Frost and Foam
Xandra Elurian's Point of View
The bell above the café door jingled again—delicate and dainty, like a snowflake sneezing. My dad insisted it sounded refined. I thought it sounded like our entire personality in one sound bite: freezing and probably judging you.
I was elbow-deep in wiping down a sticky table, humming something vaguely K-pop under my breath, when I caught my reflection in the frosted window.
Pink hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, bluish-silver tips catching the light, and amber eyes glowing faintly gold in the sun. Not because I had cool highlighter on or anything. No, just regular old magic genetics.
The pink? People always assumed I dyed it to be edgy. I didn’t bother correcting them. It was easier than explaining, “Oh no, I was born with it. Surprise, I’m the secret love child of two Sovereign dragons who broke the laws of their kind!”
My dad, Glacier Elurian, stood behind the counter as always—tall, elegant, the poster child of eternal brooding. Bluish-silver hair, pristine clothes, cheekbones you could injure yourself on. He looked like he’d walked off the set of a high-budget vampire drama.
And yet, somehow, this man was technically my father.
Well. Ancient dragon who helped raise me alone because my mysterious other parent vanished before I even hatched. But “dad” is shorter and less traumatic to say in public.
He also looked maybe twenty-five, which was hilarious, considering he apparently existed before kingdoms were a thing. I sometimes joked that he probably helped invent snow. Or chairs. Or existential dread.
I wiped the table a little more aggressively.
“Xandra,” he said without looking up, “you missed a corner.”
I pointed my spray bottle at him like a weapon. “You missed a century. We all have our flaws.”
He didn’t respond. Just continued slicing a croissant like it had personally offended him.
I glanced out the window again.
A group of teenagers clustered across the street, full of noise and caffeine and the kind of social energy I had only ever experienced through movies. They looked like they belonged. Backpacks. Phones. High-fives. Bad haircuts. One girl had three scrunchies on her wrist like power bracelets.
They were going to school. Real school. With lockers and cafeteria drama and maybe even chemistry partners who didn’t smell like bleach and guilt.
And me? I was scrubbing syrup off tables for immortal frost dad in a coffee shop themed like a Scandinavian Pinterest board.
“You’re staring again,” Glacier said quietly.
“I’m manifesting,” I said, twirling the rag. “Don’t be jealous.”
“You know it’s not safe.”
“Do you know how dramatic that sounds?” I shot back. “It’s school, not a battlefield.”
“For you,” he said, finally looking at me, “it could be both.”
Ugh. Here we go again.
“Look, I’m not trying to blow up the building or reveal our ancient dragon ancestry to the PTA,” I said, crossing my arms. “I just want one normal experience. One day with friends. A school party. Maybe a first kiss that isn’t in my dreams—do dragons even dream by the way? Is that just me? I have questions—”
“Xandra.” His tone darkened.
I pressed on anyway. “Don’t you think hiding me away is just making things worse? What if I combust from emotional repression, huh? I don’t want to be some weird, isolated snow princess. I want to live. Laugh. Maybe get grounded for bad grades, I don't know! Experience a teen movie montage in real time!”
The customer at the counter gave me a weird look as she picked up her drink. I offered her a very calm, very fake smile. “Enjoy your latte, don't mind my quarter-life dragon crisis.”
She left. The bell jingled behind her.
Then came the silence.
The kind that fills a room like fog. Thick. Cold. Heavy with something ancient.
I turned back to Glacier, just in time to see the slight twitch of his fingers before—
CRACK.
He slammed the counter with his palm. Ice exploded from beneath his hand, spreading in jagged spikes across the wood, sharp and crystalline, glinting beneath the morning light. They looked like frozen thorns—cold, beautiful, deadly.
My mouth dropped open. “Well. That escalated.”
He didn’t yell. He never yelled.
Instead, he stared at the ice for a long moment, then sighed. “You are not going to school. You are not going out. You are not ready.”
The spikes slowly melted under his touch, evaporating into glittering frost.
He didn’t look at me again. Just grabbed a cloth and quietly began repairing the damage.
I stood there, heart pounding, torn between fury and the irrational urge to yell you’re not even human, why do you care about countertops?!
But I didn’t.
Because I knew what came next.
The Great Freeze-Out.
That’s what I called it when he shut down completely—emotionally, conversationally, even spiritually. It was like being grounded by the actual concept of winter.
And fine. Whatever. Let him ice the counters.
It didn’t change the truth.
I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life hiding behind steamed milk and weather metaphors.
I was going to find friends. Party. Fall in love. Experience heartbreak. Dance. Screw up. Live.
And maybe… just maybe…
I’d set the world on fire while I was at it.
Oops.
