This is probably gonna be more relevant a couple of months from now, but may I please request for like a few of the Amphoreus Characters of your choice reacting to snow falling in Amphoreus and a very cold temperature drop?
(They've only ever had Evernight and Dawn, so I'm curious how they'd react to seasons.)
First Snow in Okhema
Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Aglaea x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Castorice x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Cipher x Reader, First Snow, Snowball Fights, Romance, Lighthearted Moments, Emotional Growth, Seasonal Change, Quiet Reflection, Playful Mischief, Healing, Hope.
Warnings: Mild Violence (Snowball Fight), Implied Emotional Vulnerability, Strong Emotional Themes, Brief Tension, Light Character Angst.
Snow fell like quiet ash, drifting down over the stone terraces of Grove of Epiphany. The city had never seen white before. Evernight and Dawn defined Okhema—burning twilight skies, star-heavy nights, but never this. Not cold that bit the bones, not crystal flurries melting against warm skin.
Anaxa hated it immediately.
“Frozen rain,” he muttered, tugging jacket tighter around his shoulders. “Utterly absurd. Useless. A cosmic accident. Whoever thought this was a good idea should be—”
“You mean nature?” you teased, pressing your hands together to warm them. You blew into your cupped palms. Mist rose. “I think it’s beautiful.”
His gaze snapped to you, sharp as ever even beneath the weight of snowflakes sticking to his light-green hair. He looked both spectral and stubborn standing in the snowfall, a man out of step with the season itself.
“Beauty is irrelevant,” he snapped, though softer than his usual tone when addressing the world. “What is its function? What does it prove? Snow—cold—what is it but the world decaying in slow increments? It halts crops, freezes rivers, suffocates the soil. There is no progress in it.”
And yet… he didn’t step inside. He stayed, with you, beneath the sky unraveling white threads.
You tilted your head. “Maybe it doesn’t need function. Maybe it’s allowed to just… be.”
His lips pressed into a thin line. He turned away as though offended, but you caught it: the faintest softening around his eyes, the hesitation of a man who both despised and desired the unexplainable. His gloved hand twitched, fingers curling against his palm.
“Just… be.” He repeated the words like they were foreign metal on his tongue, testing them for cracks.
You reached out and caught his right hand—the one with crimson tattoos marking forbidden knowledge. His skin was colder than usual, and he jolted as if startled.
“Your hand is freezing,” you said gently. “For someone who experiments on gods, you can’t even handle weather.”
He narrowed his eye. “You’re mocking me.”
“Maybe.” You grinned. “But you’re staying out here, aren’t you? Doesn’t that mean some part of you wants to… experience this?”
For a moment, his sharp, world-cutting aura dulled. He looked skyward, flakes drifting into his eyepatch, catching in his ponytail, melting against his lips. His expression softened into something that almost hurt to look at—fragile, fractured wonder, hidden beneath layers of disdain.
“It is…” He hesitated. His voice dropped, almost lost in the hush of snow. “It is like ash, but gentler. A funeral, without fire.”
The words pierced, and you squeezed his hand. “Or maybe like a new page. Blank. Waiting to be written on.”
He turned back toward you, studying your expression like he was dissecting it, peeling it apart to see if there was deception in your optimism. Finding none, his shoulders lowered by degrees.
Finally, he sighed. “You and your insufferable metaphors.”
“And you love them.”
“I despise them,” he corrected quickly. But he didn’t let go of your hand, not even when the snow thickened, when the streets grew quiet except for the crunch beneath your feet. You felt his grip tighten, steady, as if in this alien season he sought anchor in the only truth he trusted: you.
And though Anaxa would never admit it aloud, the snow unsettled him less with you at his side.
The first snow in Okhema turned the world into a dreamscape. Okhema’s banners sagged under frost, rooftops gleamed white, and children screamed with laughter as they tumbled into drifts. The air was sharp, crisp, alive with joy.
Phainon—no, Khaslana—stood in the middle of it, hair whipping pale in the cold wind, eyes wide with something like disbelief.
