The Frost Weaver

Episode 6

I didn’t notice the cold was gone until I stepped outside.

The door closed softly behind us, and I paused on the threshold, breath catching, not from frost, but from its absence. Snow still covered the ground, pristine and thick, but the air around me felt tempered. Balanced.

Adrien noticed my stillness immediately.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’m not cold,” I said slowly. “I should be freezing.”

He looked at me with quiet satisfaction. “Winter is adjusting to you.”

We walked into the courtyard behind the house, a space I hadn’t seen before. Stone walls curved protectively around it, ivy traced with frost climbing their edges. At the center stood a bare tree, its branches etched silver by moonlight.

“This place,” Adrien said, “is where the house listens most closely.”

Snow crunched beneath my boots as I stepped forward. The tree felt old in the way mountains feel old, patient, aware, uninterested in hurry.

I lifted my hand without thinking.

The moment my fingers brushed the air near its branches, something answered.

The tree bloomed.

Not with leaves or flowers, but with light, soft orbs forming along each branch like captured stars. Bells chimed faintly as they appeared, their sound warm and low, threaded with joy rather than command.

I gasped, laughter breaking free before I could stop it.

“Oh,” I breathed. “Oh, Adrien.”

He was watching me, not the tree.

“It has been a long time,” he said quietly, “since winter has offered beauty without demand.”

I turned to him, heart full in a way I hadn’t felt in years. “I didn’t tell it to do that.”

“No,” he agreed. “You invited it.”

Snow began to fall again, lighter now, catching in my hair, on my lashes. I spun once, then stopped, suddenly shy.

“This is ridiculous,” I said, though I was smiling. “I’m smiling at a magic tree.”

“You are smiling because winter gave you something,” Adrien replied. “Without asking for payment.”

That landed deeper than he knew.

I stepped closer to him, the space between us narrowing without effort.

“Why are you still here?” I asked quietly. “With me, I mean. You could have handed me off to the courts, found someone else to guard me.”

Adrien didn’t look away.

“Because the stories never talk about what happens after the Stillbearer is found,” he said. “Only about the damage done when she is isolated.”

I swallowed. “And you don’t want that to happen again.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

I hesitated, then asked the question that had been circling my heart all night.

“Have you loved before?”

The bells stilled.

Adrien exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

Pain flickered across his face, old, restrained, but real.

“I loved someone who chose duty over balance,” he continued. “Winter hardened after that. I hardened with it.”

I reached for his hand, this time without fear.

“Then stay soft,” I said. “With me.”

The words weren’t a promise. They were an invitation.

His fingers closed around mine, firm and warm.

“I will,” he said. “As long as you wish me to.”

The tree glowed brighter, its light reflecting in his eyes, in mine. Snow drifted down like blessing rather than burden.

And for the first time since the market, since the betrayal, since the claim that wasn’t a claim at all.

I felt lucky.

Not because winter had chosen me.

But because I had chosen him.

The summons arrived without sound.

No knock. No messenger at the door. Just a shift in the air so subtle I might have missed it if Adrien hadn’t gone completely still beside me.

The bells in the courtyard stilled mid-chime.

Snow froze in place, suspended like a held breath.

Adrien released my hand slowly.

“It has begun,” he said.

My chest tightened. “What has?”

“The courts have acknowledged you.”

A sheet of frost formed in the air between us, delicate as lace. Symbols etched themselves across it, curving, precise, unmistakably intentional. I didn’t recognize the language, but my body did. My pulse synced to the slow glow of the runes, warmth gathering behind my ribs.

Attend, the frost seemed to say.

Be seen.

“I don’t want to go,” I said quietly.

Adrien turned to me fully then, his expression steady but intent. “You won’t go alone.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he said softly.

The frost thinned, resolving into a single sigil before dissolving into snow that drifted harmlessly to the ground. Sound returned all at once, the hush of falling flakes, the distant city, the quiet hum of the house.

“How much danger is there?” I asked.

“Less than there would have been yesterday,” he replied. “More than there was before you touched the law.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it is honest.”

We moved back inside, the house closing around us protectively. The fire greeted us again, steady and patient, as if it had been listening the entire time.

Adrien poured fresh tea, his movements precise but unhurried. Ritual, I realized. Grounding.

“The courts will test you,” he said. “Not with force. With questions. With invitations. With the promise of certainty.”

“And you?” I asked. “What will they do to you?”

