Heirloom of eternity

◇Vidalia ◇

《The city of Frostbound》

Snow fell softly beyond the arched windows of House Eirwyn, drifting in lazy spirals from the pale sky and settling across the mountain terraces like a blessing of silence. The city of Frostbound clung to the cliffside beneath the keep, carved directly from glacial stone, its towers crowned with crystal spires that shimmered faintly with ancient frost enchantments. Wind chimes of carved ice sang from balconies, their low tones echoing through the peaks like distant bells.

The world beyond the stone walls was white and endless — cold enough to still breath in the lungs — but inside the great dining hall, warmth reigned.

Firelight danced across banners stitched with sigils of frost and silver: the sigil of House Eirwyn, a crowned snowwolf beneath a crescent moon. Long oak tables groaned beneath bowls of steaming root stew, honeyed bread, and salted venison. Servants moved quietly through the hall, cloaks fur-lined, boots soundless against rune-carved stone.

Vidalia sat between her parents, a small girl of seven winters with pale hands wrapped around a wooden cup carved with protective spirals. Her boots did not yet reach the floor, and she swung them absentmindedly as she watched sparks leap from the hearth. Her silver-white hair — unusual even in the north — was braided loosely down her back, strands catching the firelight like spun frostglass.

The hall felt ancient. Older than the kingdom. Older than most memory.

The walls whispered of heroes long turned to legend.

She had been quiet all through the meal. Too quiet.

“Father,” Vidalia said at last, her voice clear despite its youth. “Will you teach me swordplay?”

The words landed like a dropped goblet.

Her mother, Lady Maerwen Eirwyn, turned at once, eyes sharp as cut crystal. She was tall and composed, with dark hair streaked faintly with silver despite her youth — a woman known for diplomacy, treaties, and the fragile balance between rival provinces. Her voice carried the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

“Absolutely not,” she said coolly. “Steel is not for children, and certainly not for my daughter. You will learn grace, diplomacy, and wisdom. The sword is a brutal thing.”

Across the table, her elder sister Lysara, thirteen and already polished into noble perfection, scoffed openly. Her dark curls were pinned into elegant loops, her posture flawless.

“How embarrassing,” she muttered. “Do you want to run about like a soldier, filthy and bruised? You’ll ruin the family’s name.”

Vidalia’s cheeks burned, but she did not lower her gaze. Her eyes — lavender — stayed fixed on her father.

Lord Eirwyn Frostbearer, noble of Frostbound and defender of the northern border, set down his knife. His armor was absent tonight, replaced by simple dark robes lined with silver thread, yet command clung to him like an aura. His presence was steady, immovable — the kind of man who stood unmoving in blizzards while others sought shelter.

He studied Vidalia as though weighing something far heavier than her request.

At last, he smiled — not the polite smile of a lord, but the soft one he reserved only for his children.

“Come with me,” he said quietly.

Lady Maerwen inhaled sharply. “Eirwyn—”

“I will only show her,” he replied, already rising from his seat.

Vidalia slipped from her chair and followed him down the torch-lit corridor, heart pounding like a trapped bird. Her excitement was tangled with nerves — not fear, exactly, but the trembling thrill of stepping into something forbidden.

They descended a spiral stair carved directly into the mountain’s spine. Frost clung to the stone even indoors, glowing faintly with old magic. The air grew colder, quieter, as though the keep itself were holding its breath.

They stopped before a sealed archway etched in ancient runes.

The Artifacts Chamber.

Only the lord of House Eirwyn could open it — and only in times of inheritance, war, or prophecy.

Lord Eirwyn pressed his palm to the door, whispering a word in the old tongue.

Frost bloomed outward like a living thing.

The stone doors groaned open.

Inside, relics rested in reverent silence — shields etched with forgotten victories, crowns dulled by time, armor shaped to fit heroes long dead. Blades hovered in faint suspension fields, humming softly with dormant power. The room smelled of cold metal, old magic, and history.

From the center pedestal, her father lifted a sword.

It was unlike any weapon Vidalia had ever seen.

