Chill
Kristoff missed weeks of work. Every time he showed up with his ice saw a fury possessed him, his pick clanging uselessly against the block in a blind rage. The other harvesters pitying glances did not help. They pretended to hide their murmuring. The more he heard them mumbling about princesses and isles the more his skin crawled. When a young messenger from the palace approached him during his trip to town, it was all he could do to hold in a growl of frustration. Sven nudged him reassuringly, calming his frayed nerves.
"Kristoff Bjorgman, sir?"
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"Your presence is required at the palace, sir." The lad stood away from him, warily watching him from narrowed eyes.
When he entered the ornate palace, he was faced with a ghost. She fidgeted, her hands clasped together as she looked at him hopefully. Something about the woman in front of him sent cold slithering in his veins. A pain shot from the back of his head.
"I owe you a sled."
Fear flashed through him. Wolves, fire, a cliff. Sven's grunts as he pulled away from certain death. He had almost forgotten about that. How did she know about his sled?
"No, you don't." Her crestfallen face sent a chill up his spine.