Note: If you're wondering whether to read this fic, read the prologue. It sets the tone and is a good taste of what's to come. :)


~ Prologue ~

Delicate, flickering ripples of blue-white plasma curled over the edge of the long engine strip that birthed them. On the opposite side, a centered cockpit protruded from between two bracing wings.

Inside the ship, Dalmec's face tightened with resolve. He forced himself to keep his hands steady over the controls as his apprehension continued to build. He was not yet within the anomaly the ship was hurtling towards, but that fact did little to reassure him.

The constellations visible from his cockpit's panoramic window continued to grow distorted, the view of space encapsulating his seat slowly became cruel and unsettling. He held his course, racing onward toward where the warping space seemed to originate from.

It was impossible to predict exactly when he would enter the anomaly, but he would certainly know once he did. With a sudden motion – efficient as only fear could make it – Dalmec flicked a few switches. A small screen among the controls brightened, displaying engine and shield metrics, and running the same diagnostic checks over and over again until he shut them off. All systems reported as fully functional, just as they had when he ran the tests a few minutes ago.

Outside, normally pale light from distant stars began to acquire sanguine color. It bent and refracted in unnatural, demented arcs; the brilliance of the cosmos seemed to become hateful and malefic. Even the unlit void between the stars became a little more empty, a little more cold.

Yet still the little starship surged forward, ever more consumed by the eldritch heavens it sailed through.

Then space and stars ceased to be.

The ship soared through a dream world, a universe of bright yellow occasionally graduated into the faintest orange. Leisurely spinning spirals of coarse blue and purple tones jostled with translucent green spheres, each the size of a planet. Immobile vines of black and purple ran throughout the dimension, shedding small violet orbs along their length in cascades that occurred slowly enough to appear frozen in time.

Currents of otherworldly matter flowed through and between the floating landscapes. Some were crushing floods of vigorous strength; others were delicate rivulets that gracefully decorated the objects that carried them. All were blanketed in gossamer bubbles and whirling ripples that danced in and out of existence. The streams were colored with every pigment a great artist could hope to name, alongside many shades whose ancient titles were long forgotten and tones that had yet to be mixed at all. Still other hues present could not be perceived by the human eye, sources of majesty that could never be appreciated.

But the magnificent dreamscapes were not what Dalmec feared. He ran a hand through his short hair, clawing at his scalp when he brought it down. The voices were already there - distant, faded screams, moans, and sobs constituted the realm's background ambience. Like the surreal landscapes, they were ever-present and universal; they could not be blocked out or avoided. They simply were.

They were not merely heard or perceived, they were felt. Each roar projected the greatest triumph of a warrior; each squeal conveyed the ecstasy of a young lover; each wail carried the pain of a mother cradling her dead newborn. They flooded his mind with experiences, passions and regrets that were not his yet lived vicariously through him. Unnerved, he pushed the throttle all the way forward.

The phantom voices were not what Dalmec feared.

What he feared found him next. Louder, clearer presences made themselves known. Their sounds and ideas were pointed and distinct, standing out sharply from the ambient wails. They were the product of singular, specific entities, purposefully composed and delivered rather than simply existing and sweeping over reality.

Whether they were voices, thoughts, or physical beings, it was impossible to tell. Some of them seemed to manifest all three as a normal creature would. Others existed only as disembodied speakers, unthinking bodies, or mute concepts, or some combination thereof.

What was certain was that they were there. He felt them in his head; he felt their thoughts mingle with his; he felt physical presences squirming and pushing within his skull. He felt them around the ship; he felt the vigorous thuds of their feet and limbs frolicking on the outside of the frame. Most direly, he felt two of them standing behind his chair in the confined cockpit. He dared not look around, instead desperately fixing his gaze ahead of him.

In his peripheral vision he saw a twisted claw reach over his shoulder. Attached to a thin, emancipated wrist, the hand had long talons of parched white bone in place of fingers. The dreadful creature's skin was pallid and anemic, with just a handful of long white hairs spread over its deathly surface. The claw flexed and shivered in place but did not touch him, seeming to caress his neck and jaw from a short distance away. He locked himself in a statuesque pose to avoid brushing against it or any other unwanted contacts.

