"Fate is not written in fire... but in frost."
---
The blizzard roared like a beast in agony.
Snow spiraled across the dead mountains like white fire, slashing the skies and swallowing the sun. The world was grey. Cold. Hollow.
And yet, within the eye of that endless storm, a child cried—his first breath torn from frozen air, his skin pale as moonlight, and his eyes glowing with a faint, unnatural blue.
The midwives gasped.
"A cursed one..." one whispered, her voice trembling as the baby's cry pierced the gale. "He bears the Mark."
They pointed to the frost-shaped sigil etched on the newborn's chest—a symbol that shimmered like ancient ice, untouched by time or flame. No one dared touch him.
Not even his mother.
"Take him away," she murmured, eyes empty. "Before the gods see him."
And so they did.
Wrapped in linen barely enough to shield him from the cold, the baby was carried into the wilderness—abandoned at the edge of the northern waste, where even beasts dared not roam. There, in the arms of snow, he was meant to die.
But the snow never buried him.
It embraced him.
---
Seventeen Years Later
The blizzard had returned.
But this time, it came with purpose.
Deep within the Frostveil Wastes, the ground cracked with ancient magic. Trees shattered into crystal splinters. And a single figure stood alone, surrounded by the storm—as if it bowed to his presence.
Lucien Frostveil.
His white hair danced in the wind, framing a face both noble and haunted. His breath didn't fog the air. The cold didn't touch him. If anything, the world seemed colder in his presence.
He was tall now—lean but powerful, clothed in a black frost-weave cloak that shifted like living shadow. On his bare chest, the ancient sigil still pulsed like a heartbeat beneath his skin.
He looked up at the sky, where snowflakes fell like slow-burning embers.
"They're looking for me again," he whispered.
From behind the rocks, three soldiers crept—hunters sent by the Southern Kingdoms. Mercenaries. Cowards. They thought he was still the boy from the prophecy, still unsure of what he was.
They were wrong.
Lucien closed his eyes. The world fell silent.
When he opened them, frost exploded from his skin like a tidal wave.
The snow beneath the soldiers' boots turned to glass. Their armor froze to their flesh. Their screams echoed once before vanishing into the storm, swallowed like whispers in wind.
Lucien stepped forward, eyes glowing like ice-born fire.
"I told them," he said quietly, "I'm not a weapon. I'm the end."
---
Far above, in a palace of silence and snowlight, she watched.
Seated on a throne of living ice, the Snow Queen—tall, beautiful, and deathly still—gazed through a mirror of frost, watching Lucien's figure move through the storm.
Her silver lashes trembled.
"The frost answers him... like it did the First King," she murmured.
A servant knelt behind her. "Shall we kill him before he grows stronger?"
The Queen didn't answer at first.
Instead, she raised a delicate hand, her skin paler than moonlight, her fingers adorned with rings carved from eternal glaciers.
"No," she said softly. "Bring him to me."
---
Later That Night
Lucien rested beneath a ruined arch, the remains of an ancient temple swallowed by snow. He stared at the stars—cold and distant, just like everything else.
Then he felt it.
A warmth.
It wasn't the fire.
It wasn't the wind.
It was… her.
The snow parted like silk, and she stepped forward.
Tall. Cloaked in white. Her eyes a storm of emotion—grief, power, loneliness. The Snow Queen.
Lucien stood, frost gathering at his feet.
"You're her," he said.
"And you're mine," she replied.
The storm stopped.
---
"To melt the Snow Queen's heart... he must first freeze his own."
---
She moved like snowfall—silent, flawless, impossible to hold.
Lucien couldn't tear his eyes away from her. She was every story the world had forgotten. A myth in motion. Her white gown shimmered like woven light, and behind her, the snow bent in deference, forming a soft path untouched by mortal weight.
The Snow Queen.
She stood less than ten feet from him now, her presence swallowing every trace of warmth. Not because she was cold—but because she was coldness incarnate. Power. Stillness. Timelessness.