The blade shimmered like frozen moonlight, pale blue veins running through crystal-clear steel. Frost clung to it without melting, drifting along its surface like living breath. The air around it sparkled as if filled with falling snow. Its hilt was wrapped in white leather cured from frostbeast hide, and the pommel bore a shard of glacial ice that glowed softly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“This is Winter’s Grace,” Lord Eirwyn said. “A divine artifact. An heirloom of our house. Forged during the Frostfall Wars, when the north stood against extinction.”

Vidalia reached out — stopping just short of touching it.

“It responds only to blood of the line,” he continued. “Sharp enough to cut stone. Balanced enough to dance.”

Her breath fogged in the cold air.

“I’m not showing you this so you’ll wield it,” he said gently. “But so you’ll understand something.”

He met her eyes.

“Power isn’t always loud. And strength isn’t always violence. But sometimes, the kindest thing a person can do… is learn how to stand their ground.”

Vidalia nodded solemnly, not fully understanding — but feeling the truth of it settle deep inside her chest.

◇◇◇◇

True to his word, Lord Eirwyn allowed Vidalia to begin training the very next morning.

Dawn crept over the Frostbound Peaks in pale blues and silvers, sunlight scattering through ice clouds like shards of glass. Frostbound stirred below the castle — chimneys smoking, bells chiming softly, merchants preparing stalls beneath heated awnings enchanted against snowfall.

Vidalia dressed with trembling excitement.

Her training uniform lay neatly folded on her bed — soft blue fabric trimmed with white thread, light enough for movement yet warm against the cold. It bore the subtle crest of House Eirwyn stitched at the collar, though without rank markings — she was a student, not a knight.

She pulled it on carefully, fastening the sash twice to be sure it would not come loose.

Her hands shook.

Not from cold.

From anticipation.

When she stepped into the training courtyard, frost rimmed the stone beneath her boots. Breath fogged in the air. Frost statues of past champions ringed the yard — warriors carved in mid-swing, shields raised, blades lifted eternally.

Her father waited there, already awake, dark hair tied back, a practice blade resting against his shoulder.

“Stance first,” he said.

The first lesson was harder than Vidalia had imagined.

Her arms burned.

Her shoulders trembled.

The wooden sword felt heavier with every swing, as if the cold itself were resisting her. Her stance wobbled; her foot slipped more than once on the frosted stone. She fell to one knee, breath shaking, embarrassed tears stinging her eyes.

“I can’t—” she began.

Lord Eirwyn knelt beside her.

“You can,” he said gently. “Strength grows from patience, not speed.”

He adjusted her grip, guiding her small hands, slowing the movements until they became manageable.

Step. Breathe. Strike.

Again.

Again.

Again.

When she stumbled, he steadied her. When she tired, he gave her time. When her eyes filled, he told her stories — not of battles, but of failures. Of mistakes. Of times he had wanted to quit, and hadn’t.

By the end of the lesson, her muscles ached, her hands blistered, and sweat dampened her collar despite the cold.

But her heart soared.

She had not quit.

Later, exhausted but smiling, Vidalia made her way back through the inner halls toward her room. The keep was quieter now — servants moving softly like shadows, knights training elsewhere, the rhythm of daily life humming beneath stone and magic.

As she rounded a corner near the lower passageways, her foot caught on something unseen.

She gasped and fell forward.

Clatter echoed softly as something skidded across the stone floor.

Vidalia pushed herself up, heart racing, and reached for the object she had tripped over.

It was a crystal.

Not an ordinary one.

It fit perfectly in her palm — smooth and cool, glowing faintly from within. Its color was a deep, radiant blue, like the heart of a frozen lake touched by starlight. Runes pulsed beneath its surface, shifting slowly, as though breathing.

Her breath caught.

She had seen crystals like this only in books.

A divine crystal.

Rare beyond measure. Used only in the forging of divine artifacts — blades, crowns, relics meant to shape history itself. Most kingdoms never possessed even one.

Her first thought was to return it at once.

But her fingers curled tighter.

What was it doing here? Had it fallen from the sealed vaults? Why did it feel… warm?

She glanced down the corridor.

No one.

Her heart hammered.

“I’ll return it later,” she whispered to herself — the lie soft, but convincing enough for now.

