Page 16 of Gifted to the Frost King

While I’ve never heard of anyone leaving our village, the few travelers who pass through all share similar stories. They suffer under the same wintery conditions and offer up their own human tributes to please him. All of us are forced to live under his thumb. The cold weather keeps us all hungry and weak enough to never fight back—the conditions for travel are treacherous at best. Even if someone wanted to mount an offensive against him, they could never make the journey here.

He was the cause of all my hardships—the one I pictured when the harvests were low, and Sophia and I shivered in our bed as cold air ripped through our cottage. However, as I stare out the large window to the still land below, I can’t help but feel like the blame was misplaced.

The King is just as much a prisoner as I am.

That is a dangerous thought—I try to shove it away as I look again towards the sky. Three stars glow brighter than the others. One resides below in the center, while the other two are slightly higher and flank both sides. The moon rests above the odd formation.

I take a few steps back until the window frames it. The stars with the moon resting above make the perfect arrowhead shape, pointing to the ground below. Three stars. Hadn’t the King mentioned something about three stars?

When the moon is high, the three stars will guide you to the key.

Taking another tentative step back, I gasp as the stars perfectly line up with the stones framing the window. They are pale in color and have the same smooth texture from which the palace walls are made. The one resting under the star in the middle is different, however. It glows with a gentle blue hue, shimmering in the moonlight, while the others remain matte and pale.

Surely not, I think.

Reaching toward the glittering stone, its smooth surface is warm as it greets my palm. Pulsing with life, it hums in my grip. I give it a sharp tug, but nothing happens. Its color dims as if annoyed by my efforts. I try again, to no avail.

With a huff, I shove my fingers in as deep as they will go until they bump into the wall it's nestled into. There is enough of a gap that if?—

Twisting my wrist sharply, a light pop sounds and the stone drops into my palm.

I don’t get to thoroughly inspect the rock until a loud, groaning sound rattles behind me. Whipping towards it, I watch as the wall next to my bed shudders until a small door splits from the wall and peels open. Frost and dust fall to the floor as a strong wind blows in from the newly revealed dark corridor.

There has been no groove in the wall indicating anything was there.The truth is buried deep—maybe I’ll find some of it through there. The stone pulses in my hand, glowing brighter with encouragement. As if my time here couldn’t get any stranger, I’m allowing a stone to guide me through a hidden passageway. My common sense shakes its head, but logic and reason are far from this palace.

Passing through the door, I see that this corridor has been abandoned for some time. Old wooden beams line the ceiling—cracked and dusted with crystalized spider webs. The walls are made of simple gray stones, as is the floor. The stone in my palm lights the way as a gentle breeze blows through me. The temperature is mild, and the scent of pine dances through the air.

The sound of my breathing feels out of place in the quiet hall.

After walking for what feels like hours, the stone flares in my palm as we reach the end of the corridor. My feet halt on the other side of a wooden door with chipped blue paint. The design on the golden handle has worn down in places from use. The stone pulses, warming the skin of my hand until it burns. That’s all the signal I need to reach for the handle and twist it open.

The room is barren, save for one polished wood table at the center. As I walk towards it, I see an engraving of the Frost Mountains etched into the surface. Whoever did it had remarkable skill, and the textures seem life-like. Along the edges of the table are the drawings of snow fairies. Some are inflight on their tiny wings, while others are resting on evergreen branches. Each one is depicted with a mischievous smile.

At the center of the table rests a small blue velvet pillow. Atop it sits a necklace. The pendant, made of gleaming white stone, is shaped like a snowflake and hung on a delicate silver chain. I’m transfixed by it. It’s the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen.

“Take it,” a voice whispers. “Take it and see what has been forgotten.”

Swallowing soundly, I reach for the necklace.

“And now I’m listening to a disembodied voice,” I mumble. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

My fingers brush over the smooth surface of the snowflake. It is not stone but a large crystal, iridescent in the low light.

The scent of metal burns my lungs. Similar to how I felt when the King sent me flying back to my room earlier, the world around me shifts and tilts. It is as if I’m inside my body, but I am also a spectator watching as I am thrown through time. Shifting and rolling, the world around me is a mass of darkness and glittering dust.

Then everything stops, and I land on my feet inside a room.

I blink to adjust my vision. The room looks familiar. Glancing down, I see the table I had just been standing at, with its etchings of mountains and snow fairies. Only this time, the room is not barren, and I am not alone.

Tiny, decorative furniture covers the marble floor. From a small bed with blue sheets and pillows to a low workbench decorated with crude drawings and piled high with small books. A fireplace snaps and roars off to the side. A chest engraved with some markings is seated in the corner. Pictures of the castle and a few portraits of a baby wrapped in a silver blanket line the walls.

Everything in the room is fuzzy, blurry at the edges, as if I am in a dream.

No, it's not a dream, I think,but a memory.

It is not one of my own. That becomes clearer when I register the two figures sitting together on a high-back chair in the corner of the room.

The older male looks up and directly through me, solidifying that I am not here but merely witnessing what once was. The male has fine wrinkles dotting his pale blue-colored face. His white hair is long, nearly brushing his chest. There is a proud set to his posture. His clothes are sturdy and adorned with metals that sparkle. As does the silver crown atop his head, the same one the King wears.

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