The young man led us through the great hall to a small chamber tucked behind a tapestry depicting hunters bringing down a frost lynx. Elder Tannin and Elder Senna followed, their faces grim in the dim light. The room smelled of dust and old leather, with shelves lining the walls and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams.
In the center sat a chest. Not large or ornate, just a simple wooden box reinforced with iron bands, its dark surface scarred by time and travel. A heavy lock secured the lid.
"This was recovered from the last expedition," Tannin said, producing a key from within his robes. "Three items were carried back by the survivors. The rest remained locked away, too painful to examine."
Elder Senna stepped forward, her silvery braids catching the lantern light. "We had hoped never to open this again."
The lock clicked, and Tannin lifted the lid.
I peered inside, conscious of Laina moving closer behind me, her warmth at my shoulder. The chest contained an assortment of items: scrolls tied with faded ribbon, a small leather-bound book, a tarnished compass, several pieces of jewelry, and wrapped in oiled cloth, what appeared to be weapons.
"These belonged to the Knights who never returned," Elder Senna explained, lifting out a silver medallion. "Some were recovered by the survivors, others found later by search parties that ventured partway up the mountain."
I nodded, studying each item carefully. "And you think these will help me survive where fifty trained Knights failed?"
Tannin's good eye narrowed. "No. But knowledge might."
He reached into the chest and unwrapped a bundle of cloth. Inside lay two matching daggers, their handles wrapped in what looked like dark leather with silver wire inlay. But it was the blades that caught my attention – blue-white metal that seemed to absorb the lantern light rather than reflect it.
"These are Frostbite and Heartseeker," Elder Senna said, her voice dropping to near-whisper. "Twin daggers forged by the last fire priests specifically to combat the Winter King's influence."
I reached for them, hesitating just above the handles. "May I?"
Tannin nodded.
The moment my fingers closed around the hilts, a strange sensation pulsed up my arms – not painful, but intense, like plunging into cold water and feeling it rush against bare skin. The daggers felt unusually light, almost as if they wanted to move on their own.
A sharp crack of static made me flinch. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang – clear and resonant, though nobody else seemed to hear it.
"What are these made from?"
"The metal was mined from the deepest part of the Sorrow Range," Senna explained. "Where the boundary between our world and the eternal winter is thinnest. The fire priests imbued them with their last magic."
I glanced at Laina, who was watching me with undisguised interest.
"They've never done that before," she said.
"Done what?"
"Responded." She gestured to the daggers. "Many have held them over the years. They've always been just... cold metal. Dead."
I looked down at the weapons in my hands. They felt right somehow, like extensions of my arms. "How do they work?"
"The legends say they draw heat from the wielder to counter the Winter King's cold," Tannin explained. "The more skilled the wielder, the more effective they become."
Great. Another thing I needed to learn in my severely limited time.
"What else?" I asked, carefully setting the daggers aside.
Tannin pulled out the small leather journal. "This belonged to Torsten. His account of what they found at the Temple."
My fingers twitched as I took it. The leather was cracked and worn, the pages warped from moisture. "Has anyone read it?"
"Torsten forbade it," Senna said. "Said some knowledge was too dangerous to share."
I tucked the journal inside my jacket. "Where is he now?"
"The healing house," Laina answered. "His wounds are severe, but he's awake."
I stood, the daggers in one hand, the journal in the other. "I need to speak with him."
***
The healing house squatted at the village edge like a creature half-buried in snow, its squat stone walls defying the wind. Smoke curled from multiple chimneys, tangling with the falling flakes before vanishing into the darkness. I winced as I pushed through the heavy door, the warmth inside striking my cold-numbed face.
The immediate atmosphere hit me with sensory overload—pungent herbs hanging in bundles from ceiling beams, tallow candles burning with a sweet animal scent, and beneath it all, the unmistakable copper tang of blood. Bodies lined the walls on narrow cots, some moaning softly, others eerily silent.
A gray-haired woman with hands like twisted roots looked up from grinding something in a mortar.
"Another one? You don't look injured."
"I'm looking for Torsten."
Her mouth tightened. "The old slaver? Back room. Though I doubt he'll be selling anyone else anytime soon."
I followed her gesture down a narrow corridor, past rooms where shadows danced on walls and hushed voices murmured pain-soaked prayers. The last door stood partially open. I paused at the threshold, studying the figure on the bed.
