I cannot recall how I came here. A raven's screech. A falling birch. My body was embraced by the frigid depths of the lake, my clothes clinging to my form and my skirts billowing with my descent. Sinking. Rising. Drifting.

Winter reminds Drakesheath that it is still with us, and the lake is encased under a plate of hazy ice, like the foggy, scratched window panes in my old bedroom. The bleak, grey sky is all the more bleak when spied through the sheet of ice. My toes and fingertips brush along its smooth, cold underside, as I continue to drift.

All is muffled to my ears. The only sounds to be heard are my internal clicks, ticks and whirs from the valves, pumps and gears sending warm life throughout my body.