And yet… something flickered in her gaze. Curiosity? Recognition?
Lucien tensed. "What do you want?"
Her voice was quiet. Calm. "To see if the world's curse truly breathes."
A wave of frost magic pulsed from her body, making the stone beneath Lucien's boots crack. He flinched—but held his ground.
He would not bow.
"I'm not a curse," he said. "I didn't choose to be born with this."
"No one chooses destiny," she murmured. "But they choose what to become."
Their eyes locked. For a moment, there was no blizzard, no prophecy—only a boy raised by storms, and a woman raised to command them.
Then she extended her hand.
"Come with me, Lucien Frostveil."
---
The Snow Throne – Palace of Eternal Winter
The palace loomed like a dream trapped in glass. Towers of translucent ice reached toward the moon like frozen screams. Hallways shimmered with arcane energy. Spirits of snow and wind moved between pillars, whispering songs too ancient for the living to remember.
Lucien followed behind her, silent.
Guards watched him with wary eyes—some in awe, others in hate. But none dared approach.
"She's never brought a man here before," one whispered.
"A mortal?" another sneered. "He reeks of the old mark."
But the Queen said nothing. She simply led him deeper—into a chamber where ice flowers bloomed on the ceiling and mirrors lined the walls.
"This room is called the Hall of Memory," she said.
Lucien turned in a slow circle, eyes catching glimpses in the mirrors. But… they weren't reflections. Not really.
In one, he saw himself as a child, alone in the snow, crying.
In another, he was burning—surrounded by flames, screaming as his skin turned to ash.
"What is this?" he asked, unsettled.
"Truth," she said.
Then her voice softened. "And lies."
She turned to face him, a flicker of emotion—something close to sorrow—passing across her features. "You are more than a boy with a curse. You are the axis upon which winter turns. The frost listens to you."
Lucien laughed bitterly. "Then why do I feel so alone?"
The Queen stepped closer. "Because you are."
He blinked.
Those words shouldn't have comforted him… but they did. Because she understood.
And for a moment, the walls of ice didn't feel so cold.
---
Midnight
The palace quieted. Snow fell in whispers outside the glass windows. Somewhere in the distance, ancient bells rang once—long, low, and filled with warning.
Lucien sat in a guest chamber, staring at the frost-covered table.
He hadn't eaten. Couldn't. Not since he arrived.
Too much had changed.
Too much felt like it never would.
Then… the door opened without sound.
The Queen stepped in, now in a simpler robe—still white, but softer. Her long silver hair spilled down her back like a veil.
"You're awake."
"I haven't slept."
"I don't blame you."
She moved to the window and stood in silence beside him.
"Why did you bring me here?" he asked finally.
She didn't answer at first. Instead, she traced her fingers along the frost-covered sill.
"Because I was like you once," she whispered. "Alone. Feared. Broken by a world that doesn't forgive what it can't understand."
Lucien watched her carefully.
"You don't seem broken."
She gave a quiet smile. "Then I've done well in hiding it."
She turned to him fully, and for the first time… Lucien saw the woman beneath the crown. Tired. Lonely. Powerful. Wounded.
"You were never meant to be a weapon," she said. "But they made you one."
Lucien looked down at his hands—hands that had killed, frozen, destroyed.
"I didn't want to become this."
"But now that you have… you need control. Purpose. Allies."
She stepped closer.
"I can give you all of that."
His heart pounded. Her presence was like being pulled beneath still water—dangerous, but impossible to resist.
"…Why?" he asked.
And then, she said something he never expected.
"Because I need you."
---
Elsewhere...
In the halls below, a cloaked figure entered the palace through shadows.
A woman. Her eyes burned like fire. Her lips curled with disdain.
"Lucien Frostveil..." she whispered. "The boy who turned frost to blood."
She slid a blade from her sleeve—one forged in the Ember Kingdom, meant to kill the cursed child.
But deep beneath her anger… was something else.
A memory.
A promise.
And a feeling she could not explain.