She tucked the crystal into the fold of her uniform and hurried to her room, closing the door behind her as if afraid the walls themselves might speak.

In the quiet of her chamber, she placed the crystal on her desk.

The light within it brightened.

Vidalia stared at it, wonder blooming in her chest.

Can I also make something divine? she thought.

The crystal pulsed once — soft, steady — as if listening.

◇◇◇◇◇

That night, Vidalia lay on her stomach across her bed, boots kicked off, parchment scattered everywhere.

Candlelight flickered over her walls, dancing across frost-carved shelves and the old family crest above her door. The divine crystal sat at the center of her desk, glowing softly — as if amused.

A thought crept into her mind.

It was not wise.

It was not reasonable.

It was, however, brilliantly fun.

“What if I made a divine artifact?” she whispered.

She giggled immediately, clapping a hand over her mouth. “That’s stupid,” she told herself. “I can’t do that.”

But her fingers were already moving.

She dipped her quill into ink and began to draw.

Not a sword.

Not a crown.

But a yo-yo.

A perfectly round disk, split into two halves, with the divine crystal set in its heart. A thin gold string wound around a central axle, enchanted to never fray, never freeze, never break. She added tiny runes — not real ones, just shapes she thought looked pretty. Snowflakes. Spirals. Little stars.

Vidalia stared at the drawing, then burst into quiet laughter.

“A divine yo-yo,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s ridiculous.”

The crystal pulsed once.

The next morning, Vidalia did something she had never done before.

She snuck.

The workhouse lay just beyond the inner forge — a place reserved for master artisans, rune-smiths, relic keepers, and crystal engineers. Heat from enchanted furnaces flowed constantly through the walls, and the air smelled of molten metal, froststone dust, and ozone from active sigils.

Vidalia slipped inside while the morning bells rang, heart pounding as she grabbed small tools from an unattended bench: a fine chisel, a miniature hammer, gold wire thin as hair, a spool of frost-silk string.

She froze.

The bells rang again.

“Oh no.”

Training.

She ran.

Vidalia arrived breathless and late, hair wild, uniform crooked. Lord Eirwyn raised an eyebrow but said nothing, merely handed her a practice blade.

She trained poorly that day — her steps slow, her arms heavy, her thoughts elsewhere. She nearly missed a parry and earned a sharp tap on the shoulder. Her focus drifted constantly to the hidden crystal beneath her bed.

When training ended, she bowed hastily and fled back to her room, exhaustion dragging at her limbs.

And yet —

She worked.

She attached pieces without truly knowing how. Gold wire looped clumsily. Bits of polished steel. Tiny frost charms meant for gloves, not weapons. The crystal rested at the center of it all, warm against her palms — never burning, never freezing, but humming faintly like a heartbeat.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

Vidalia trained by morning, studied history and etiquette by afternoon, and forged by candlelight each night. Her fingers blistered and healed. She burned her sleeve once and cried silently into her pillow. She snapped the string more than once, watching the halves clatter apart in despair.

She rebuilt it anyway.

She did not know the rules.

The old texts said an extraordinary person might create three divine artifacts in a lifetime — after decades of study, sacrifice, and blood.

Vidalia was seven.

She had crayons.

And stubbornness.

And a crystal that listened.

One night, as snowstorm winds howled against the windows and the towers groaned beneath drifting ice, the crystal flared bright blue.

The yo-yo hummed.

Frost traced itself along the gold string — not freezing it, but strengthening it. The childish runes she had drawn without understanding rearranged themselves, glowing briefly before sinking into the metal like veins beneath skin.

The steel gleamed with impossible polish.

Vidalia dropped it in shock.

It did not fall.

It hovered.

Slowly, gently, the yo-yo spun in the air — obedient, alive, perfectly balanced.

Vidalia stared, mouth open, heart hammering.

“I… I really did it,” she whispered.

The crystal dimmed, content.

Somewhere deep beneath the keep, ancient wards stirred for the first time in centuries.

But Vidalia only hugged the floating toy to her chest, trembling with joy and terror.

I can’t tell anyone, she thought. It’s better to keep it a secret.