“…It feels like the dawn learned to fall,” he murmured, catching flakes in his palm. “Light that does not burn. Fire that does not consume.”
You watched him, smiling. “You’re poetic today.”
“I’m always poetic.” He grinned, a warm flash even against the bite of winter. “I simply hide it well behind all the heroics.”
He turned, extending his hand toward you. “Come. Walk with me. If we are to know this miracle, we should know it together.”
Your feet crunched in the snow beside his as you threaded your arm through his. He radiated warmth even here, in this biting new cold, his presence enough to chase the shiver from your skin. People bowed or waved as you walked—Phainon was, after all, their Deliverer. But today, his attention wasn’t on them. It was entirely, completely, on the snow and on you.
“It feels…” He paused, searching. “…peaceful. That’s dangerous, isn’t it? Peace makes one think battles are over.”
You glanced at him. “Maybe that’s not dangerous. Maybe it’s healing.”
His jaw worked, struggling with that idea. “I’ve fought too long to believe in easy healing.” His hand tightened around yours, protective. “But if this is healing… I would not mind.”
A child suddenly darted past, pelting Phainon with a hastily packed snowball. It burst against his chestplate in a spray of powder. You froze—most would never dare assault a legend.
Phainon blinked down at the child. Then he laughed.
Not just a chuckle—full-bodied, booming, radiant laughter that startled the snow from the eaves. He bent, scooped up a handful of snow, and hurled it back with perfect warrior’s aim, catching the boy square in the shoulder.
You gasped. “Phainon!”
“What?” He grinned, eyes alight. “It’s war, my dear.”
And then he turned on you. You barely had time to squeal before a snowball hit your face.
Soon the city square dissolved into chaos—children, merchants, even soldiers joining the fray, emboldened by the hero himself laughing among them. Snowballs flew, shouts rang, and through it all, Phainon’s joy was unmistakable. For once, he wasn’t a warrior weighed down by prophecy. He was a man, grinning, teeth bared, hair wild, chasing you across the white-blanketed plaza.
Finally he caught you, spinning you against him. Snow dusted both your shoulders. His eyes were blazing, not with fire, but with something softer, more dangerous: hope.
“Even if it lasts only a season,” he murmured, brushing snow from your hair, “I will remember this. This moment, this peace, with you. It feels… like a dawn worth protecting.”
And in his arms, as snow fell steady around you, you believed him.
Mydei didn’t flinch when the first snow fell. He stood, still and unmoving, as if carved from the same marble as the palace steps beneath him. Snow dusted his golden armor, caught in the braids of his blond-red hair, melted against the heat of his skin. His eyes watched, narrowed, unreadable.
You tugged your clothes tighter and approached. “Well? What do you think?”
For a long time, silence. Then, in his low voice: “It reminds me of the Sea of Souls.”
The words chilled you more than the wind. “The Sea?”
He nodded once, gaze never leaving the falling white. “Cold. Endless. Suffocating. Yet it remakes you.” His eyes shifted to you, softer now. “This is gentler, but the memory lingers.”
You stepped closer, reaching for his hand. He allowed it, gauntlet brushing your fingers. His warmth bled into you instantly. “So it frightens you.”
“I do not fear.” His tone was automatic, regal, but then quieter, “But I… remember.”
You squeezed his hand. “Then maybe this is a chance to give that memory something new. Not death, not drowning. Just… winter. Just us.”
He regarded you, unreadable. Snow clung to his red tribal markings, melting trails down his skin. “You speak of rewriting destiny again.”
“I speak of living,” you countered gently.
For the first time, something broke in his expression—tension, cracks, and then, faintly, a smile. Brief, rare, but real.
You tugged him into the snow. At first, he resisted, heavy with the weight of his lineage and his endless war. But then he followed, boots crunching beside yours. You scooped up a handful of snow, shaped it clumsily, and tossed it at his chest.