His jaw tightened. “They will remind me of my failures.”

I stepped closer. “Adrien.”

He met my gaze, something raw flickering there before he could hide it.

“If they decide you are too dangerous to remain unclaimed,” he said, “they will attempt to bind you to one of their own.”

My breath caught. “And the Winter Accord?”

“It gives me the right to refuse,” he said. “Once.”

“Once,” I echoed.

“Yes.”

Silence settled between us, heavy but unbroken.

“Why tell me this now?” I asked.

“Because love that grows in ignorance is easily broken,” Adrien replied. “And what is growing here—” He stopped, searching my face. “—deserves better.”

My heart thudded painfully. “You’re saying this is real.”

“I am saying,” he said carefully, “that winter has noticed something it did not anticipate.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you soften without weakening,” he said. “And that I would rather fall from favor than force you into anything you do not choose.”

The house responded.

The fire flared brighter. The walls hummed low and approving. Somewhere above us, a door unlocked itself with a soft click, as if offering refuge.

Emotion swelled too fast for words.

I reached up and rested my palm against his chest, feeling the steady strength beneath his coat.

“Then let’s do this the right way,” I said. “Together. No secrets.”

Adrien covered my hand with his own, reverent.

“Together,” he agreed.

The warmth between us deepened, not explosive, not overwhelming, but certain. Like a promise that didn’t need words to hold.

Outside, winter resumed its quiet work.

And inside the house that had chosen us both, something ancient and cautious allowed itself a single, hopeful thought:

Perhaps this time, love would hold.

We didn’t go to the court that night.

Instead, the house offered us something quieter.

Adrien led me up a narrow staircase I hadn’t noticed before, its stone steps warmed beneath my feet. The walls were etched with faint markings, older than language, softer than command. They glimmered briefly as we passed, then faded, like nods of recognition.

“This part of the house,” he said, “is not for defense or law.”

“What is it for?” I asked.

“For remembering why we endure them.”

The room at the top opened into a wide space beneath a glass ceiling dusted with frost. Snow pressed gently against it from above, never falling through, suspended like a sky held in place by trust.

At the center of the room stood a low table and cushions layered with wool and fur. Candles floated at varying heights, their flames steady, casting soft halos of light.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

Adrien watched me take it in, something tender crossing his face. “Winter keeps places like this for moments that must not be hurried.”

We sat facing each other, close enough that I could feel his warmth without touching. The silence between us was not empty. It was attentive.

“There is something I should tell you,” he said.

I nodded. “So is there something I should also.” I replied.

We smiled faintly at each other, then he gestured for me to go first.

“I’m afraid,” I admitted. “Not of the magic. Not even of the courts. I’m afraid of choosing something that changes me so completely I don’t recognize myself.”

Adrien listened without interrupting, without fixing.

“That fear,” he said when I finished, “is why the stories speak kindly of Stillbearers. You are not drawn to power. You are drawn to preservation.”

“And you?” I asked. “What are you afraid of?”

He hesitated, only a heartbeat, but it mattered.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that I will love you in a way winter cannot forgive.”

The honesty of it hit me harder than any declaration.

I reached for him then, resting my hand against his cheek. He leaned into the touch instinctively, eyes closing for a fraction of a second.

The magic responded, not with spectacle, but with warmth.

The frost on the ceiling softened, forming delicate patterns that resembled wings. The candles brightened, their light pooling around us like a cocoon.

“This,” Adrien murmured, opening his eyes, “is what the courts do not understand.”

“What?” I asked softly.

“That love does not weaken law,” he said. “It teaches it mercy.”

I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his.

No sparks.

No thunder.

Just connection.

“I don’t know what I’ll choose when the time comes,” I said. “But I know this, whatever I become, I want it to be with my eyes open.”

Adrien’s hands came up slowly, stopping just short of my waist. He waited.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Only then did he touch me.

The contact was gentle, reverent, as if he were learning the shape of something sacred. The room breathed with us, the house settling deeper into stillness.

Outside, the snow began to glow faintly, not brighter, just happier, as if winter itself approved of patience.

“We will go to the court soon,” Adrien said quietly. “And they will try to name you.”

“Let them,” I replied. “I know who I am when I’m with you.”

His breath shuddered softly.

“And who is that?” he asked.

I smiled.

“Someone who is no longer alone.”

The bells chimed once, low, resonant, final.

Not a summons.

A blessing.