Ardor's POV
I opened my eyes to see that the chariot had capsized, the wheels half-buried in the mud and one horse struggling against its reins. My head rang from the fall, but the first thing I did was search for Sam. I spotted her sprawled on the other side of the wreck, her gown dirt-stained and her hair undone. Panic shot through me, and I rushed to her side, shaking her gently. "Sam! Speak to me—are you hurt?"
She opened her eyes and I struggled to help her up, brushing the dirt from her sleeves as relief washed over me.
"Are you hurt?" I asked, unable to keep the worry from my voice.
"I am alright, just a few bruises," she answered softly, still catching her breath. Then her eyes flicked to me with that same unshakable loyalty. "But are you alright, my prince?"
I scoffed, though my chest still burned from the tumble. "I should be asking you that, not the other way around."
I helped her to her feet and climbed out of the chariot, my boots crunching against the frosted ground. Just ahead of us lay a strange heap of snow, untouched and out of place in Emberon's blazing lands. My brows drew tight.
But then my chest tightened—the memory of what I had seen just before the crash. A figure cloaked in shadow, its form shifting with sparks of frost and fire. My breath caught, and I snapped my head toward the forest.
Nothing. Only the whisper of the wind through the trees.
I stepped closer, my boot pressing into the snow. At once, it hissed into steam, vanishing beneath my heat as though it had never been there.
"My prince," Sam's gentle voice drew me back. I turned to see her brushing dirt from her gown, already composed despite the wreck. "Another chariot has been sent to pick us up. Come, wait with me inside. It's safer."
I hesitated, eyes still on the treeline, but at last I nodded. Whoever—or whatever—I had seen was gone. Yet the image burned itself into me, refusing to fade.
Author's POV
But while Ardor returned to his chariot, far away the snow did not vanish beneath the sun.
There was a land where winter reigned eternal, where white blossoms withered beneath frost before they ever bloomed. Wisteria—the village buried in silence.
And in that silence lived a girl who hid from the world.
Frost's POV
The snow tapped softly against my window, as though it, too, longed to be let inside. I lay curled beneath my blanket, a book open but unread upon my lap. I hadn't stepped outside in years—not since the day they found me wandering in the forest and brought me home.
The others had moved on. They laughed, they loved, they lived. But I? I stayed hidden.
Behind these walls, the world could not touch me. Behind these walls, I was safe. Or at least, that was what I told myself.
—Knock. Knock.
I flinched, clutching the book tighter. My father's voice followed, low and steady.
"Frost. I've brought your meal."
I hesitated, my lips parting though no sound left them. Sometimes I answered him, most times I didn't. Today, the silence stretched.
There was a pause, then the soft scrape of a tray being set on the floor. His voice lowered, gentle, almost pleading.
"There are fresh books as well, from the market. You'll like these. But Frost… you need to come out more often. The world is waiting for you."
My throat tightened. For a heartbeat, I almost rose. Almost pulled the door open to thank him. But the weight in my chest held me still.
His sigh seeped through the wood before he walked away, his boots creaking on the old boards until silence returned.
I stared at the door, imagining the warm meal growing cold, the books stacked neatly beside it, waiting for hands too afraid to reach out.
Thalen's POV
It had been four years now. Four years since the forest. Frost was thirteen, but she did not live like other children her age. My daughter came out of her room rarely—only to fetch what she needed within the house—but never beyond its walls. She had locked herself away, and though I told myself it was only a phase, my heart knew better.
I stood before her door, the old tray from yesterday still sitting there, barely touched. With a sigh, I set down a fresh one, the steam from the broth curling against the wood. Beside it, I placed a bundle of books I had brought from town. Stories and knowledge… little pieces of the world she refused to see.
"Frost," I called softly, my hand resting on the doorframe. "You need to come out more often. You can't stay shut away forever."
For a long moment, nothing. Then came the faint rustle of a page turning. My chest tightened. At least she was awake. At least she was reading.
I bent to pick up yesterday's tray, but froze when a thin sheet of frost spread across the edge of the new one, whitening the wood. It shimmered there, beautiful and terrible, before vanishing in a trickle of water.
Her power had grown stronger—quiet, untamed, leaking through the cracks of her silence. And she would not speak of it.
Pressing my palm against the door, I whispered, "One day you'll step outside again. And when you do, I'll be here."
I turned to leave. My footsteps had barely reached the stairs when I heard it—soft, fragile, and trembling.
"...Father."
I froze, my heart stuttering. For a breathless moment, I thought it was my imagination, the echo of a wish I had long buried. Gods, how I missed that voice. I missed her bright eyes, the way they once shone like starlight when she laughed. I had not realized how empty the house had grown without them until this moment.
Then it came again, louder, clearer.
"Father."
This time, there was no mistaking it. My daughter was calling for me.