She slid it beneath her pillow that night, heart racing long after sleep should have come.

◇◇◇◇◇◇

Five years passed like drifting snow — quietly, gently, and then all at once.

Vidalia was twelve when the Frost Festival returned beneath a sky of crystal blue.

The maid, Elderwyn, helped her dress as bells chimed across the city. Elderwyn had served House Eirwyn since before Vidalia was born, her hands gentle but firm, her silver hair braided beneath a wool cap. She hummed old mountain songs as she worked, her voice soft and comforting.

The gown was an heirloom design — winter-themed and ceremonial — passed down through the daughters of House Eirwyn since the First Frost Accord. Soft layers brushed Vidalia’s skin as it was fastened into place.

A white capelet trimmed with pale fur rested upon her shoulders, light as snowfall and warm as shelter. Sheer, layered lace sleeves fell from it, fragile in appearance yet woven with subtle protective enchantments. The bodice deepened from pearl white into cool luminous blue — like twilight settling over frozen fields. Her long white hair, pale as frostglass, was braided carefully and adorned with tiny crystal pins shaped like snowflakes, each enchanted to glimmer softly under moonlight.

When she stepped to the tall window overlooking the village, Vidalia paused.

Below, Frostbound glowed.

Lanterns floated like stars between rooftops. Ice sculptures lined the streets — wolves, dragons, queens, warriors — their surfaces carved so finely they caught light like mirrors. Warm music drifted upward, flutes and drums and laughter blending into a living melody.

The city looked peaceful.

Whole.

For a moment, Vidalia felt something like hope.

Then she saw Lysara.

Her sister’s blue velvet dress shimmered faintly with illusion-thread as she approached, posture perfect, expression composed as always. She stopped in front of Vidalia, eyes sweeping her from head to toe.

“You actually look decent in a dress,” Lysara said. “Unlike when you’re roaming around in that ugly uniform.”

Vidalia smiled brightly. “What a nice compliment, sissy.”

Lysara rolled her eyes and produced a small white pouch. “Mother asked me to give this to you.”

Vidalia looked at it curiously. “What’s in it?”

Silence stretched.

Lysara sighed. “One hundred silvers for your spending.”

Vidalia’s eyes lit up. “Wow, really?”

“But I guess you don’t need it—”

Before she could finish, Vidalia jumped, grabbed the pouch, and ran down the hall.

“Thanks, sissy!”

Lysara’s groan echoed behind her.

Outside, the Frost Festival bloomed in full.

Blue-flame lanterns lit the streets. Vendors sold sugared snowfruit, spiced cider, frostberry tarts, and warm honey cakes. Children skated across enchanted ice paths while illusionists conjured glowing wolves and dragons that leapt playfully through the crowds.

Vidalia met her best friend Liora at the outer gates.

Liora stood bundled in wool and excitement, cheeks flushed from cold and joy, dark curls escaping from beneath her hood.

“You’re late,” she teased.

“You try wearing all that fur,” Vidalia laughed.

They bought ice lollies dusted with crystal sugar, both smiling at the sweetness that bit pleasantly against the cold.

Together they slipped away through the festival crowds to Miss Mellow’s House, a crooked-roofed cottage at the edge of the village where warm light always spilled from the windows. Every Frost Festival, the old storyteller opened her home to children, filling it with warmth, spiced milk, and legends.

Inside, the hearth crackled, and woven rugs covered every inch of floor. Children sat cross-legged in circles, cups steaming in their hands.

Miss Mellow — wrapped in shawls, hair like drifting snow — smiled at them knowingly.

“Come closer,” she croaked. “The past doesn’t like to shout.”

Her voice wove history into life.

She told of great heroes — men and women who wielded divine artifacts not for glory, but for survival. Of how they stood together against an ancient evil that devoured kingdoms and drank magic itself. Of how divine relics scattered across the world were proof not only of victory —

—but of sacrifice.

Some heroes never returned.

Some artifacts were buried.

Some truths were erased.

The children listened in reverent silence.

Vidalia felt the yo-yo hidden beneath her sleeve pulse faintly, as if reacting to the stories.

