Page 13 of The Enchanted Frost

Back then, poverty was a concept beyond the understanding of the fleeting luxury I’d done nothing to earn but felt I wholly deserved. The question haunted me almost as much as the memory itself. Reliving it now, I could feel the same cold indifference that had been my truth in that moment. In my misguided sense of superiority I’d believed then that the less fortunate deserved their fate, just as I believed I deserved my privilege—completely unaware of how fragile and fleeting it truly was until it was too late.

There was a deep part of me that I didn’t want to acknowledge that feared I had deserved to freeze to death in that abandoned alley. If I had understood the poverty thosestricken urchins endured, would anything have been different without karma’s manipulation behind the scenes?

Such a dismissive attitude was one I had encountered countless times since living on the streets. Only now, I found myself on the receiving end—until Frost, whether sincere in his motives for doing so or not, had been the first to extend a glimmer of mercy. That gesture had caused a piece of my hardened heart to break away beyond my control to extend toward the first being I’d ever wanted to give any portion of it to.

Anxious about Frost’s reaction to witnessing my coldhearted cruelty, I stole a tentative glance at him. The scene had finally cracked the stoic mask he had worn throughout most of my recollections, presently showcasing lavish balls, parties, and my relentless pursuit of eligible bachelors that now made me uncomfortable to relive. His expression was no longer impassive but instead filled with a horror I would give anything not to have directed at me.

The memories suddenly ceased. It took me a moment to realize that the magic bringing them to life had been abruptly severed. I felt a mix of relief that I wouldn’t be forced to relive the day that had changed my life, and sinking dread at the realization that Frost likely couldn’t bear to see another moment of the life of such a horrible person.

My shoulders tensed as I braced myself for his disgust or even wrath, but only his raw shock crowded the unsettling silence that had descended around us. Eventually, it was punctuated by his sharp gasps as he fought for air, seizing handfuls of shaky breaths as if his immortality had somehow been threatened.

Before I could speak, he turned and walked briskly past me, descending the twisting steps without a single glance back, as if he could no longer bear to look at me…let alone claim my tainted soul.

CHAPTER 7

Frost

My immortality was not measured simply by the endless years that blended together like minutes across the expanse of forever, but by the souls I gathered. As the Winter King, I existed apart from the mortals whose lives were touched by the beauty of my magic. Other than the rare moments I observed them, my own world intersected with theirs only when duty called, necessitating that I collect the souls claimed by winter.

In the act of retrieving a soul, I would catch snippets of each person’s life—a fleeting glimpse into their existence that both intrigued me and gave me the occasional twinge of dissatisfaction, as though I was missing something.

While I possessed little interest in living a mortal existence, I was fascinated by their customs and especially by the bonds they formed with each other, such a contrast to the quiet solitude draping my vast, empty halls whose silence only amplified the sense of isolation that weighed more on my soul with each passing century.

I observed these snippets primarily out of respect for the dead—an unspoken gratitude that their souls would extend my own immortality—yet I sometimes found myself lingering over their memories, replaying their simple acts of love. In comparison to mine, their lives were mundane and made little impact on the world, their brief stays on the earth mere drops in the vast ocean of my eternity…and yet I enjoyed watching how they chose to use their few days, as I might enjoy reading a fictional tale.

I expected Blanche’s life would evoke similar detached interest, but for the first time I found myself captivated, unable to look away as her chronicle unfolded against the backdrop of the velvety night. It wasn’t her noble lineage or her wealthy upbringing that drew me in, and aside from that background her life was no more extraordinary than the others I’d collected over the eons. Yet something about her stirred my heart from its usual dormancy.

It wasn’t until her memories progressed through her entire childhood to reach a particular autumn night on the cusp of winter that I finally understood the inexplicable connection that bound me to this mortal woman like an invisible thread.

She was a girl of privilege, young enough to maintain the innocence that allowed her to find joy in something as seemingly insignificant as the frosted patterns I etched into her bedroom window each morning. While she wasn’t the first mortal to notice my efforts, her fascination extended beyond a fleeting appreciation to become enthralled with each new design, her wonder lighting up her face with every discovery.