Though they made their full dominion in this place palpably clear, the ghastly beings did not otherwise infringe upon his journey. Perhaps they were restrained by the will of some nightmarish god; perhaps the incomprehensible physics of this realm safeguarded him, or perhaps the beings themselves simply preferred to investigate and terrify rather than kill.

Closing or blinking his eyes did nothing, for in this spectral plane he would merely find his normal view displayed on the inside of his eyelids and given a red tint. All he could do was press on. All he could hope was that his soul would not become another brushstroke in the sea of color, that his voice would not join the sorrowful chorus of the damned.

And then there was night.

Glimmering white twinkles and sparkles against a pure black canvas welcomed him like a sip of cold water to one dying of thirst. In that moment, the sight of peaceful, untroubled space was utterly beautiful.

On this side of the anomaly, the starlight was pristine and free of distortions. The points of light were crisp and firmly grounded in natural laws; there was no aura of hostility. The terrible cacophonies had been replaced by utter silence.

Still shuddering, Dalmec maneuvered the ship onto a course for the anomaly's sole occupant: a temperate world with a shattered moon.

With such a clear view for navigation, it was possible to safely hyperspace out of the anomaly, but reentry would always require a sub-light approach through the fiendish storm. It was easy to get out, but grueling to get in. Every time he made the journey, he berated himself immediately afterwards, and assured himself this would be the last time. Yet he always came back.

He had discovered the planet by accident, and quickly concluded he was the only foreign being aware of it. Hidden within the anomaly, impossible to reach, its existence was not documented on any star charts or recorded in any colonization records. The sentient inhabitants, humans and near humans, were just as ignorant of the wider galaxy as it was of them.

Dalmec was an entrepreneurial spirit, and the possibilities were vast. Every planet had unique resources that could be sold or bartered, and there was always the surefire opportunity for arbitrage with common goods – they could be bought at a meager domestic price, and then sold for great profit in the inflated and ravenous galactic markets. Introducing external technology and commodities could also be lucrative, though Dalmec was careful not to disturb the local ecosystem for now. This world was his private venture, and he would keep both it and its location unspoiled until he decided what to do in the long term.

A humble spacer, he refused to let the anomaly's odd effects dissuade him from the incredibly lucky find. Surely, he reasoned, the harrowing experience was merely a hallucination, a product of the region's disjointed physics unbalancing his neurochemistry. Offset space-time constants and altered sub-atomic forces could no doubt disrupt the biological functioning of the brain, unleashing tides of natural stimulants and the illusions that came with delirium. As if to prove it, he forced himself to swivel his chair and look behind him, like a child checking under the bed to make sure no monsters were present. There were, indeed, no monsters - and no trace of them ever being there.

Satisfied, he returned his attention to the approaching planet. This was his fourth visit, and would go roughly the same as the others. He would glean information about the local cultures and try to acquire as many samples of potentially worthwhile merchandise as possible, all while staying discreet about his origins and motivations. Of particular interest, the indigenous technologies were reasonably advanced and relied on a strange source of power: colored, crystalline sand that was safe to touch and handle. Acquiring it had proven difficult so far; but a solid, non-hazardous fuel source might fetch a very high price...


Weiss Schnee turned her tear-stained pillow over to the dry side. She laid back down and stared at the embroidery on the ceiling of her bed's canopy, a damask pattern of sharp snowflakes and softer, curving floral scenes. She had looked to those designs at night ever since she was a little girl, tracing and toying with them in her head with the light that reflected off of their satin edges. The gentle blossoms were her mother's touch, a varied floriculture of all the plants that could survive and blossom in Atlas' unforgiving climate. Willow commissioned the prints for Weiss and Winter because she wanted her daughters to be like those flowers - strong and resilient, but still graceful and sensitive.

It pained Weiss to remember she didn't have a picture of her mother.

She turned her head to look at her sister's face. Winter's photograph rested in the care of a small suit of armor on her nightstand, seated comfortably against a large snowflake in the knight's arms. Her older sister was wearing a warm smile, one she had put on just for Weiss to remember her by. Weiss didn't think she had smiled again since the picture was taken.

She wiped her eyes with her forearm and returned to her previous task - memorizing the lovely designs above her. She had already done so many years ago, but she wanted to be absolutely sure she knew them by heart.

