Page 1 of Frost and Death
1
My Heart is a Grave
The tinge of frost atop the three tombstones lying before me conceals the names of my family. Memories of how each brought joy to others are long forgotten to the world, except by me.
I am alone—living with a constant numbness weighing me down, a burden surrounding my heart.
I study each grave methodically and relive moments of love I once had in my life. A bitter sharpness of ice hits my skin when I touch their names carved on the tombstones. Even as I withdraw and rub my nose, I wish instead the cold could have proven useful in drying my tears.
I was merely twenty when I lost my family, and it shocked me and my kingdom.
First, Father, then the transfer of magic to me happened.
It was then I knew Mother, too, was gone.
The nipping air mixed with pine and cedar almost blow down the hood of my cloak, and I fasten it in place, my stare lingering most on the last grave.
I was nothing compared to the sunshine my sister was. She was my best friend—and she was taken away far too soon.
A rupture in my world surrounds me, grating and carving out fractured pieces of my heart.
I squeeze my eyes shut as the hopelessness I struggle to suppress and hide daily turns into frustration, my powers shooting out from my palm in response. Memories and failures draw out a choked sob.
“Oh, Runa.”
I hunch over and clasp a hand over my mouth, unable to control my sorrow. The agonizing pain keels over, surging the frost forth, and covering her grave once more.
Ijustcleaned it free of the damned frost.
Each day without my family is another day that my pain expands so much I have convinced myself to welcome it and let it swallow me whole.
And that is the fucked-up thing about grief.
It consumes me every day.
I am grief, and grief is me.
I focus on my breathing, struggling, as I always have, to stop my power from escaping. Once it leaves, I cannot draw it back, and I cannot melt it.
I lean into the cold fury thrashing in my veins, hoping it will cease and extinguish my emotions. Instead, it does as it always has and trails soft kisses in its wake along my skin.
I don’t revel in the magic I have inherited, only forge the mask of a monster, a destroyer, and smother it away into nothingness.
It deserves to be buried and locked away.
Magic only creates more problems.
The inheritance of power came from the Makers, bestowed only amongst the six royal bloodlines. And each new monarch’s ability was different from their predecessor, forcing and creating secrecy between neighboring kingdoms. The concealment of magic made wielding it cumbersome, with the only source for possibly learning about one’s gift being through ancestors’ journals.
And for some stupid, fated reason, I am the first heir of Axidoria to inherit gifts from the Deity of Seasons, Aiyana. No journals, no resources, no way to stop this winter.
My fucking cursed winter.
The whistling air accompanies me in a somber ballad on my way home, leaves billowing with the wind as I wipe my soaked cheeks. I huff and puff through each booted step, surveying more and more of my surroundings crusting over with frost.
The light snow over grass beneath me trails back to the frozen lake along the edge of Biala Forest. My never-ending winter started there and drifted toward the rest of my kingdom, and the spasming veins of frost grow day by day, year by year, hardening everything it touches. The ice creeps further up the walls of my home, kills more crops, and increases the hatred and disdain my people have for me.
Time has proven I didn’t just lose my family but doomed a kingdom I was not well-enough prepared to rule.
