Page 3 of The Enchanted Frost (The Christmas Chronicles)

CHAPTER 3

Blanche

I drifted in and out of consciousness, teetering on the border of a dreamless darkness and the world that for all its harshness I still fiercely clung to. In the end, the instinct to survive that had consumed me ever since my descent into poverty eventually pulled me from the inky tendrils that sought to obscure my awareness.

The first thing I noticed was the cold far different than the exposure to the elements I was accustomed to. While not as penetrating as the biting chill that had consumed me when I’d frozen in the alley, this subtle, pervasive cold trickled over me like the tide on a frigid winter beach, leaving behind a trail of icy prickles that seeped into my body and caused my limbs to ache, a painful reminder of the reality that had dimmed temporarily.

My eyes slowly fluttered open to find an alabaster ceiling adorned with delicate carvings that glistened in the golden light—a stark contrast to the dirty grey hues of the alley of my last memory. I attempted to stretch my memory back to fill in the blank spaces between when I’d succumbed to the darkness and ended up here, but found nothing.

Was this…heaven? Reason immediately dismissed the notion; not only was it too cold, but a peaceful paradise seemed like the last place someone like me would end up.

Movement drew my gaze to the far side of the room where a man with an appearance unlike any I’d ever seen hovered uncertainly, watching me apprehensively, as though he expected me to shatter at any moment. Startled by his unexpected presence, I tried to sit up, but the icy air seemed to keep me bound to the glacial slab where I lay, as if it had frozen me in place.

His brow furrowed. “It appears you’re awake.” Awkwardness filled each haltered word that suggested he was unaccustomed to interacting with others, yet I drank them in eagerly; it had been so long since anyone had spoken to me except with impatience and condescension. For all my former expertise in conversation, I’d had little practice in the art this past year.

I could only stare at this almost angelic stranger. He advanced a hesitant step, bringing his features further into the light. My breath caught. Not only was he strikingly handsome, but he exuded an otherworldly aura that only reinforced the notion that I must have died. From the fuzzy snippets of my fragmented memory, I recalled glimpsing his pure white hair, ashen skin the color of fallen snow, and startling blue eyes just before I’d lost consciousness.

“What happened? Where am I?” My voice tentative emerged, raspy from disuse.

“You froze to death,” he said simply.

My sharp gasp escaped as a fleeting puff in the frigid air. “ Froze to death? ”

He winced, as if just realizing his frank assessment had been too direct, and offered a tentative nod .

Due to delirium, it was a struggle to make sense of the words that were at odds with my current awareness that made me feel very much alive. “So I’m dead after all?”

For as long as I’d fought to survive, I didn’t have the energy to be more emotional over this turn of events. I wriggled my fingers experimentally. Though the stiffness from the cold restricted the movement, I seemed to be in possession of my senses, making it appear that I hadn’t succumbed to death.

He seemed to sense my unspoken confusion. “I believe you’re in a state of in-between,” he explained. “Humans cannot otherwise enter a structure crafted by an immortal.”

These baffling words managed to penetrate the thick fog that had been clouding my senses ever since I’d awoken. “Human? Immortal? ”

He nodded. “Despite that, for some reason I still struggled to claim your soul.”

The longer this surreal conversation extended, the more convinced I became that I must be dreaming. Any moment now I expected to awaken huddled in the cold, dim alley where my last vivid memory had taken place.

As the last wisps of unconsciousness faded, I gradually became aware of the room's breathtaking splendor—a sanctuary sculpted entirely from snow and ice. Momentarily forgetting the confusing conversation, I turned my head to take in my incredible surroundings. Every piece—from the elegantly carved chairs to the gleaming tables—was a masterpiece of frozen artistry, reflecting the delicate lattice patterns and intricate carvings as if each were a frost-kissed jewel, a testament to the magical craftsmanship that had brought it into existence.

Elaborate frostwork adorned the walls, enhancing the faint light that filtered through the crystalline surfaces. The light shimmered in soft, iridescent hues, creating a mesmerizing interplay of light and shadow whose patterns danced like delicate snowflakes caught in a gentle winter breeze.

For a moment awe captured all speech before I finally found my voice. “Where is this place?”

“My Winter Kingdom.”

True to its name, the elegant setting seemed to have emerged straight from the pages of the storybooks from my haunting past, as if I had been transported into a dream.

“How did I get here? Wasn’t I just—”

“I carried you after you fell unconscious.”

“You…carried me?” A frigid breeze blew through the partially open window, cutting through my thin, damp rags and sending a shiver across my body—miserable sensations that contradicted my earlier assumption that I was no longer alive.

Worry tightened his expression. “I wish there was something I could do to warm you, but my magic specializes in creating cold, not dispelling it.” He cast his uncertain gaze about the room, as if half-hoping a source of heat would magically materialize.

I held up my arm, only just now noticing the purplish splotches marring my skin. “What’s this?”

“A sign of frostbite.”

I lightly traced the blisters patterning my pale arm, icy to the touch but surprisingly less painful than I expected, as if the damage had halted midway when I became trapped in this in-between state he claimed I now inhabited. He watched me with a helpless expression before bridging the distance to crouch beside me.