When they finally left, the night had deepened, and the festival lights burned brighter than before.

As they walked, Liora spoke eagerly. “My brother is preparing for the Knight Selection. He’s training every day now.”

Vidalia smiled politely — until the name followed.

“Calix,” Liora said.

Vidalia’s heart dropped.

Calix.

Tall. Quiet. Kind in a steady, thoughtful way. The boy who always knelt to speak at her height, who once carried her books across the courtyard when she’d tripped and dropped them in the snow. The boy who listened when others talked.

Heat rushed to her cheeks.

“That’s… impressive,” Vidalia said quickly.

She did not tell Liora that she maybe — just maybe — liked him.

They parted ways soon after, Liora waving as she disappeared into the festival crowd.

Vidalia turned back toward the castle.

That was when she saw them.

Governor Halvrec’s knights rode through the gates.

Their armor was dark, angular, unfamiliar — iron etched with crimson runes instead of Frostbound silver. Their banners bore the governor’s crest: a crowned hawk clutching chains. Their movements were sharp, urgent, not ceremonial.

Her steps slowed.

That’s strange, she thought. They rarely come at all.

Unease followed her into the keep like a shadow.

She had just reached her room when the first scream echoed.

Then another.

Then the smell of smoke.

Fire raced through the corridors, devouring banners and tapestries. Heat rolled through the halls in choking waves. Shouts rang out — servants, guards, citizens — and the clang of steel echoed like thunder in stone corridors.

Vidalia’s chest tightened.

She grabbed the yo-yo from beneath her bed — the crystal at its center flickering anxiously — and ran.

Shadows of armored knights appeared at the end of the hall.

She turned and fled another way.

“Vidalia!”

Her father staggered into view.

Blood soaked his armor. Frost magic flickered weakly around him — shards of ice forming and shattering before they could stabilize. His breath came in ragged bursts.

He caught her shoulders and pressed something into her hands.

Winter’s Grace.

“Take care of it,” he said, voice strained. “And take care of yourself.”

“I want to help you!” Vidalia cried, tears spilling freely.

“You being safe,” he said softly, “is a far greater help than you know.”

He kissed her forehead once — fiercely — and pushed her toward the hidden passage behind the armory wall.

Vidalia ran.

Out the back door.

Into chaos.

The village burned.

Homes collapsed. Lanterns shattered. Ice sculptures melted into broken puddles of glassy water. Smoke swallowed the sky. And at the heart of it all —

Banners bearing the governor’s crest.

It was his doing.

Hatred ignited inside her, sharp and sudden, burning hotter than fear.

She crossed the old stone bridge leading beyond the city walls and turned once — just once — to look back.

Half of Frostbound burned.

Her home.

Her family.

Her childhood.

“I will leave Frostbound,” she whispered into the frozen air. “I have to.”

The yo-yo pulsed faintly in her sleeve.

Winter’s Grace shimmered cold and heavy in her grip.

Snow fell harder.

And Vidalia stepped into the dark.

◇◇◇◇◇◇

Four Years Later _the dark Years

《The city of Azurehaven 》

Four years passed — not like drifting snow this time, but like crawling shadow.

Vidalia was sixteen.

The world no longer knew her name.

She lived in the low districts of Azurehaven, a port city built atop rotting pylons and half-sunken stone, where fog never lifted and sunlight rarely touched the streets. Ships creaked endlessly in the harbor, their sails stained brown by salt and soot, their crews loud with drink and desperation. Crime ruled here more than law. Coin spoke louder than blood. And mercy was something only stories remembered.

She worked.

She starved.

She survived.

She never forgot.

Revenge was not loud in her mind — it did not scream — but it burned steady, like a coal buried beneath ash. Every night, she remembered Frostbound burning. Her father’s blood. Her mother’s voice. Lysara’s laughter. The banners of Governor Halvrec snapping in firelit wind.

She had nowhere else to go when she fled the north. The roads were cruel to lone children, and she learned early to trade trust for silence, warmth for labor, food for obedience. Her hands grew rough. Her ribs grew sharp beneath her skin. Her eyes learned to watch everything.

Eventually, she found work.

