The Frost Weaver

Episode 2

The restaurant was tucked into a corner of the old quarter, its windows fogged from warmth and candlelight. A place meant for locals, not tourists—dark wood, low ceilings, the kind of quiet that felt intentional.

Adrien chose it without asking.

I noticed that too.

Inside, the air wrapped around me like relief. My fingers tingled painfully as warmth returned, and I flexed them beneath the table while a server poured wine I hadn’t ordered.

“You don’t have to stay,” I said, more out of principle than intent.

“I do,” Adrien replied. “Until I’ve explained what I bound you to.”

That made my stomach tighten.

We sat across from each other, the table small enough that his presence felt unavoidable. Candlelight softened him, made him look almost human. Almost.

Outside, bells rang again. Midnight edging closer.

“The Winter Accord,” I said, before he could start, “sounds like something out of a history book.”

“It is,” he said. “Just not one you’ve read.”

I waited.

He folded his hands on the table, long fingers steady. “Long before borders or nations, winter was considered sovereign. The longest nights were dangerous—people disappeared, bargains were struck, power shifted. To survive, laws were made.”

“By who?” I asked.

“By those who could survive winter.”

My pulse ticked faster.

“I am not human,” Adrien said calmly.

The words landed without drama. No pause. No apology.

I laughed. It came out thin. “Of course you aren’t.”

“I am Fae-born,” he continued, “bound to winter courts older than this city. Others would call me Alpha. That word is… inaccurate, but close enough for now.”

I stared at him, searching for signs of a joke. There were none.

“The Winter Accord is a binding law,” he said. “It allows a sovereign to claim protection over an unawakened soul during the solstice period. No harm may come to them. No coercion. No binding beyond shelter.”

“And the catch?” I asked.

“There is always a catch.”

The server returned with food—something rich and fragrant. I barely noticed.

“The act of claiming,” Adrien continued, “alerts every court that you exist.”

My throat went dry. “Exist how?”

“As something valuable.”

I pushed my plate away. “You said this bought me time.”

“It did,” he said. “Without it, someone else would have noticed you tonight.”

“Why?” My voice dropped. “Why me?”

His gaze held mine, unwavering.

“Because you are winter-marked.”

I shook my head. “I’m a museum assistant. I restore old fabric and manuscripts. I’m not—whatever you think I am.”

“That is exactly why you survived unnoticed,” he said.

The candle flickered violently.

“You work with relics tied to solstice rites. You handle laws written in thread and blood. And winter responds to you.” His eyes dropped to my hands again. “You have always been cold. You do not burn under snow. And tonight—winter listened when you were wronged.”

I swallowed.

“What am I?” I asked.

He hesitated.

That scared me more than anything else he’d said.

“You are not claimed,” he said carefully. “Not truly. But you are bound to winter’s attention. A hinge. A keeper. A voice that can be heard by law.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s a warning.”

I leaned back, heart racing. “So you stepped in. Made a public claim. Put a target on me.”

“I put myself between you and the target,” he corrected. “Now, anyone who wants you must come through me.”

“And after the solstice?”

“After the solstice,” he said quietly, “you decide whether to remain hidden… or step into what you are.”

Outside, snow began to fall in earnest, thick and slow.

I looked at the man across from me—this impossible, dangerous, controlled presence who had upended my life in a single sentence.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I said.

“I know,” Adrien replied. “Winter rarely asks.”

The candle went out.

Not blown. Not flickered.

Extinguished.

I didn’t realize how much of my life I’d packed into someone else’s space until I had to retrieve it in silence.

The apartment was dark when we arrived. No laughter. No music. No lingering warmth. Just the echo of footsteps on the stairwell and the faint hum of a city settling into Christmas night.

Adrien didn’t touch me as we walked, but he stayed close enough that I felt… anchored. Like if something went wrong, it wouldn’t get far.

“He won’t be here,” he said quietly as we stopped outside the door. “I ensured it.”

I didn’t ask how.

Inside, the place smelled wrong. Familiar, but emptied of meaning. I moved quickly, mechanically—clothes into a bag, toiletries into another. I avoided the bedroom until I had no choice.

Adrien remained by the door, watchful, still as stone. He didn’t intrude. Didn’t comment. Didn’t rush me.

That restraint did more to undo me than any comfort could have.

When I emerged with my final bag, I looked around once more. A life I had thought was stable, reduced to two suitcases and a hollow ache.

“I’m done,” I said.

We left without incident. No confrontation. No closure. Just clean escape.

Outside, snow had begun to fall in earnest, thick flakes softening the edges of the world. Adrien took one of my bags without asking and led me away from the apartment, back into streets that felt different now—quieter, older.

“You can’t go back to your hotel,” he said.

I sighed. “I know. It was booked under his card.”

“And tonight,” Adrien continued, “you cannot be alone.”

I stopped walking. “That’s not your decision.”

“No,” he said calmly. “It’s the Accord’s.”

I exhaled slowly, weighing exhaustion against pride. The city felt suddenly vast, unfamiliar. Every safe place I’d imagined had vanished.

“Fine,” I said at last. “One night.”

Adrien inclined his head. “As you wish.”

His residence wasn’t an apartment in the way I understood the word.

It was hidden behind a narrow iron gate just off a quiet street, its entrance disguised by ivy and shadow. The building itself looked unremarkable—stone façade, tall windows darkened against the snow.

Inside, everything changed.

Warmth wrapped around me instantly, deep and living, like stepping into the heart of a hearth. The air smelled faintly of pine, old paper, and something sharp and clean—winter after snowfall.

The space unfolded impossibly. Rooms stretching farther than the exterior allowed. Corridors curving subtly, as if choosing their own paths. Candles lit themselves as we passed, flames blooming softly along the walls.

I stopped short.

“This place—” I began.

“Is warded,” Adrien finished. “Hidden. Aligned to winter’s law.”

My breath fogged in a slow exhale. “It’s bigger on the inside.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “You noticed.”

Books lined the walls—old ones, their spines marked with sigils and languages I didn’t recognize. Frost traced the edges of tall windows without cold. Somewhere deeper within the house, I heard the faint sound of bells, distant and low.

“You’ll stay in the east wing,” Adrien said. “It’s neutral ground.”

“Neutral between what?” I asked.

“Between what you were,” he replied, “and what winter may yet ask of you.”

He paused, then added, “The door locks from the inside. No one may enter without your consent. Not even me.”

That mattered more than he knew.

I set my bags down slowly, taking it all in. The exhaustion hit me then, heavy and unavoidable.

“Thank you,” I said, the words rough. “For… not letting tonight be worse.”

Adrien studied me for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes.

“Winter does not abandon those it marks,” he said quietly. “Neither do I.”

As he turned to leave, the house seemed to settle around us—walls humming softly, candles steady, snow pressing gently against the windows like a promise.

For the first time that night, I felt something other than loss.

I felt… held.