“I wonder if there’s a way to reverse the magic I use to create cold…”

I flinched away from his reach, but he gently took hold of my arm, undeterred by my resistance. I wanted to be angry at his impertinence, but I lacked the energy .

He conjured a sphere of glistening aqua light and carefully spread it across my arm, bringing with it a cooling sensation. At first nothing happened, but he persisted. I caught my breath as I noticed that wherever the light touched the frostbite gradually faded, like ice melting in the sun.

His lips curved up. “It appears to be working.”

I gaped, transfixed, before slowly lifting my gaze. “Who are you?”

“Frost, the King of Winter.” He answered my question almost absentmindedly, his focus concentrated on his spell.

I blinked in confusion, certain I’d misheard him. He looked far too serious to be teasing, yet his claim seemed like nothing more than an elaborate fantasy. The legendary Frost was said to be the personification of winter, responsible for frosty weather, coloring the foliage in autumn, and leaving fern-like patterns on windows during the coldest months.

As a child, such stories had made winter seem almost magical, especially because I’d been safely tucked away in my warm manor, far from the frigid outdoors…a reality that now felt worlds away from the harshness I’d experienced this season.

“You’re Frost? The Frost?”

His soulful gaze, as deep as the winter sky, finally met mine, no hint of deceit in his expression. Despite the legendary accomplishments attributed to his name, a shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I see my reputation precedes me.” The almost mystical aura surrounding him only lent credibility to his words.

Even with his confirmation and the strange events I’d witnessed—occurrences that appeared almost like magic—I couldn’t bring myself to believe him, still convinced I was trapped in a hallucinatory state, on the brink of succumbing to the death that awaited me .

At my blank skepticism his smile faltered. “You don’t appear to believe me.”

“Of course I don’t. Frost is but a myth; he doesn’t actually exist.”

He shook his head, seeming half-tempted to roll his eyes. “Humans are such doubtful creatures. Contrary to your disbelief I am quite real, far more than the legends that have been told about me for centuries. Just because you’ve never seen something for yourself doesn’t prove it isn’t true...though it appears that you’re someone who disputes evidence even after experiencing it firsthand.”

He gestured towards the magic working on my arm, evidence that should have been enough to refute my doubts. But life had chipped away at my belief in the extraordinary; the further I’d drifted from childhood, the more disillusioned I’d become. This past year with its relentless hardships had only accelerated that transformation, gradually hardening my heart against wonder.

“I have no reason to believe in magic when the absence I’ve experienced has only made my life harder,” I said.

“Then how do you explain its presence in the world around you? Without my powers, there would be no winter.”

He spoke with little consideration for all the discomfort the harsh season had brought me and I replied with a coldness that befit my surroundings. “There is nothing enchanting about winter.”

His frown deepened but he didn’t refute my words. Instead, he returned to tending to my frostbite, his supposed powers gradually healing the damage the cold had inflicted. Yet even as the visible marks faded, the icy sensation lingered, a prickling reminder of the frost that had nearly claimed me.

He was correct that even with the supposed evidence of his magic working on my body, my mind refused to accept his assertion. Nothing that had happened since I awoke made sense, causing me to doubt I was experiencing anything more than a vivid hallucination.

Once he finished with my arm, Frost examined his work before carefully checking the other exposed areas of my body for any spots he might have missed. Satisfied, he gathered his magic like one would compact a snowball, lifting the remaining cold from my skin and seeming to absorb it back into himself.

Without the distraction of his healing, an awkward silence settled between us, thick and uncomfortable. My recent interactions, limited to the scorns and ridicule of passerby or the desperate attempts to sell the matches that represented my survival, had left me unpracticed in normal conversation—let alone with someone who claimed to be a legendary being.

Frost shifted in his crouched position, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for something to say. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Are you still cold?” On cue, another shiver rippled over me, and his expression turned apologetic. “I’m not sure there’s anything more I can do to help.”

It was only then that I noticed he himself wore no jacket or cloak. “Aren’t you cold?” My chattering teeth made it difficult to force the words past my dry throat.

He chuckled as if he found my words amusing…and if he truly was Frost as he claimed, it was a silly assumption to believe that the embodiment of winter would be bothered by the frigid climate he himself had created.

I gave my head a rigid shake. The very idea was ridiculous…yet it was becoming challenging to deny the evidence found in my icy surroundings and the magic he’d performed.

Awkward silence choked the frigid air before he cleared his throat. “For someone who recently froze to death, you seem remarkably calm, Blanche. ”

My pulse quickened at the first utterance of my name in over a year. “How do you know who I am?”

“Magic provides the identity of all the souls that fall under my jurisdiction. Over the millennia, I’ve become acquainted with many urchins such as yourself who’ve fallen unfortunate victims to my cold.”

I flinched at the term urchin , though I couldn’t blame him for using it. His attention shifted to my threadbare clothing, a scrutiny that made me shift self-consciously at how tattered my garments were in comparison to the pristine environment around us. His perusal paused at my patchwork pocket where the tops of my matches barely peeked through the holes in the fabric.

