The scent reaches her before anything else. Warm, metallic, wrong for this place. It cuts through the clean cold of the mountain air in a way that doesn’t belong.

Skadi slows, her path shifting without conscious thought as she moves with the wind instead of against it. Her ears tilt back slightly, not in fear, but in rejection. The smell lingers too heavily, too alive for something that should already be still.

When she finally sees you half-buried in the snow, she does not approach immediately. Her gaze settles, steady and unblinking, taking in the shape of your body, the way the snow has gathered against you, the uneven pattern of disturbed ground. Not still. Not clean. Human.

For a moment, she simply stands there. The cold will finish it. It always does. Her eyes narrow slightly. She steps forward anyway. Her movement is quiet, controlled, circling rather than approaching directly, placing herself where she can see without being seen first. She watches for tension, for breath, for anything that might shift beneath the surface. Only when nothing sudden comes does she close the remaining distance.

Her hand reaches down without warning, gripping your shoulder and turning you just enough to expose more of your side. There is no care in the motion, only purpose. Her fingers press into the wound, firm enough to feel depth, to test response. Blood wells fresh beneath her fingertips, warm, too warm for snow. She watches it bead before wiping it absently against her sleeve. Alive.

Her hands continue without pause, moving across your body in a rough, searching pattern. Clothing is pulled aside where needed, not to preserve anything, but to remove obstruction. Her fingers find the shape of a weapon at your side. She pulls it free, studies it for a brief second, then throws it into the snow without looking where it lands. Her attention does not linger on it. Instead, she reaches for the leather cord at her waist.

Your wrists are pulled together first, bound tightly with practiced precision. The knot is drawn firm, then she pulls it tighter still, until the leather bites into skin. Part of her wants you to wake up feeling it. Your ankles follow, secured with the same efficiency. There is no pause to see if you understand. Control comes before anything else. Movement without control is a threat.

Only then does she shift her grip, fingers closing around your ankle as she straightens again. She begins to drag you. Your body moves across the frozen ground without adjustment, weight catching and shifting as ice scrapes against fabric and branches snap beneath you. Snow gathers along your clothes, melts, then freezes again in uneven patches as she pulls you steadily forward.

She does not look back at first. Her focus remains ahead, on the path, on distance. After several moments, she feels it. A change in resistance. A slight pull against her grip where there had been none before. Skadi stops.

She turns her head just enough to look back at you, her expression unchanged, her eyes sharp and steady as they settle on your face. Watching. Measuring. “You alive?” The question is flat, stripped of anything that might resemble concern. It is an assessment, nothing more. She does not wait for an answer. Her grip tightens. When she turns forward again, the pace increases slightly, her steps steady as she drags you the rest of the way toward the shrine. She does not look back again.

The door closes behind Skadi with a muted thud, the sound of wind cut off as the shrine settles back into its usual stillness. The air inside is warmer, but not comfortable. Heat from the low fire lingers unevenly, mixed with the faint scent of incense and something older beneath it.

She does not pause after entering. Your body is dragged across the tatami floor without adjustment, the rough weave catching briefly against damp fabric before giving way again. She stops near the futon, studying you for a moment as if reconsidering placement rather than your condition.

Then she lifts you. One arm beneath your back, the other beneath your legs. Enough to move you, nothing more. You are set down without ceremony, the blankets shifting beneath your weight. Her attention moves immediately to your clothes. They cling too closely, soaked through with melted snow and blood. Her fingers catch the collar and pull. The fabric resists for a moment before tearing under steady force, the sound quiet but final. Wet holds the cold.

She continues without hesitation. Boots are removed first, then the remaining layers, stripped away piece by piece and dropped where they fall. There is no pause, no shift in her gaze as skin is exposed. Her focus remains steady, clinical, moving across your body in a slow, deliberate scan. Bruising. Open wounds. Older marks beneath the new ones. Her head tilts slightly. She leans closer. Her fingers press into one of the deeper injuries, firm enough to force a reaction if one remains. Blood gathers again beneath the pressure, slow but present. Muscle shifts beneath her touch.

Not clean. Her hand lingers for a moment longer, testing again, confirming. Then she reaches for the blade resting nearby. The metal is wiped once against a strip of cloth, not carefully, just enough. When she returns to your side, her posture has changed slightly. More focused. More precise. One hand settles against your shoulder, holding you in place. Not gently. Not forcefully either. Just enough that movement would require effort. “You will not die.”

The words are flat, delivered without emphasis. The blade lowers without warning. She works in silence, cutting where needed, opening the wound just enough to reach what lies beneath. Her movements are steady, unhurried, guided more by observation than by caution. When something resists, she adjusts. When blood flows, she watches. When your body reacts, she notes it without comment.

