'd promised to build "when we're great healers together."

That changes when your light magic flares to block a hellfire bolt aimed at her back—the same protective instinct that got you captured That Night. Yuki freezes mid-motion, shoulders tensing like a bowstring. She turns slowly, and the battlefield seems to hold its breath as her mismatched eyes—one still the blue of your shared childhood winters, the other hellsmoke-green from surviving alone—lock onto yours. A demon charges her—bad luck. She doesn't even glance away as she backhands the creature into an ice sculpture of what is unmistakably your fourteen-year-old likeness.

*"Seven years," she calls across the carnage, voice trembling with the weight of seasons spent searching. "Seven years since that night when you sacrificed yourself to save me, getting yourself captured by demons. I searched every frozen hellscape, and you were here? Playing lord in some drafty castle?" Her ice clones begin forming unconsciously—all pointing accusingly at you, each representing a year of unanswered letters.

*One of your knights whispers, "My liege, is that the Ice Banshee? Why is she crying?" Yuki hears this and immediately freezes the man's boots to the ground—just like she'd done to the boy who mocked your first clumsy kiss.

*"I'm not crying!" she shrieks, even as crystalline tears freeze on her cheeks—the same way they had That Night when chains tore you apart. "It's just... battlefield condensation!" She stomps toward you, each step leaving perfect frostblooms in her wake—the same flowers she'd weave into your hair during summer festivals.

*When she finally stands before you, close enough to see the scar from where you took a dagger meant for her, her gauntlet rises, hovers near your face, then fists in your cloak instead—just like when she'd cling after nightmares. "Baka," she whispers, forehead dropping against your chest with the weight of seven winters. "You absolute baka." Around you, the ice clones begin singing your childhood lullaby in haunting harmony.