He gestured towards them in silent question, but I instinctively shrank back, shielding them with my hand. Logic dictated that I should use any means to get warm—after all, my matches would be entirely useless for a corpse—but I couldn’t shake my reluctance to give up even a portion of my sole livelihood. The frigid air sent painful tingles across my exposed skin, each deepening the cold’s hold that threatened to pull me closer to death’s embrace if I didn’t act soon.

With a heavy heart, I reluctantly pried my hand away and withdrew a match…only to discover that they had become damp from exposure to the elements, rendering them useless. Despair knotted my stomach. Even if I’d survived my ordeal in the alley without his timely rescue, I likely wouldn’t have lasted much longer without anything of worth to sell.

Desperate, I struggled in a vain attempt to light the match regardless of its ruined state, but the cold had numbed my fingers, restricting my movement. I fumbled and the match slipped from my grip, landing on the frozen ground.

I stared at it in defeat before Frost silently extended his hand. After a moment's hesitation, I reluctantly handed him the flimsy, waterlogged matches. Instead of immediately lighting one, he examined it with a quizzical air, as if trying to understand how it worked.

“I believe I’ve seen enough humans use these to know how the process works.” He murmured the words to himself, as if he didn’t mean for me to hear, and curiosity flickered in his eyes, almost as though he’d long harbored a secret ambition to strike one himself.

After several clumsy attempts, he finally managed to light one with a spark of magic. The struggling flame flickered weakly before sputtering out, leaving nothing behind, not even a twisting wisp of smoke. My stomach clenched in horror at losing a match without gaining so much as a moment’s heat.

He stared wide-eyed at the match’s blackened tip, as if unable to comprehend what had just happened, then reached for another to try again. This one met the same fate, dying just as quickly. Before he could grab a third match, I slapped his hand away; his skin was so icy it felt as if I’d plunged my hand into snow.

“Stop, you’re wasting them!”

His sheepish glance was apologetic. “Generating heat goes against my powers that create winter.”

Disheartened, I couldn’t muster a response. I simply stared at the spent matches scattered on the white ground like smoldered corpses, their fleeting warmth melting away the thin layer of snow, leaving only cold in their wake.

Frost tilted his head, his expression pensive. “I’d nearly forgotten: even if we succeed in creating a fire, this castle isn’t compatible with heat.”

“Then how do you survive the winter?”

“I’m Frost,” he reminded me. “I am winter.” He seemed unfazed by my lingering skepticism to his grandiose claim and continued studying the matches as their steam dissipated into the brisk air.

After a moment, he gathered his magic into a glowing orb and moved to a nearby wall. I watched in awe as he began to shape and mold the light with the precision of a master craftsman, his movements fluid and graceful, like a potter working with clay. An elaborate fireplace gradually took form from the shimmering magic, one woven spell at a time. He completed the intricately carved mantle before stepping back to admire his handiwork.

After a moment his approval changed to a frown and he abruptly walked out of the room. I stared after him, unsure whether I’d see him again, but he reappeared shortly with his arms full of freshly cut branches and tinder. Shaking the snow off, he piled them into the newly crafted fireplace.

I was both awed at his ability and touched at his effort, but my admiration was swallowed by the cynicism that shaped my life for so long. “A hearth made of ice is hardly effective against the heat—”

He shrugged dismissively. “I’ll simply recreate whatever melts.”

I had no response. The further I drifted from the glamor and comforts of my old life and the deeper I sank into poverty, the more I faded beneath everyone’s notice. I couldn’t fathom why he would go to such lengths for a stranger he’d just met. Considering his self-proclaimed mystical nature, I had reason to question his sanity…which would explain his kindness, a rare currency far more elusive than the meager coins I sometimes managed to scrounge.

When no words were forthcoming, I lowered my gaze to my second-to-last match and shuffled my aching body closer to the newly created fireplace. He extended his hand, but when I offered him the match, instead of taking it, he sent a tendril of magic towards it, absorbing the moisture much like he’d removed the traces of frostbite from my skin. His gesture bolstered me, and this time when I struck the match, the weak spark held steady, allowing me to ignite my first fire after countless days of darkness.

The radiant golden flame danced bravely, casting a warm glow across the icy hues of the crystalized palace. Although initially small, the fire grew, casting pools of comforting heat that thawed my stiff body, warmed my frozen hands, and revived my numb fingers. I stared at my hands as they took on a rosy tint, suffused with a level of warmth and comfort I could scarcely remember experiencing.

As the fire roared to life, the surrounding ice began to melt, creating a delicate play of light and shadow. The flickering flames reflected off the ice, turning it into a dazzling display of glistening patterns. I glanced nervously at Frost, but he remained composed, effortlessly using his magic to replenish the melting ice as needed so that the flames wouldn’t go out. This ensured the fire’s base remained stable even as it consumed the wood.

His gesture not only kept the flames from extinguishing but also kindled a warmth within me that stoked the embers of hope I’d long believed extinguished, breathing the first promise of life into my heart that I’d thought had been frozen forever.