It burst uselessly against his skin. He raised a brow. “That is your assault?”
“Want me to aim for your face?” you teased.
For the first time in what felt like centuries, Mydei laughed. A deep, warm sound, rusty from disuse but truer than prophecy. He lowered his gauntlet, scooped snow in one powerful hand, and crushed it into a sphere.
“Then prepare, little warrior.”
The snowball fight that followed was short but fierce—you against a demigod was never fair—but by the end, his cape was heavy with snow, his eyes bright, and his laughter still echoing in the frosted air.
Finally, he pulled you against his chest, one hand steady on your back, eyes watching the snowfall like it was the first miracle he’d ever allowed himself to accept.
“If this is winter,” he murmured, “then I will endure a thousand more. As long as you are here.”
And in that rare softness, you knew: even the Last Prince could thaw.
The first flakes fell like secrets, soft and silent. To most of Okhema, snow was a miracle; to Cipher, it was an opportunity.
“Snow,” she said with a smirk, bootheels crunching across the frost, “is just nature’s confetti. Except it makes everything slippery. Which means…” She gestured broadly, tail flicking with mischief. “…tonight’s the perfect night for a heist.”
You blinked. “Cipher, people are out here trying to figure out what snow even is, and you’re already planning robberies?”
She winked, her eyes glinting. “Of course. You think I’d let a whole new season pass without making it mine?”
Her golden boots— shimmering even against the white—barely sank into the snow. She darted ahead, feline grace carrying her up a rooftop in seconds. From above, she crouched and beckoned you with a grin. “C’mon, little shadow. Don’t let me have all the fun.”
You groaned, tugging your cloak tighter, but climbed after her. She waited with exaggerated impatience, tail swaying. When you finally made it up, she tugged you close, her warmth almost startling in the cold.
“See?” she said, pointing at the city. Snow softened Okhema’s sharp edges; lantern light reflected off white blankets, transforming alleys into glittering paths. “Doesn’t it look like one giant treasure chest? Waiting for us to crack it open?”
You smiled. “Or… maybe it’s just beautiful.”
Cipher rolled her eyes, but her smirk faltered. For a moment she went quiet, gaze distant. The snow clung to her braid, her ears twitching beneath her hood.
“…Beautiful, huh?” she murmured. “Funny. When I was little, back in Dolos, I used to dream about this. Not snow, exactly—just… something clean. Something that could cover all the dirt, all the blood. Make it look like none of it ever happened.”
Your chest tightened. “Cipher—”
“Don’t get soft on me,” she cut in quickly, flashing her teeth. “I’m still the Kitty Phantom Thief. I’ll still rob the High Priest blind and laugh about it. But…” She crouched, scooping snow into her gloved hand. She shaped it sloppily, then flicked it at your chest. It burst in a puff of frost.
You gasped. “Cipher!”
“What?!” she cackled. “Snowball fight! The first in Amphoreus, no less. And I’m obviously winning.”
The chase that followed was chaotic—Cipher darting rooftop to rooftop, pelting you mercilessly while laughing so hard her tail nearly tied itself in knots. She never slowed, never slipped. She was made for motion, for defiance, for laughter ringing through frozen air.
Finally, you cornered her near the plaza. You caught her wrist mid-throw, pinning her close. Snowflakes drifted between you. Her breath misted, her smirk softened.
“…Guess you win,” she whispered, eyes flicking between your face and the snowfall. “Not because you caught me. But because—” She leaned close, voice playful but trembling at the edges. “—I let you.”
And in the silence that followed, you realized that even the fastest thief in Amphoreus had moments she wanted to be caught.
When the first snow fell, Okhema turned to Aglaea.
The people asked her what it meant, whether it was doom or blessing, whether the World Wound Web had torn. But when she saw the flakes spiraling softly, she only smiled.
“Seasons,” she whispered, her eyes reflecting white. “So even Amphoreus learns to weave new patterns.”
