The Odyssey moved through mist like a ghost. The water had thickened into slush, and fragments of broken ice tapped against the hull in slow, deliberate rhythm. The air bit through Cyrus's coat, sharper than any cold he'd known. Each breath left a thin frost on the collar of his jacket.
He guided the vessel toward a stretch of pale cliffs where the fog thinned, revealing jagged glaciers locked together like teeth. The northern ridge of Frostveil loomed ahead — vast, silent, and untouched. Even the wind sounded cautious here.
He cut the engines and let the Odyssey drift until it scraped gently against a frozen inlet. Tyrunt leapt down first, claws clicking against the ice, followed by Meltan, who immediately began to hum in complaint before nestling into Cyrus's hood. Ditto slipped from his shoulder and reshaped itself into a short scarf, shimmering faintly against the cold.
The snow was so dense it muffled everything. Only the creak of settling ice and Tyrunt's steady footsteps broke the quiet.
Cyrus pulled up his scanner, but the display flickered, then failed — the cold was interfering with its calibration. He lowered it, squinting into the haze ahead. The light seemed to bend in strange ways here, like the air itself was refracting.
A deep vibration rumbled underfoot. Snow rolled down from the ridge, cascading like powder smoke. Then a shape emerged through the fog, massive, fur thick with frost, tusks gleaming with veins of blue ice.
A Mamoswine.
It exhaled a plume of mist and stared at him, unmoving. Behind it, two Piloswine pushed through the drifts, followed by a line of smaller Swinub half-buried in the snow. The herd moved together like a tide, slow and ancient.
Cyrus stayed still, hand resting lightly on Tyrunt's head. "Easy," he murmured. "We're just passing through."
The Mamoswine huffed, steam curling around its tusks. For a tense heartbeat, the world seemed to freeze completely. Then it dipped its head and turned, trudging deeper into the white expanse. The others followed, their tracks vanishing almost as soon as they were made.
Cyrus exhaled, only realizing then that he'd been holding his breath.
They pressed on, following the herd's trail until the terrain shifted. The snow grew thinner, replaced by a glassy plain of frozen earth. Embedded in the ice were faint circular carvings spirals and concentric lines, like ancient runes.
Cyrus knelt, brushing frost from one. "These markings…" he whispered, tracing them with a gloved hand. "They're similar to Hoenn ruins, but seem older."
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Just ahead, shapes rotated slowly above the ice, half-submerged in frozen air not floating exactly, but suspended.
They were Baltoy, but different. Their bodies were translucent, carved from crystal rather than clay. Each rotation left trails of frostlight in the air. When one stopped spinning, its eyes opened — deep blue, almost liquid in hue.
More of them began to stir, rising in slow unison. Then, from the center of the field, a larger figure emerged, a Claydol, towering and serene, its limbs encased in bands of frozen light. Its eyes glowed faintly, and with each turn, the runes beneath the ice shimmered to life.
Cyrus stood motionless, feeling the pulse beneath his boots — a rhythm, slow and deliberate, syncing with his own heartbeat. Ditto tensed around his neck; Meltan's body thrummed in response.
The Claydol's gaze turned toward him, and for a moment, he felt weightless. The air rippled, and in that silent exchange, he understood: these Pokémon weren't simply living here — they were maintaining it. The patterns beneath the ice weren't ruins. They were conduits, holding back something deeper below.
A gust swept across the plain. The Baltoy rotated faster, the air filling with chimes of frozen resonance. Then, as quickly as it began, the light dimmed, the motion slowed, and the field returned to stillness.
Cyrus blinked, breath trembling. Whatever ritual he had just witnessed wasn't meant for him, Cyrus was just simply allowed to see it.
He backed away slowly, giving a respectful nod toward the Claydol before turning toward the ridge. Tyrunt followed close, glancing back once, as if making sure the strange beings hadn't vanished entirely.
When they reached the edge of the slope, Cyrus paused and looked back across the frozen field. In the distance, faint glimmers of light swirled through the mist — Baltoy resuming their eternal dance.
He tapped his communicator and recorded a short note. "Day three on Frostveil's northern expanse. Confirmed a herd of Mamoswine and an entirely new subspecies of Ice-type Baltoy and Claydol. Behavioral pattern appears ritualistic, possibly linked to geothermal or magnetic stabilization beneath the island. No sign of aggression. Recommend observation only."
He hesitated, then added softly, "It feels like this place is… remembering itself. And we're intruding on a memory."
The recording clicked off. Cyrus stood in the hush of the frozen vale, surrounded by echoes of a world that didn't need to be found to exist.