The Black Gull Tavern.

Infamous. Filthy. Profitable.

The building leaned crookedly against two others, wood warped from decades of salt spray and smoke. Its windows glowed amber at night like half-lidded eyes, promising warmth while hiding rot. Inside, lanterns burned low behind smoke-dark glass. The air always smelled of sour ale, sweat, wet wool, and desperation. Music drifted constantly — off-key fiddles and pounding drums — barely loud enough to drown the shouting.

It was the kind of place mercenaries drank before killing, smugglers celebrated before sinking, and men came when they wanted to forget what they were.

Vidalia scrubbed its floors.

By day, she wore a rusty-brown maid’s uniform stiff with old soap and newer stains. The sleeves were too long, the hem uneven, the fabric threadbare from a dozen other girls before her. A hood shadowed her face. Gloves hid her hands. Her silver hair — too rare, too noticeable — was bound tightly and hidden beneath cloth. She could not afford to be remembered.

At night, she was someone else.

She lay on her narrow cot in a storage loft above the bar, knees drawn to her chest, staring at Winter’s Grace.

Her sword.

Her past.

Her promise.

The blade remained flawless despite the years — moonlit steel untouched by rust or decay. It hummed softly in her presence, frost clinging faintly to its edge, as though remembering the north.

“You’re all I have left,” she whispered to it some nights.

And though it did not answer, she swore the frost shimmered brighter when she spoke.

Her other secret lay hidden in a false seam beneath her mattress.

The yo-yo.

Small.

Perfect.

Divine.

She had not used it since the night Frostbound burned. Fear — not of the artifact, but of herself — kept it silent. She did not know what it could truly do. And in a city like Azurehaven, anything divine was a death sentence waiting to happen.

So she endured.

Same routine.

Every day.

Wake before dawn. Haul water. Scrub floors. Serve drinks. Dodge wandering hands. Eat what scraps were left. Sleep.

Repeat.

It was hard.

But survivable.

Until the day it wasn’t.

It happened in the late evening, when the tavern was thick with smoke and noise and sweat-soaked laughter. The lanterns burned low, shadows crawling up the walls like living things. A sea storm raged outside, wind slamming rain against the warped shutters, driving more customers indoors.

Vidalia moved between tables with practiced silence, head lowered, tray balanced carefully in both hands.

She didn’t see the elbow.

The collision was small — barely a jolt — but enough.

A mug tipped.

Amber ale sloshed.

It splashed directly onto the chest of a broad-shouldered man wearing leather armor and a heavy fur collar. The ale soaked into his clothes, darkening them instantly.

For one breath, everything froze.

Then —

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” he roared, slamming his mug against the table so hard it cracked.

The tavern went quieter — not silent, but alert. The kind of quiet that watches.

“I—I’m sorry,” Vidalia stammered, already reaching for a rag. “I didn’t mean—”

“You blind, girl?” he snapped, standing. He towered over her, face red with drink and anger, eyes bloodshot beneath a scar that dragged his brow downward into a permanent snarl.

“I’ll clean it,” she said quickly. “I’ll replace it. I swear.”

Her voice shook.

She bowed instinctively — a habit beaten into her over years of survival.

The man laughed harshly. “Replace it? With what, your worthless body?”

The words burned.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

That was when he struck her.

The sound was sharp — skin against skin — louder than it should have been. Her head snapped sideways. Pain burst across her cheek, her ears ringing violently.

She stumbled backward into a chair and fell.

Gasps rippled faintly through the tavern.

No one moved.

Not the bartender.

Not the guards.

Not the patrons.

Vidalia pressed her palm to her face, breath coming in broken, humiliating sobs. Tears spilled before she could stop them — not from pain alone, but from the weight of years crashing down all at once.

“I said I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice breaking.

The man spat on the floor beside her. “Useless trash.”

He sat back down.

And the tavern returned to noise.

As if nothing had happened.

Vidalia fled into the kitchen.

She collapsed beside a crate of onions, shaking, fingers pressed against her mouth to keep from making noise. Her cheek throbbed. Her chest burned. Tears streamed freely now, soaking into her sleeves.