You found her standing on her balcony, arms bare despite the biting cold, hair glinting like sunlight caught in frost. Snow clung to her toga’s folds, to the golden laurel at her brow. She looked less like a seamstress, more like a goddess carved into the season itself.
“You should be inside,” you said, draping a shawl over her shoulders. “It’s freezing.”
She laughed, low and melodic. “Freezing? No. This is clarity. Every thread, every breath visible. It makes the world honest.”
You joined her, the cold biting sharper the longer you stood. Below, children played, merchants lit fires, soldiers marched uneasily. The city buzzed with awe and confusion.
Aglaea leaned against the railing, her expression thoughtful. “Do you know why snow unsettles them?”
You shook your head.
“Because it erases,” she said. “Streets, paths, footprints—all gone under white. They fear losing their place, their history. But…” She brushed snowflakes from your hair with delicate fingers. “…to me, it is a blank canvas. The old weave is covered. A chance to begin again.”
Her touch lingered, warm despite the frost. You felt her maternal, commanding presence soften in that instant, as if she herself longed for such a reset.
“…You’ve carried the world’s weight for so long,” you murmured. “Do you wish you could start again too?”
She didn’t answer immediately. She closed her eyes, exhaled mist. Finally, she said, “Yes. And no. I would not give up what I have woven. But I would wish to weave without blood staining the threads.”
The snow fell thicker, cloaking Okhema in silence. She pulled you close, resting her forehead against yours. Her eyes glowed with both sorrow and tenderness.
“If this is what winter feels like,” she whispered, “then let me cherish it with you. Let me make of it a memory golden, not grim.”
Later, she led you inside, and by morning she had spun the snowfall into fabric—robes shimmering with frostlike embroidery, garments that seemed to catch winter’s hush itself. To the city, they were miracles. To you, they were reminders: even amidst endings, Aglaea always found beauty to weave.
Snow belonged to Castorice more than anyone. Aidonia, her homeland, had known only winter—though not this gentle hush. That snow was endless, tied to funerals and silence. This snow, Okhema's first, carried laughter. She did not know what to make of it.
You found her standing alone by the city gates, lavender hair catching flakes, butterflies frozen in her crown. She didn’t move when you approached, her lilac eyes fixed on the sky.
“…It is strange,” she said softly. “To see death’s color used for joy.”
You stepped carefully. Castorice’s aura was cold enough to make the flakes hesitate before touching her. You wanted to hold her, but you knew the truth: her hands brought endings.
Still, you stood close enough for your breath to mingle with hers. “Maybe it doesn’t have to mean death here. Maybe it can mean… rest.”
Her lips parted, trembling. “Rest. I do not know if I believe in such a thing. Not for me.”
Silence stretched. Snow fell between you. Finally, she extended her hand—gloved, trembling—toward yours. She stopped just short of touching.
“…If I touch you, you will fade,” she whispered. “Like the flowers I cannot keep.”
Your heart twisted. “Then don’t touch me. Just… stay beside me. That’s enough.”
Her eyes shone, glassy. “You are kinder than you should be.”
A child’s laughter rang nearby. Castorice turned, watching them throw snow in clumsy handfuls. For a moment, her expression cracked—not sorrow, but longing. She knelt, scooping snow into her gloved palm. She shaped it carefully, as though afraid even snow would die.
When she looked back at you, her lips curved faintly. “…Perhaps I can join them. In my way.”
She tossed the snowball gently—at you. It burst harmlessly against your cloak.
You blinked, then laughed. “Was that…?”
“A snowball fight,” she finished softly, eyes lowering. “Though I doubt I would be good at it.”
You scooped your own snowball and lobbed it back. It hit her shoulder, powder scattering like butterfly wings. For the first time in centuries, Castorice laughed—quiet, breathless, but true. The sound was softer than the snow itself, but it warmed more than any fire.
Later, when the world grew quiet again, she stood at your side, close but untouching.
“…If snow can mean joy,” she whispered, “then perhaps even I can mean something more than death.”
And as snow continued to fall, you believed it.
