Page 16 of The Enchanted Frost

When we reached the library, it felt as if we had stepped into the pages of a wintry fairytale. Large mullioned windows crafted of thin panes of perfectly transparent ice framed breathtaking views of the snowy landscape beyond, where the sheen of white glistened under the sunlight, creating a serene and picturesque backdrop.

The room itself was adorned with touches of winter—delicate snowflake ornaments hung from the chandelier and window frames, while garlands of pine and holly draped the shelves, enhancing the enchanting atmosphere. As we ventured deeper, I noticed that the shelves were filled not with the usual leather-bound volumes, but with books that, like everything else, seemed to be carved from ice. I felt the strong urge to explore these mystical tomes more closely, but was uncertain where to begin or if I would even be able to read such magical books.

I could feel Frost’s anticipatory gaze, as if he was eagerly awaiting my reaction. “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.” Though the words felt inadequate to express the extent of my awe, they were apparently sufficient.

His chest swelled. “It’s one of my finest creations.”

Cold prickled my fingertip as I traced the frozen spines lining the shelves we passed. “What is this place?”

“A room containing stories unlike any found in mortal libraries,” he explained. “Because water preserves memory, I used my powers to compose them into ice so that I could keep a record of all the souls I’ve gathered throughout the years. There is one in particular I want to show you.”

At his command, the magic in the air stirred, coalescing into a glimmer of light, like the first star appearing in the night sky. I watched as it floated towards a specific volume on a nearby shelf, beckoning me to follow.

With his nod of permission in response to my curious glance, I drew closer. The light hovered in front of a book bound in a powdery blue cover, with silver embossing that glistened with a magical glow that hinted at the enchanting contents within. Lifting the book out reverently, I carefully turned the glossy pages, each infused with a faint, frosty sheen that was cool to the touch, the texture smooth yet slightly crisp, reminiscent of ice.

My breath caught as I saw the book’s contents—a treasure trove of frosted designs, capturing the artistry of Frost’s handiwork in exquisite detail. Silver filigree adorned the edges, catching the light and highlighting the intricate patterns of frost. The delicate tendrils and crystalline shapes seemed alive, shifting and glistening as if freshly formed. In wonder I traced an exquisite flourish of ice, feeling the cold beneath my fingers that could not melt the magical shapes.

A cool breeze wafted from the book with each turn of the pages, carrying the crisp scent of winter. Each spread showcased different designs that had once graced my windowpanes, ranging from simple, elegant snowflakes to elaborate, sprawling scenes that told a story in frost. Some patterns were geometric and symmetrical, while others were whimsical and organic, like vines of ice curling across the page, capturing the way frost catches the first rays of dawn or glows softly in the moonlight.

As I turned the pages, something niggled at the edges of my memory, a vague sense of familiarity I couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t until I reached a particular design—a swirl of delicate snowflakes intertwined with icy ferns—that the recognition struck me. My heart skipped a beat as I realized why these patterns felt so significant.

They were from my childhood.

A rush of tender memories flooded back, clear and vivid, as if no time had passed at all. I remembered waking eachmorning in the lavish room where I’d grown up, eagerly running to the window to see the new frost designs that had appeared overnight. I’d always imagined that the frost patterns were created just for me, a secret gift from the winter itself. Deep down I’d known it wasn’t true, but the fantasy had brought me comfort, a small but precious joy in an otherwise lonely childhood.

But now, as I stared at these very same designs perfectly preserved in the book before me, I realized that perhaps my childish fantasy had been more than my girlish longings. Who else could have created something so beautiful? The thought that someone—or something—had crafted these designs with such care and artistry made my heart ache with a strange, bittersweet longing.

I turned another page, my fingers trembling slightly as I traced the familiar patterns. Each design brought with it another fragment of my past containing a precious moment of that innocent joy. The swirling frost, the delicate snowflakes, the intricate vines of ice—they were all pieces of my childhood, carefully preserved as if waiting for me to rediscover the wonder they’d once inspired.

The power contained within these shimmering pages transported me back to those cherished moments, chipping away at the icy shield that had blocked my memory until it returned in a rush.

As the first light of morning filtered through the curtains, I awoke to a whisper of winter’s magic. With sleepy eyes, I shuffled to the window in eager anticipation, the crisp chill of the room mingling with the warmth of my breath against the glass. Peering out, I was greeted by the enchanting sight of the windowpane adorned with a delicate tapestry of frosted designs.

The frost painted a story in intricate patterns—swirling ivy that curled and twisted, delicate snowflakes that danced among the tendrils, and lace-like filigrees that shimmered with a ghostlybeauty. The designs sparkled faintly in the soft morning light, casting ephemeral rainbows that rippled across the glass. Each frost-kissed motif was a masterpiece of nature’s artistry, capturing the essence of winter’s quiet elegance.

My eyes widened in wonder as I traced the patterns with my fingertips, feeling the cold sting of the frost beneath my touch. The designs seemed to come alive, telling a silent story of winter’s arrival. I exhaled slowly, leaving a foggy imprint on the glass. For a moment, the outside world faded away as I lost myself in the serene beauty of the delicate frostwork, a fleeting reminder of the season’s magical touch.

Reliving the memory bathed me in nostalgia, not just for the daily delights of each new discovery on the glass, but for the simple joy each design had provided. I longed to recapture that childlike wonder, one of the few bright glimmers in my otherwise clouded past.

As the realization dawned on me, a light illuminated my understanding. “These frosted designs are your creations.”

Crimson tinged his pale cheeks, not from the cold but an endearing blush. Avoiding my eyes, he nodded shyly. “At first the designs were similar to those I left on other windows, but when I saw how much you appreciated them, I began to create special ones just for you. I’d often stay up late, thinking of something new to delight you.”

His words settled over me like a gentle snowfall. The designs I had once believed were meant just for me had indeed been crafted with intention by someone who understood the beauty in the cold and the wonder found in winter and knew that I took delight in them. While I’d been surrounded by luxury—with a room full of toys and fine clothes—no one had taken the time or effort to see what I truly wanted…except him.

The realization that he was the creator of the frost patterns I had always cherished left me overwhelmed.Despite all the magic I’d witnessed in this castle of ice, a part of me had stubbornly clung to doubt, unable to connect the evidence of my senses to reality. But now I could no longer deny that he truly was the King of Winter.

In that moment, I felt the first true connection to the enigmatic figure who’d saved me—the one who had unknowingly brightened my childhood with his art. These weren’t just patterns of frost; they were a part of my past, a link to the Winter King himself, who had been with me all along, even when I didn’t know it.

The thought that I’d had a connection with this mystical being long before he found me freezing in that abandoned alley was astonishing. I’d believed my entire childhood had been overshadowed by loneliness, only to discover that Frost had taken notice of me and gone out of his way to bring me what small measure of happiness he could.

I finally managed to find my voice. “Those designs meant more to me than you can possibly realize.” My gratitude emerged tentatively, unfamiliar on my tongue.

“As did your pleasure to me,” he said. “My work often goes unappreciated.”

I traced the frosted designs caressing each page, as if a single touch could transport me back to my childhood when I first discovered them on my windowpane—a time of simplicity and innocence, despite my deep loneliness, before my outlook had grown hardened and bitter.

As the nostalgia deepened, I found myself yearning to relive that cherished moment. “I’ve always wanted to watch the mystical being who created these wondrous designs, and even longed to create some myself. I used to imagine it over and over, meeting the artist of ice.”

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