Don’t cry, she told herself desperately. Not here. Not now.

But her body wouldn’t listen.

Then —

She felt it.

A pulse.

Warm.

Anxious.

The yo-yo.

Hidden beneath her clothes, wrapped in cloth, the divine crystal at its heart flickered faintly through the fabric — just like it had the night Frostbound burned.

Her breath caught.

“No,” she whispered. “No, not now.”

The artifact had never reacted like this before — not to fear, not to pain.

Only to danger.

Something was wrong.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she stood shakily, wiping her eyes and forcing herself upright. She needed air. Distance. Quiet.

She slipped from the kitchen and into the hallway behind the bar, a narrow corridor lit by flickering candles and reeking faintly of oil and mold. The floor creaked under her steps as she passed storage rooms and staff quarters.

Then she heard voices.

From the owner’s office.

The door was ajar.

“…said she’s young,” the same man from the tavern was saying. “Quiet too. Obedient. Perfect. I’ll pay double if you stop pretending she’s not for sale.”

Vidalia froze.

Her blood turned to ice.

“She’s a worker,” the owner replied lazily — a thick-voiced man named Bramick, whose fingers were always sticky with coin and grease. “Not merchandise.”

The man scoffed. “Everything in this dump is merchandise. You just don’t like admitting it. I saw the way she bowed. You break them in here — that’s what this place is.”

Silence.

Then Bramick sighed.

“She’s not officially listed,” he said slowly. “But accidents happen. Doors get locked. Girls disappear. You know how it is.”

Vidalia’s heart shattered.

Her breath came too fast. Too loud.

She backed away silently, panic clawing at her ribs.

They were talking about her.

Buying her.

Selling her.

Like meat.

Her yo-yo pulsed sharply — once, twice — heat bleeding through the cloth against her skin.

No no no no—

She turned and ran.

She sprinted into the storage loft, hands shaking as she tore open the loose floorboard beneath her cot. Winter’s Grace lay wrapped in oilcloth beneath it, cold and perfect and deadly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to it — to her father — to her past — as she pulled it free.

She wrapped the blade in cloth and slid it beneath her hood, binding it against her spine where the fabric would hide its outline.

Her hands moved on instinct.

She didn’t pack.

Didn’t look back.

She ran.

Out the back door.

Into rain.

Into fog.

Into streets that swallowed sound and memory alike.

She didn’t know where she was going.

She only knew she couldn’t stay.

She ran until her lungs burned and her legs trembled beneath her weight. Past collapsed docks. Past rotting boats. Past alleys where shadows moved wrong. Past warehouses where men drank and gambled and vanished.

At last, she reached the edge of the city.

Lake Veilmere.

A vast black mirror stretching into fog, its surface glassy and unmoving beneath storm-dark skies. Old legends said the lake had no bottom — that it swallowed things and never returned them. The water smelled cold, ancient, and alive.

Vidalia staggered to the shore and fell to her knees.

The world tilted.

Her breath shattered into sobs.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered. “I can’t—”

She hugged herself, rocking slightly, rain soaking into her clothes and hair. The lake reflected nothing but darkness. The city lights behind her blurred through tears.

She missed her family.

Her father’s voice.

Her mother’s warmth.

Lysara’s sarcasm.

The sound of Frostbound bells.

Her chest felt hollow, carved out by loss.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered to the water.

The yo-yo burned warm against her ribs.

Winter’s Grace chilled her spine.

She didn’t know which frightened her more — the power she carried, or the power she lacked.

That was when she felt it.

A presence.

Not footsteps.

Not sound.

Just… awareness.

She lifted her head.

Someone stood beside her.

A girl.

About her age.

Wearing a black hooded cloak that swallowed her form entirely. Her face was hidden in shadow, not even moonlight touching her features. Rain slid off the fabric as though repelled by unseen force.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

She just stood there — patient, silent — until Vidalia’s sobbing slowed, her breathing steadying into shaky inhales.

Then the hooded girl turned her head sharply toward the trees behind them.

“Just come out,” she said calmly. “You following freak.”

Her voice was young.

Cold.

Dangerously certain.

◇◇◇◇◇◇