---
"When a frozen heart begins to beat… the world trembles."
---
The silence between them deepened.
Lucien sat still as the Snow Queen approached—closer now than ever before. Her presence wasn't just cold. It was intoxicating. Beautiful. Terrifying.
"You need me?" he repeated, voice low.
She nodded once. Slowly.
"Because the world has turned against us both."
She walked past him, brushing his shoulder with her fingers. It wasn't accidental. A chill surged through his skin—but not from the frost. From the sensation of being touched for the first time by someone who didn't flinch.
"I know who you are, Lucien Frostveil," she whispered behind him.
He turned to face her.
"The boy who froze a river with his scream. The exile who survived the Frostveil Wastes. The cursed one... with a heart warm enough to burn the snow."
He flinched.
No one had ever said it like that before.
"You were watching me?" he asked.
"I've watched you since you were born."
Her voice dropped. "The prophecy warned me you'd kill me one day."
Lucien's fists clenched. "Then why didn't you stop me?"
She stared at him.
"…Because I want to believe it's wrong."
Their eyes locked.
And for the first time, something cracked between them. Not ice. Not magic.
But walls.
---
The Next Morning – Eastern Balcony
Lucien stood high above the world, staring at the glistening horizon. Mountains of ice stretched forever, shimmering like shards of memory.
He touched his chest.
The sigil pulsed faintly beneath his skin.
He was still trying to understand everything. The Queen's words. Her offer. Her vulnerability.
But he couldn't afford to forget the truth: He wasn't safe here. He never had been anywhere.
"I don't trust her," he muttered to himself.
"You shouldn't."
Lucien spun around instantly.
A woman stood behind him, leaning against a pillar.
She had crimson hair tied in a messy braid, and amber eyes that practically glowed with heat. Her clothes were traveler's leathers, dusted in ash. On her hip hung a curved blade that hummed with fire energy.
"You're from the Emberlands," he said warily.
"Sharp eyes." She stepped closer, smile cocky. "I like that."
Lucien didn't move. "Who are you?"
"Someone who was sent to kill you."
She watched him tense.
"…But now that I've seen you," she added, eyeing him up and down, "I'm thinking of changing my mind."
He narrowed his eyes. "You're joking."
She winked. "Mostly."
Then she extended her hand.
"Name's Kaela. Emberblade of the 9th Circle. Assassin, exile, disaster in red—take your pick."
Lucien didn't take her hand.
"You're seriously flirting with me right after telling me you were hired to kill me?"
Kaela smirked. "Life's short, Frosty. Might as well make it spicy before the snow buries us all."
---
That Night – Palace Observatory
Lucien sat in the tallest tower of the palace, a quiet place where magic pulsed in the air like slow heartbeats.
He was restless.
Kaela's words replayed in his mind. The Queen's warning. The prophecy.
Everything was coiling tighter, as if something ancient was waking beneath the snow.
Then... he felt a shift in the air.
"Can't sleep?"
The Snow Queen's voice echoed behind him. This time, he didn't jump.
"I'm used to sleeping with one eye open."
She walked beside him, her expression unreadable.
"Kaela. The assassin. She intrigues you."
Lucien looked at her. "She threatens me."
"Same thing."
He exhaled. "Do you always play these games?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she sat beside him—closer this time. Their shoulders nearly touched.
"She is chaos," the Queen said softly. "You… are potential. And I am... ice."
Lucien turned toward her. "And yet you feel the most alive thing in this entire kingdom."
For a moment, just a moment, the Queen's lips parted.
Emotion flickered in her eyes. Not power. Not command.
Emotion.
He leaned in, caught between fear and desire, danger and comfort.
And she didn't pull away.
---
Meanwhile… In the Shadowed East
In a ruined temple swallowed by the frost, an ancient force stirred.
Chains long buried cracked and groaned. From the ice emerged a figure with no face—but a crown of bones upon his head.
"The Frostveil Heir has awakened…"
His voice was like death itself.
"Then the War of Thorns begins again."
---