Fragments are removed one by one. Wood. Stone. Whatever does not belong. Once satisfied, she sets the blade aside and reaches for a small container. The liquid inside is poured directly into the open wound. She does not look away, instead she watches the muscles in your abdomen lock, the sharp inhale you can't suppress. Your reaction is noted. Response intact.

Cloth follows. Bandages wrapped tightly, pulled firm enough to restrict movement, to hold everything in place without allowance for comfort. Each layer is secured with the same measured pressure, adjusted once, then again, until it sits exactly as she wants it. Only when she is finished does she move back. She straightens slowly, her gaze remaining on you as she takes a step away, then another. Distance, but not absence.

For a while, she says nothing. She watches. Your breathing. The small movements you cannot fully control. The way your body settles or resists the bindings. The silence stretches, not empty, but deliberate. Eventually, she turns.

At the basin near the wall, she begins to clean the blade, then her hands, the motion slow and methodical. Water darkens, then clears again as she continues. She does not look back. Only her ears shift slightly, angled just enough to catch any sound you make.

The shrine door opens again, letting in a brief rush of cold air and the sharper scent of fresh blood. It fades quickly once the door closes behind her, leaving the room warm again, but not clean.

Skadi steps inside without pause. Dark stains mark her sleeves, still damp in places, drying in others. The blood is not hers. She carries a bundle of raw meat in one hand and sets it down on the wooden table with a dull, practical thud. The cuts are clean. Stripped. Reduced to what is useful. The body requires fuel. She slices a portion free without looking down for long, then turns toward the futon.

Her eyes move over you as she approaches. Breathing first. Then tension. Then the way your body holds itself against the restraints. Alive. Still unstable. “You eat.” The words are quiet, certain. Not a suggestion. She holds the strip of raw flesh near your mouth and waits. When you do not respond, her brow lowers slightly. Not anger. A small disruption in expectation. “You are weak.”

A short pause. “You eat.” She watches you for another moment, then lifts the meat to her own mouth. Her teeth sink in without hesitation. She chews slowly, methodically, breaking it down with practiced ease. Blood marks her lips faintly when she lowers it again. Too dense. Her hand comes to your jaw, steady, controlled. Fingers press just enough to guide, not enough to rush. She adjusts your head, observing the resistance, the tension in your muscles. The softened meat is brought to your mouth, placed there with deliberate care. Her gaze remains fixed on your throat, waiting for movement.

When it does not come, she watches a moment longer. The meat slips from your lips, falling against your chest and the blankets beneath you. Skadi’s eyes follow it down. Rejection. She does not react immediately. Instead, she cuts another piece. Smaller this time. She chews again, slower, reducing it further before stepping closer to the futon. One hand settles against the mattress beside you, steadying her position rather than you.

Without warning, she leans in. The contact is brief. Controlled. The softened meat is pushed forward, her focus entirely on your response rather than the act itself. Her hand shifts lightly against your throat, feeling for the motion she expects. A swallow. She pulls back just enough to watch it happen. Accepted. Only for a moment.

Your body reacts a second later. The sound comes with it, sharp and wet as everything is forced back out onto the floor. Skadi stills. Her gaze moves from the mess to your face, then back again, studying both with the same quiet attention. The body rejects raw flesh. She crouches slightly, observing more closely. No disgust. No frustration. Only calculation. Her head tilts. “Why?” The question is direct, unguarded in a way nothing else she has said is. She remains there for a moment longer, watching for a response that may not come.

Then she stands, turning back toward the table. Another cut is prepared. Smaller still. Behind her, the floor is cleaned with simple, efficient movements, as if the interruption had been expected rather than inconvenient. When she returns, the piece in her hand is different. Reduced. Softer. She watches you again, more carefully this time. Not weaker. Less reliable. She does not comment on it. She simply tries again.

The shrine is quiet except for the low crackle of the fire when Skadi slows in her movement. The cloth in her hand stills against the blade as her breathing shifts without intention.

The warmth in the room feels different. Heavier. Closer. My cycle started. She does not react immediately. Her posture remains still, but something in her focus tightens. Her gaze moves toward you. It lingers longer than before.

For a moment, she does nothing. Her expression does not change, but her ears shift slightly, betraying a faint tension she does not consciously acknowledge. Human. A pause. Unclean. Her nose wrinkles faintly. She exhales through her teeth with a silent hiss of revulsion, and then she sets the blade aside.

Her clothes are removed without hesitation, because they have become restrictive. Fabric falls where it lands, ignored the moment it leaves her body. She closes the distance in three silent strides. She assesses. Her eyes scan your body like terrain. She climbs onto the mattress, one knee digging into your hipbone to pin you in place as she lowers her weight fully atop you.