But it was more than just her delight in my frosted windowpanes that bound us. There was something deeper, a mystery I had never been able to solve before age caused her to eventually lose interest in my creations, and I never saw her again…until now.

I felt my breath catch as the young Blanche appeared in the memory, her eyes bright with excitement upon waking to discover yet another frost pattern I had carefully crafted, a moment that in my span of eternity felt like only yesterday. I instinctively leaned closer, as if my proximity to the magical vision illuminating her recollections could transport back in time to those moments.

It couldn’t be.

Yet the evidence unfolded before me, mingling with my own memories until they aligned perfectly with hers—her gasp of delight at the flower patterns, the way the tip of her nose brushed against the cool glass as she leaned closer, and the reverent brush of her fingertips as she traced each frosty petal.

The image resurrected feelings I had long thought forgotten—my careful planning of each design, the anticipation of her reaction, the warmth that her childlike joy brought to my cold heart. Even as those feelings and memories faded with time, my subconscious had recognized her, even when my mind had not, finally solving at least one of my mysteries: the true reason I’d chosen to rescue a mere human and brought her to the realm where mortals did not belong.

The tender moment had swiftly been overshadowed by the chilling revelation that followed—the memory of the poor street urchins Blanche had heartlessly turned away. This event intertwined with one of my own, one that haunted me long after it occurred. Shortly after her display of cruelty I had been summoned to a dark alley, an unforgiving place shrouded in an eerie silence that seemed to press down on everything.

The wind howled through the narrow passage and the harsh glow of flickering streetlights barely cut through the darkness, casting long, distorted shadows across the slick, icyground. At first, the figures appeared as indistinct shapes, barely distinguishable from the grime around them. But as I drew closer, the terrible truth became clear.

The children lay motionless, their small bodies half-buried under a cruel blanket of snow and ice, huddled together in a final, desperate attempt for warmth before the cold had claimed them, tragically snuffing out their young lives. The frost had settled over them like a shroud, transforming them into pale, lifeless sculptures. Their clothes—thin and inadequate against the biting cold—were coated with frost, the once-bright colors dulled by winter's icy grip.

Their faces, visible in small gaps between the snow, were etched with a haunting stillness. The cold had claimed them completely, turning their skin a ghastly shade of blue and grey. The natural sounds of childish voices had been replaced with only the ghostly whine of the frigid wind that shifted the snow over the corpses, a grim reminder of winter’s unforgiving power.

The somber scene had been powerful enough to stir even my frozen heart. As the Winter King, I was supposed to be impartial to the tragedies that befell mortals, my emotions as cold and unyielding as the season I ruled. Yet that night, sadness that had no place in my role consumed me, threatening to disrupt my duties. The tragedy of those children—so close to the warmth of the village yet so tragically far from its comforts—left an indelible mark on my immortal soul, a harsh reminder of what the beauty I created was capable of.

Unexpectedly encountering the faces of the children whose death still haunted me woven through the chronicle of Blanche’s life shattered my usual mask of stoicism. My heart wrenched as the feelings I had fought to suppress surged to the surface. I never imagined that such a terrible memory would be so intricately linked with the first mortal Ihad ever truly connected with, the one that I was finding more intriguing by the moment.

I couldn’t reconcile the innocent young girl who delighted in my frost creations with the coldhearted woman whose willful negligence had contributed to those children’s deaths. I might not have believed it if I hadn’t witnessed the memory myself; but magic, no matter how much I wished otherwise, could not lie.

The horrific realization rendered me incapable of continuing to watch Blanche's life unfold. I cut the magic short and fled down the stairs, desperate to escape the overwhelming torrent of emotions swirling within me like a blizzard. But no matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t outrun them. They followed me, storming through my mind, foreign and incomprehensible.

Even when I sought refuge in a secluded section of my castle and attempted to distract myself with my usual preparations for winter I found no solace. My thoughts, usually so focused and meticulous, were scattered. The intricate patterns I would have normally crafted with care seemed dull and lifeless, my hands moving through the motions without their usual precision or passion. I crumpled a misshapen snowflake in my fist—mashing it together with several other failures into a hard crystal sphere—and formed a fresh sheet of ice, attempting to carve it with trembling fingers.

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