Torsten lay unnaturally still, his skin waxy in the low lamplight. Only his eyes moved as I entered—alert despite his broken body, tracking me with the instinctive wariness of a wounded predator.
"Come to finish what the wolves started?" His voice emerged as a rasp, yet carried a clarity that belied his condition.
I pulled a three-legged stool beside his bed and sat, placing the twin daggers across my knees where he could see them. Their weight felt reassuring against my thighs.
"You tried to sacrifice me to save yourself."
"Yes."
The simple admission caught me off guard. I'd expected denial, justification, perhaps even remorse—not this stark acknowledgment devoid of apology.
"Your directness is... refreshing," I said, studying his face.
"When you're dying, lies become pointless luxuries." His eyes flicked to the daggers. "Where did you get those?"
"The council elders. Apparently they belonged to your expedition."
A shadow crossed his face. "Not mine. They belonged to Kell."
I ran my finger along one of the blades. "They seem to like me."
"Of course they do." Torsten shifted, pain tightening the corners of his eyes. "The daggers choose their wielder. That they've chosen you is... significant."
"Why did you do it?" I asked, bringing us back to the original question. "Why sacrifice me?"
His gaze drifted past me to the small window where snow piled against the glass. "Have you ever killed a man, Isaiah?"
"No."
"I have. Seventeen that I remember clearly. Probably more I don't." He drew a labored breath. "The first was when I was fourteen. A bandit who tried to take our food during the early years of the curse. I stabbed him in the neck with a cooking knife."
I said nothing, waiting.
"Each death changes you. Takes something you can't get back." His eyes returned to mine, suddenly piercing. "I knew you were different from the moment we found you. There's a pattern to how strangers appear in Frostfall. They arrive with purpose, though few understand what their purpose is."
"And you think my purpose is to die for you?"
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "No. I thought my purpose was to deliver you to the Temple."
"By feeding me to the wolves."
"By ensuring you reached the Temple—one way or another." He gestured weakly toward the window. "Death in Frostfall isn't what you think it is. Nothing here is."
I leaned forward, the stool creaking beneath me. "What does that mean?"
"The Winter King doesn't just rule this land. He... collects it. Everything that dies in Frostfall becomes part of him." Torsten's face took on a distant quality. "I've seen it. In the Temple. Faces in the ice—thousands of them. People I knew. People I killed."
"That doesn't explain why you tried to sacrifice me."
"Doesn't it?" His eyes refocused on mine with startling intensity. "You're not from here. You don't belong to this world."
My pulse quickened, but I kept my expression neutral. "Neither do you, if what you say about strangers is true."
He shook his head, the movement barely perceptible. "Different. I've been here for decades. My blood has frozen and thawed with the seasons. The Winter King has claimed pieces of me already." His gaze traveled over my face. "But you... you're still warm. Untouched."
"And that makes me expendable?"
"That makes you valuable." He coughed, and I saw blood fleck his lips. "The Winter King can't touch what he doesn't understand. And he doesn't understand you."
I stood, tucking the journal I'd been given into my jacket. "I don't trust you."
"Good. Trust no one in Frostfall. Not even yourself." He closed his eyes. "Especially not at the Temple."
I turned to leave, daggers in hand, then paused. "Is there anything in this journal that will actually help me?"
"The truth always helps. Whether it saves you is another matter." His eyes opened again, holding mine. "The Temple echoes differently for each person. For me, it showed endless hallways of ice where I wandered forever, watching my companions die. For you..."
"It might show something else," I finished.
"No." His voice strengthened. "It will show something else."
The room seemed to grow colder despite the fire crackling in the hearth.
"Why help me now? After trying to kill me?"
His expression changed, something like regret crossing his features. "Because I was wrong. The wolves weren't your path to the Temple. They were mine."
"What do you mean?"
"My punishment." He shifted again, pain tightening his face. "For trying to cheat fate. For thinking I understood the pattern."
I stood again, tucking the daggers into my belt. "You're delirious."
"Perhaps." His eyes locked with mine. "But answer me this: how did you know to break the ice beneath us?"
The question caught me off guard. "I... I just saw it was thin."
"No. You didn't. The ice was solid enough to hold our weight. You knew something we didn't." His voice had grown stronger. "Just as you'll know things at the Temple that others can't see."
A chill that had nothing to do with the winter outside crept up my spine. "What's in the journal?"
"My account of what we found. What we lost." His eyes drifted closed. "What I became."
I turned to leave, unsettled by his words and the certainty behind them.