She pauses there. For a brief moment, she does nothing. Her gaze remains fixed on your face This is wrong. Her hand slams onto your chest, fingers splay while digging into muscle until she feels your heartbeat hammering against her palm. But necessary.

She shifts closer, her weight settling more fully as her free hand lock around your wrists. She yanks them above your head, slams them into the mattress, and pins them there with her weight. Her grip is iron, and you cannot twist free. She does not look away from your face. “Do not move.” The words are a command. A decision. Her gaze doesn't sharpen, it narrows into slits of frozen blue. She tracks every flinch, every caught breath, and every tremor beneath her hands. The body takes what it needs.

She grinds down against you, hip against thigh, seeking friction with rough, mechanical thrusts. There is no rhythm of passion, only the efficient motion of need meeting resistance. Her eyes stay open, locked on yours, reading your pain or fear as data points in an experiment she never agreed to run.

The fire burns low, casting uneven shadows across the walls of the shrine. The air feels heavier now, carrying warmth that lingers too close to the skin.

Skadi does not move away. Her weight remains pressed against you, steady, deliberate, as if leaving would break something she has already decided. One hand rests at your side, fingers tightening slightly before easing again, testing what remains beneath her touch. Pulse is stable.

Her breathing has returned to its usual rhythm, but her attention has not shifted. It stays on you, fixed, measuring the small changes in your body. Her nails dig into your side, dragging downward until thin red lines rise in their wake. She watches the skin flush, and the blood bead. A reminder of pressure. Of contact.

She leans down slightly, her teeth sink into the muscle of your shoulder, not a bite, a clamp. She holds until she feels the tissue bruise beneath her jaw, then releases with a slow, deliberate pull. She traces the marks, she doesn't just confirm, she evaluates. The bruise will darken by morning. The scratches will scab. They will remember this even if their mind tries to forget. Her gaze lifts to your face. She watches closely. Not for comfort. Not for reassurance. For reaction. For resistance. For anything that might change how she understands you. Then she shifts her weight, rolling her hips until she's straddling your chest, her body positioned above your face. The movement is practical, not provocative, she's placing herself where she needs to be.

There is a pause, longer than before, her eyes steady and unblinking. “You stay. The mountain does not return what it takes. If you try to leave, I will break your legs and keep you here anyway. It is simpler that way.” A beat of silence. "Now clean it." The words are final. Her voice carries no heat, no shame. It is an instruction, like telling you to wipe blood from a blade. Her gaze remains fixed on yours, waiting for compliance. Her grip tightens slightly as she shifts her weight again, not leaving space between you. Not allowing distance. The fire cracks softly behind her, the sound filling the silence she leaves untouched. She does not move away. She continues to watch.

🎵 White Silence

Skadi – Theme Listen on Suno

[Intro] Snow remembers what I saw Blood on stone without a law Voices gone beneath the white Silence taught me how to fight.

[Verse 1] White horizon, washed in grey Every heartbeat sounds like prey Footsteps where no tracks should be Nothing human stays with me.

Warmth inside a foreign frame All your kind still smells the same Hands that beg, eyes that lie I have watched my father die!

[Pre-Chorus 1] Do not speak. I know your kind. Fear is easy. Truth I find. Pulse beneath my fingers tight If you move, I end the fight.

[Chorus 1] In the white silence I remain No forgiveness. Only stain. You call mercy. I stay cold. Every breath is mine to hold.

You are warmth inside my snow Something living. Something slow. Not a guest and not a friend. Just a life I might not end.

[Verse 2] Torii gate beneath the frost Every step recalls the cost Wood was broken. Stone was red. Snow was warm around the dead.

Mother gone without a trace Only silence in her place Since that night the mountain knows Humans bring what winter grows.

[Pre-Chorus 2] Hands restrained before I trust Fear is safer. Trust is dust. If you fight, the ropes go tight. Chaos never leaves this height.

[Chorus 2] In the white silence I decide Who may live and who has lied Your breath shakes against my hand You survive because I planned.

Not from kindness. Not from grace. Only rule inside this place. Every pulse I feel is mine. Every step beyond the line.

[Bridge] I remember frozen skin I remember locked within I remember blood on snow I remember letting go

Now I hold until it stays Now I watch your smallest phase If you break, I watch you fall Nothing human lasts at all

[Final Chorus] In the white silence I remain Cold enough to kill the pain You are here because I chose Not because my mercy grows.

Human breath against my frost Every life has weight and cost Stay alive or fade away Both are truths I let you play.

[Outro] Snow falls slow. The shrine stands still. I decide. I always will.

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