Chapter 5 – The Frosted Path
974 Words
Dawn broke pale and thin, its light stretching weakly across the horizon as Elias rode deeper into the wilds. The world here was silent—not the calm of peace, but the hush before something sacred or dangerous revealed itself. Frost clung to the long grass, glittering like shards of glass. Even the air tasted different, sharp and clean, as though untouched by breath for centuries.
The path narrowed to a thread between the trees. Each branch bent heavy with frost, their limbs arching above him like the ribs of some great sleeping beast. Elias slowed his horse, his gloved hand brushing the frost-bitten bark. Beneath the surface of the wood, he swore he felt a pulse.
“Magic,” he murmured. The word left a trace of warmth in the cold air.
It had been days since the bard’s warning. The old man’s song haunted him still, every note lingering like a ghost in his chest. Every man who hunts sorrow becomes its prey. Yet here he was, chasing the echo of a woman whose pain had turned to legend.
The forest deepened. No birds called. No wind stirred. Then—something. A flicker of light ahead, faint and trembling, like a candle lost among trees. Elias dismounted and tied his horse to a branch, stepping forward with a hand on his dagger.
The light grew stronger. Blue, cold, alive. It rippled across the snow, painting the frost in hues that did not belong to daylight. He knelt, brushing a gloved hand across the ground—and drew back sharply. Beneath the ice, the earth was breathing. Each exhale sent mist rising, soft and mournful.
The legends had said her sorrow reached into the soil itself. That her tears froze rivers, her heartbeat stilled the wind. He had never believed such tales—until now.
A sound broke the silence—a whisper, or maybe a sigh. Elias turned, scanning the trees.
“You should not be here.”
The voice was soft, but it cut through the cold like a blade.
A woman stood between two trees, her figure faintly blurred by falling frost. Her cloak shimmered with ice crystals, and her hair caught the dim light like spilled ink. For a heartbeat, Elias thought she might be the witch herself—but no, she was too young, her gaze too full of fear.
“I mean no harm,” Elias said, lowering his dagger. “I seek someone. A healer once known as Mira.”
The woman’s eyes widened at the name. “You speak it aloud?”
He hesitated. “You know of her, then.”
“She is not for seeking,” the woman whispered, stepping closer. “The forest protects her now. Those who follow her trail lose their way—or their hearts.”
“Then tell me how to lose neither.”
She looked at him for a long moment, and in her gaze Elias saw pity. “You cannot. The frost on this path is her sorrow. It marks all who walk it. If you go farther, it will remember you.”
He took a breath, watching it curl in the air like smoke. “Let it.”
The woman’s hand lifted, and frost bloomed across the nearby tree bark in answer. “Then you have already chosen your end.”
Before he could speak again, she stepped backward into the mist. Her figure dissolved, her cloak fluttering like torn snowflakes. Only her voice remained, echoing faintly:
“When the frost sings, turn back—or lose your name.”
Then silence.
Elias stood alone once more. The forest seemed to shift around him, as if her departure had changed its shape. He felt the cold reach deeper now—not just into his skin, but into his thoughts. The trees leaned closer. The frost beneath his boots began to hum, faint and rhythmic, like a heartbeat beneath the ice.
He pressed on.
The trail curved upward into the hills, where the air grew thinner and the light dimmed to a perpetual dusk. His breath came in clouds, and every exhale felt heavier than the last.
At the ridge’s crest, he stopped. Before him stretched a frozen lake, its surface smooth as glass. In its center stood an old stone arch, half-buried in snow, glimmering faintly with runes. The air around it thrummed with quiet power.
He approached cautiously. With each step, the frost beneath his boots whispered. Words? No—names. Too soft to understand, yet too human to ignore. He knelt by the arch and traced one of the runes. The stone pulsed faintly beneath his fingers, the way a dying heart might struggle to keep time.
“Mira,” he said softly.
The runes flared.
For a heartbeat, the frost came alive—rippling across the lake in waves of blue fire. The light blinded him. He stumbled back, drawing his dagger, but no threat came. Instead, the air shimmered, and for an instant he saw her—just a glimpse—standing on the far side of the lake.
Dark hair. Pale face. Eyes like moonlit water.
Then she was gone.
The light faded, leaving only the stillness of ice and the faint echo of a woman’s breath.
Elias stood in the aftermath, heart hammering. The frost at his feet had taken on new shapes—petals, delicate and intricate, forming a trail that led deeper into the forest.
He sheathed his dagger, his hand trembling. “So this is the path, then.”
A gust of wind swept across the lake, carrying a whisper that brushed against his ear like a promise—or a threat.
Come find me, if you dare.
He turned his face toward the trees and followed the trail of frozen petals into the waiting dark.
- Writer