"Isaiah." His voice stopped me at the door. "The Winter King isn't what you think."
I glanced back. "What is he?"
"A mistake." Torsten's eyes remained closed. "A mistake that's trying to correct itself."
I left him then, stepping back into the corridor where the air felt suddenly thinner. My fingers brushed against the journal in my jacket, its weight a promise of answers—or perhaps just deeper questions.
Outside, the snow had stopped falling, and stars glittered in the clear night sky with unnatural brightness. I stood for a moment, looking toward the looming mountains where the Temple waited.
"A mistake trying to correct itself," I murmured.
The daggers at my belt hummed in silent response, as if acknowledging a truth I hadn't yet grasped.
***
The clearing behind Laina's home offered privacy and enough space to practice. Morning light filtered through the pines, casting long shadows across the snow. My breath fogged in the cold air as I moved through the forms Laina demonstrated.
"Your grip is too tight," she said, adjusting my fingers on the dagger's hilt. "Let the blade become part of your arm."
I relaxed my hand, feeling the now-familiar tingle as the dagger seemed to settle against my palm.
"Better. Now try again."
I lunged forward, slashing at the wooden post we'd wrapped in hide. The blade cut through with surprising ease, leaving a trace of frost along the edges of the cut.
"You're a quick learner." Laina observed.
"Necessity," I replied, stepping back to catch my breath. My muscles ached from the unfamiliar movements, but something felt different today – my reflexes sharper, my coordination improved. The daggers were changing me, or perhaps awakening something that had always been there.
"In your vision," Laina said, leaning against a tree trunk, "what exactly did you see at the Temple?"
I hesitated, constructing the lie carefully. "Fragments mostly. A hall of ice. A throne room. Something pulsing with cold light."
"The Heart."
"Yes." I executed another sequence of movements, finding a rhythm. "And a figure seated on the throne, though I couldn't see his face."
Laina pushed away from the tree and drew her own blade – a longer hunting knife with a bone handle. "My father was the finest swordsman in the Knights of the Eternal Flame. He taught me everything he knew before he left."
She demonstrated a complex series of movements, her body flowing like water. "He said if he didn't return, I should continue his work. Prepare for the day when someone would finally end the curse."
"Is that why you agreed to help me? You think I'm that person?"
She sheathed her knife. "I agreed to help because you're the first stranger in ten years to speak of the Temple and live. Whether you're the one to end the curse... we'll see."
I wiped sweat from my brow despite the cold. "Your father. What was he like?"
Something softened in her face. "Principled. Devoted. He believed in duty above all else." She picked up a handful of snow, compressing it between her palms.
"You miss him."
"Every day." She tossed the snowball at a distant tree, hitting it squarely. "The worst part was not knowing. For years, I imagined him still alive, trapped somewhere in the Temple."
I thought of my own mother back in New Vein, working double shifts at the core processing plant. I had to make it back to her.
"We should continue," I said, raising the daggers again. "I need to be ready."
***
Maps covered Laina's kitchen table – old, hand-drawn charts of the mountain passes leading to the Sorrow Range. I traced potential routes with my finger while she marked dangerous areas.
"The Grief Marshes will be the first major obstacle," she explained. "The ice is thin, and what lies beneath... isn't just water."
I nodded, making mental notes. Torsten's journal lay open beside the maps, its cramped handwriting difficult to decipher. Most entries were mundane accounts of the expedition's progress, but one passage had caught my attention:
The Temple tests you. It knows what you seek before you do. Harric thought we were there to kill the Winter King. I wonder if that was our mistake.
"How long to reach the Temple?" I asked, calculating days in my head.
Laina considered. "Fifteen days if we push hard and weather holds. More if we encounter trouble."
Fifteen days with seventeen left with my quest. The timeline was tighter than I'd hoped.
"We'll need food, medical supplies, proper clothing," I murmured, making a list. "And weapons that work against Reflectors."
"Fire is still their primary weakness," Laina said. "I've prepared special arrows with oil-soaked tips that ignite on impact. And the daggers, of course."
I picked up Frostbite, studying the strange runes etched along its blade. "Do you know what these mean?"
She leaned closer, her hair brushing my shoulder. "Ancient language. The fire priests kept their secrets well. But legend says the daggers can pierce the Winter King's frozen heart."
"If we can get close enough to use them."
Laina's expression hardened. "We'll get close enough."
I closed Torsten's journal, my mind racing. "We leave at first light tomorrow?"
She nodded. "Everything will be ready."