Tomorrow, she was leaving. She and Klein – who was risking his own life by betraying her father – had planned the escape for weeks. She had spent these final few days wandering the estate, taking careful note of those areas that were significant to her. She might never see them again.

She glanced again at Winter's portrait. She was only taking a single suitcase of belongings, and had painfully deliberated whether to include that picture among them. She had ultimately decided not to.

She wouldn't need it. Hopefully, she would find her sister in Mistral, and perhaps see her smile again in person. Hopefully.

She thought back to the days when she and Winter had discussed Weiss' plans and dreams, and how happy Winter was that Weiss was determined to stand on her own merits in the world. When it was time for Weiss to go to Beacon, Winter was excited for her. She knewWeiss would succeed; she knew Weiss would make her dreams a reality.

Winter expected so much of her. Winter was so proud of her.

She frowned and cast a nervous, fearful glimpse at her sister's visage. Winter wouldn't smile. Not for her. Not anymore.

Weiss had devoted her life to following her sister's course and escaping her father's inconsiderate plans, and she had failed. She had built the foundation for a new life in Vale, only for it to be crushed with such utter finality that the city literally burned. It wasn't her fault Beacon fell, but it was her loss regardless.

She gambled everything, and she lost.

Then she was dragged back to Atlas, to lose her old life as well.

Hypothetical scenarios and different outcomes had raced through her mind constantly since she was disinherited. Maybe if she had just bit her tongue and followed her father's dictates for a little while, she would still be the heiress to the Schnee Dust Company - but what if he had intended to give the family's assets to Whitley all along? What if this had been destined ever since she showed the first signs of independence, and she would have had to have cowered from the very beginning to avoid it?

What if she never had a chance?

She swallowed a lump in her throat before the tears could break out, and tried to focus on the brocade above her. It didn't help. Each tender petal summoned memories of happier times, memories of her mother and sister glowing and laughing.

She rubbed her eyes and nose and rolled onto her feet, and then walked aimlessly around her room for a bit. The gray moonlight from her large window broke into small ovals of rich color as it struck the floor, providing clustered touches of life scattered tastefully around.

She followed the stepping stones of light around until she eventually settled in front of her weapon's case. She unlatched and lifted the hood, allowing the streaks of light to split and prism over the rapier within.

She lifted Myrtenaster out of its carrier and held it vertical and close to her body, as if performing one of her summons. The sword was her only source of comfort. It represented self-determination and sovereignty: her high aspirations to become a huntress and forge her own life promised by the more direct kind of empowerment the dangerous weapon provided. If she could defend herself and prevail against Grimm and other physical threats, it followed that she could prevail against more abstract obstacles and achieve her dreams.

Her eyes wandered past the thin blade and around her room. Tonight's lighting aside, it was even more sterile and lifeless than the Schnee mansion usually was, having been stripped of her effects first when she left for Beacon and now again in the last few days. Her gaze settled once more on the portrait of Winter, sitting all alone on the empty nightstand. It was the only personal touch remaining among the room's décor.

She was leaving the picture to be her legacy in the Schnee household. Winter's smile communicated her pride and confidence in Weiss, optimism that Weiss had earned by her determination to succeed. Her smile conveyed how hopeful they both were for Weiss' future.

That was how she wanted to be remembered – by the last time there was hope. By when she was meeting all her goals and on track to make her dreams a reality - before she was weak and inadequate, too frail to swim against the current. By the last time her sister thought she was going to succeed – the last time her sister smiled.

The last time Winter was proud of her.

Weiss shuddered with emotion, but forced it down. She closed her eyes and clasped her right hand around Myrtenaster's blade, fixating on the sensation of its cold steel and slowly coming to grips with herself. She ran her clenched fist up and down its length; the edge's deadly vitality reminding her of her own ability and potential. She took slow, deep breaths until she was composed.

She closed the case's lid and got back into bed, resting Myrtenaster next to her and gently running her fingers over it. Its mere presence reassured her.

Tomorrow, everything would be ok. The escape was perfectly arranged, and in Mistral she would meet up with Winter. She would put everything in her past behind her and start anew. She wouldn't be trapped or powerless anymore.

She spread her body out under the sheets, finally relaxing into the familiar bed. She was ok. Things weren't hopeless. She would be alright. She focused on tomorrow, and the potential it had, as she drifted into sleep.

Tomorrow her life would change forever.