Page 5 of The Enchanted Frost

I blinked in confusion, certain I’d misheard him. He looked far too serious to be teasing, yet his claim seemed like nothing more than an elaborate fantasy. The legendary Frost was said to be the personification of winter, responsible for frosty weather, coloring the foliage in autumn, and leaving fern-like patterns on windows during the coldest months.

As a child, such stories had made winter seem almost magical, especially because I’d been safely tucked away in my warm manor, far from the frigid outdoors…a reality that now felt worlds away from the harshness I’d experienced this season.

“You’re Frost?TheFrost?”

His soulful gaze, as deep as the winter sky, finally met mine, no hint of deceit in his expression. Despite the legendary accomplishments attributed to his name, a shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I see my reputation precedes me.” The almost mystical aura surrounding him only lent credibility to his words.

Even with his confirmation and the strange events I’d witnessed—occurrences that appeared almost like magic—I couldn’t bring myself to believe him, still convinced I was trapped in a hallucinatory state, on the brink of succumbing to the death that awaited me.

At my blank skepticism his smile faltered. “You don’t appear to believe me.”

“Of course I don’t. Frost is but a myth; he doesn’t actually exist.”

He shook his head, seeming half-tempted to roll his eyes. “Humans are such doubtful creatures. Contrary to your disbelief I am quite real, far more than the legends that have been told about me for centuries. Just because you’ve never seen something for yourself doesn’t prove it isn’t true...though it appears that you’re someone who disputes evidence even after experiencing it firsthand.”

He gestured towards the magic working on my arm, evidence that should have been enough to refute my doubts. But life had chipped away at my belief in the extraordinary; the further I’d drifted from childhood, the more disillusioned I’d become. This past year with its relentless hardships had only accelerated that transformation, gradually hardening my heart against wonder.

“I have no reason to believe in magic when the absence I’ve experienced has only made my life harder,” I said.

“Then how do you explain its presence in the world around you? Without my powers, there would be no winter.”

He spoke with little consideration for all the discomfort the harsh season had brought me and I replied with a coldness that befit my surroundings. “There is nothing enchanting about winter.”

His frown deepened but he didn’t refute my words. Instead, he returned to tending to my frostbite, his supposed powers gradually healing the damage the cold had inflicted. Yet even as the visible marks faded, the icy sensation lingered, a prickling reminder of the frost that had nearly claimed me.

He was correct that even with the supposed evidence of his magic working on my body, my mind refused to accepthis assertion. Nothing that had happened since I awoke made sense, causing me to doubt I was experiencing anything more than a vivid hallucination.

Once he finished with my arm, Frost examined his work before carefully checking the other exposed areas of my body for any spots he might have missed. Satisfied, he gathered his magic like one would compact a snowball, lifting the remaining cold from my skin and seeming to absorb it back into himself.

Without the distraction of his healing, an awkward silence settled between us, thick and uncomfortable. My recent interactions, limited to the scorns and ridicule of passerby or the desperate attempts to sell the matches that represented my survival, had left me unpracticed in normal conversation—let alone with someone who claimed to be a legendary being.

Frost shifted in his crouched position, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for something to say. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Are you still cold?” On cue, another shiver rippled over me, and his expression turned apologetic. “I’m not sure there’s anything more I can do to help.”

It was only then that I noticed he himself wore no jacket or cloak. “Aren’tyoucold?” My chattering teeth made it difficult to force the words past my dry throat.

He chuckled as if he found my words amusing…and if he truly wasFrostas he claimed, it was a silly assumption to believe that the embodiment of winter would be bothered by the frigid climate he himself had created.

I gave my head a rigid shake. The very idea was ridiculous…yet it was becoming challenging to deny the evidence found in my icy surroundings and the magic he’d performed.

Awkward silence choked the frigid air before he cleared his throat. “For someone who recently froze to death, you seem remarkably calm, Blanche.”

My pulse quickened at the first utterance of my name in over a year. “How do you know who I am?”

“Magic provides the identity of all the souls that fall under my jurisdiction. Over the millennia, I’ve become acquainted with many urchins such as yourself who’ve fallen unfortunate victims to my cold.”

I flinched at the termurchin, though I couldn’t blame him for using it. His attention shifted to my threadbare clothing, a scrutiny that made me shift self-consciously at how tattered my garments were in comparison to the pristine environment around us. His perusal paused at my patchwork pocket where the tops of my matches barely peeked through the holes in the fabric.

He gestured towards them in silent question, but I instinctively shrank back, shielding them with my hand. Logic dictated that I should use any means to get warm—after all, my matches would be entirely useless for a corpse—but I couldn’t shake my reluctance to give up even a portion of my sole livelihood. The frigid air sent painful tingles across my exposed skin, each deepening the cold’s hold that threatened to pull me closer to death’s embrace if I didn’t act soon.

With a heavy heart, I reluctantly pried my hand away and withdrew a match…only to discover that they had become damp from exposure to the elements, rendering them useless. Despair knotted my stomach. Even if I’d survived my ordeal in the alley without his timely rescue, I likely wouldn’t have lasted much longer without anything of worth to sell.

Desperate, I struggled in a vain attempt to light the match regardless of its ruined state, but the cold had numbed my fingers, restricting my movement. I fumbled and the match slipped from my grip, landing on the frozen ground.

I stared at it in defeat before Frost silently extended his hand. After a moment's hesitation, I reluctantly handed himthe flimsy, waterlogged matches. Instead of immediately lighting one, he examined it with a quizzical air, as if trying to understand how it worked.

“I believe I’ve seen enough humans use these to know how the process works.” He murmured the words to himself, as if he didn’t mean for me to hear, and curiosity flickered in his eyes, almost as though he’d long harbored a secret ambition to strike one himself.

After several clumsy attempts, he finally managed to light one with a spark of magic. The struggling flame flickered weakly before sputtering out, leaving nothing behind, not even a twisting wisp of smoke. My stomach clenched in horror at losing a match without gaining so much as a moment’s heat.

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