Author's POV:
The winter storm roared outside, fierce and unrelenting, as a baby girl was born in a small cottage on the edge of a quiet village in the small city of Wisteria. The fire flickered low, struggling to warm the freezing air that seeped through every crack in the wood. Her mother's cries echoed one final time, and then there was silence—save for the sharp, piercing wail of new life.
The baby was beautiful. Unnaturally so. Her skin was pale as snow, her hair a shimmering white that looked kissed by frost, and her lashes so light they vanished against her cheeks. Her tiny fists clenched and unclenched as she took her first breath, and frost formed on the windows.
Thalen stared at the child in trembling silence. His wife, Elira, lay still beside him, her eyes closed, her lips faintly curved as if caught in a final dream. The midwife bowed her head in sorrow, whispering condolences, but he barely heard her.
He held the baby close, his tears falling silently onto her cheek.
"Frost," he whispered. "Your name is Frost."
Elira had dreamed of this day. She had spoken of magic stirring in her womb, of a daughter who would be more than ordinary. Her laughter once lit up their home, and her hands, always stained with soil from her garden, had cradled Thalen's face when she told him their child would change the world. But now she was gone, and in her place was this strange, luminous child with the breath of winter.
The villagers heard about the birth and the death that followed. Whispers filled the streets: the baby had taken her mother's life, that no child born in a storm like that could be natural. They spoke of omens and curses, and they kept their distance.
Thalen raised Frost alone, his grief buried under quiet devotion. He brushed her white hair every morning, told her stories of her mother's wildflower garden and her laugh like birdsong. But even he could not ignore the things that began to happen.
When Frost was barely walking, the house would grow cold when she cried. Cups of water froze solid. Snowflakes danced indoors, drifting lazily through the air like confetti. Thalen watched with awe and dread as frost crept along the windows and walls. The villagers grew wary. Children weren't allowed near her. Some crossed themselves when she passed.
Still, Frost remained cheerful at first. She made frost crowns from her breath and left icy patterns on windows as gifts for her father. She believed, in the innocence of youth, that magic was beautiful. Her father never told her otherwise.
But magic, it seemed, was only welcome in stories.
By the time Frost turned nine, the village had turned fully against her. The children mocked her, flung dirt and snow, called her names she didn't understand until their meanings burned into her heart.
One bitter afternoon, she stood at the edge of the field, watching the others play. A part of her hoped they might let her join. But when one boy saw her, he pointed and yelled, "Snow witch!"
The others joined in, chasing her, throwing mud. One rock struck her lip. Blood dripped into the snow.
She didn't cry. She turned and ran.
Through the biting wind, she sprinted home, heart pounding, limbs shaking. She burst through the door, her small frame trembling.
"Papa!" she cried.
Thalen rushed to her, eyes wide. He dropped the bowl he was holding, his hands reaching for her face.
Again.
"They did it again," she sobbed. "They hurt me. They hate me!"
Thalen's face twisted with helpless sorrow. "They're just afraid, Frost. You're different. And people…"
"I'm tired of being different!" she screamed, voice cracking. "I didn't ask to be like this!"
Before he could answer, she turned and ran.
"Frost, wait!"
But the door slammed behind her. The wind howled louder, shaking the cottage. She didn't stop. She didn't look back.
She ran past the fields, past the fences, and into the dark embrace of the forest.
The woods loomed around her, cold and ancient. No one ventured this deep—too dangerous, her father had warned. But Frost didn't care. Her feet moved with fury, her tears freezing against her cheeks. Snow crunched underfoot as the trees closed in.
Then, through the thick silence, she saw it.
Fire.
A pulsing, glowing flame burned bright in a clearing where no fire should be. Its light flickered against the snow, casting golden shadows.
Curious, she crept closer.
In the center of the flame stood a boy—no, a young man, perhaps fourteen, his black hair tipped with glowing red. The fire didn't touch him. It wrapped around him like a cloak, rising and falling with his breath.
He turned. His eyes locked on hers—burning, fierce, otherworldly.
Frost stumbled back, heart racing.
The fire surged outward, a ring of heat and light. It circled her, trapping her in its glow.
She screamed, backing away as flames licked the snow near her boots. She was very terrified as she stared at the flares. A branch above cracked drawing her attention and then it fell, burning, aimed straight for her.
She raised her arms with a scream—
And the world turned to ice.
The flames froze mid-leap. The burning branch halted in the air, encased in crystal frost.
Then it began to fall.
Strong arms grabbed her just in time. A hunter's shout broke through the trees.
Her vision blurred. The last thing she saw was the fire boy, watching her with wide, unreadable eyes.
Then everything faded into snow and silence.
But far behind them, deep in the woods, a figure stood still in the smoke.
The young man.
Unburned.
Unbothered.
He reached down, touched the frozen pieces of the branch, and let them melt under his fingers.
Then he looked toward the direction Frost had been taken, and whispered with a voice that sizzled in the cold:
> "She froze my flames…"
A pause.
Then came the smile — quiet, dangerous, intrigued.
> "Interesting... "
To be continued...