AN: 250,000 words… that's actually quite a large number. I'm glad you guys are here, having helped me reach and celebrate this milestone. I know this may not be the very best Frozen Fanfic, nor the longest, but its the best I can do, so I'm proud of that. I'm also grateful to all of you, my dear readers, for your follows, favourites and reviews.


Elsa found Marshal Gerhardt on the overlook, outside of town, standing at her parents' graves. She could tell he was troubled from the way he bowed his head, the way he stood so stiffly, hands clasped behind his back. It was eerie, her father had been the same way, what few times she remembered seeing him actually bothered enough by an issue not to hide it. Seeing the Marshal standing there gave her mixed feelings; on the one hand this was a man that had known her father, and known him well, and on the other hand it was a painful reminder that she no longer had a father either. The Marshal's voice was carried to her in brief snatches by the gentle breeze that stirred the grass around the gravestones.

"Definitely your daughter… mad sometimes… she's headstrong, determined… you did well, Agdar. She's…" Elsa remained where she was, hands resting in her lap. It felt like she was intruding on what was supposed to be a private moment. Unburdening, perhaps, or simply keeping up appearances to the former King of Arendelle. "…ess Anna is safe now… going on. Not unlike… I hope I'm wrong. Then… always been a problem… war, because they tortured…"

Gerhardt stepped closer to the gravestone, and Elsa imagined him closing his eyes as he reached out to touch it. Perhaps this was where he got his strength to oppose her, in order to keep Arendelle safe. She caught a final few words on the breeze, and hearing the uncertainty in the tone, she pledged to herself to try to be more civilized towards the Marshal—even if she might never like him. "…tried to keep them safe…wish I had your strength. Her strength…"

When the Marshal turned, she saw no surprise in his eyes, concealed or otherwise. Had he known she was there? And for how long?

"He would have been proud of you, Queen Elsa," Marshal Gerhardt spoke softly as he approached. "More than you know."

"I—Thank you, Marshal Gerhardt," Elsa inclined her head in a slight bow as she replied, formally acknowledging the Marshal.

"The situation must be dire, for you to have sought me out this far."

"The Southern Isles' heir in my castle, Weaseltown's fleet beneath my waters, and the man responsible for harming my sister so lies in my dungeons. I am surprised you sent me no messengers yourself."

"I didn't have to, your majesty," Gerhardt walked past the Queen, down the trail back to the town. Elsa turned her chair to follow him. "I knew lieutenant Erikson would inform you. I had thought you might like a more personal message."

Elsa blushed slightly, but held her tongue. Gerhardt had a point after all, and he knew Hank to be reliable. It also made it seem like he was not so controlling or manipulative—but after a moment she realized he might be more manipulative, using Hank to send that message, hinting that he knew what was going on between them. Which was nothing out of the ordinary for a houscarl and his liege. Maybe she was just over-thinking things, trying to stay a step ahead of the Marshal. She remained silent until they reached the barracks, and if Gerhardt was in any way uncomfortable with such silence, he did a masterful job of hiding it. Or, she considered, he might be just as lost in thought as I am right now.

"Tea?" was the Marshal's first question, seating himself behind his large campaign desk, placing a kettle over the fire in the hearth. Elsa tried to hide the fact she was taking a particularly deep breath before answering. His casual tone had her on edge, just as it had the first time he had offered her refreshment. But she was going to be more civilized, and that started now. She might not be able to be actively kind and considerate towards him, but she could at least be polite. It would have to be enough.

"Please," her voice was soft, diplomatically calm. "What blends do you have?"

"There are kinds?" he asked in return, voice light. She just caught the grin he was hiding before saying anything more. He still seemed to pause for effect. "It's a strong, black Assam blend. I believe there may also be some English Breakfast, down in the mess, if you'd prefer."

"No, thank you," Elsa smiled a little as she talked. "I'll have the Assam; clarity of mind would be most helpful."

The kettle began to whistle, and Gerhardt poured two cups of tea, sliding one still atop its saucer over to the far side of his desk. Elsa picked it up and took an experimental sip. It had a rich, malty flavour, and was rather stronger than the Darjeeling she normally preferred. It was also hot enough she was forced to take a few rapid breaths to cool herself again. It took only the barest touch of her powers to cool the tea to something more easily drinkable.

"This blend is quite strong, but not unpleasant."

"I prefer it to coffee, personally." Gerhardt set his cup down against the corresponding saucer, taking on the mantle of Marshal once more, no longer simply trying to be a genteel host. "I assume you have come seeking assistance in a military matter; quite possibly with the involvement of both the Southern Isles and Weselton."

"I have," Elsa confirmed, still slightly annoyed that Gerhardt could read such situations so easily. But, it was his job, and her father had good reasons for appointing him. "I need your help in another matter. As I mentioned earlier, I hold a man known as Count Langenberg in my castle dungeons. He is the root cause of all the harm that has befallen my sister, and I want answers—reliable answers"—Elsa took a deep breath before continuing, wary of revealing this weakness around Gerhardt—"and I do not trust myself not to kill him once I have those answers. Or before.

"He has caused my sister and I so very much pain that my dearest wish is to repay him in kind, no matter how unwise or immoral that is. I am, in fact, less afraid of killing the Count than I am of what I might—or could—do with my magic beforehand. I do not wish to find out if I am that kind of person—I will not take the chance, not with my magic."

"You want me to question him."

"Or someone you trust. But I need him alive and unharmed, just in case there is a chance we could sue for peace with Weaseltown—who have apparently declared war against us."

Gerhardt froze, teacup halfway to his lips. Slowly, using both hands to steady himself, he placed that cup back on its saucer. Elsa stared at him—surely he had known, his spies had been able to tell him, or in his questioning of the captives he had figured that much out. But his shock lasted only seconds, and suddenly he was rearranging small metal ships and troops on the campaign map, setting his tea off to one side. Elsa watched with interest, trying to figure out what he was doing, what the map served at this moment. It was much like a game of chess, except the Marshal was playing against himself, moving the pieces for both sides. On a small piece of paper he was frantically scribbling notes and numbers as he moved the forces around. He set the paper and pen down carefully, placing an ornate lead paperweight on top of them both.

"The assassination attempt was their declaration—we know they were setting this up for a long time now, given Larsson's involvement. The Third-rates were likely carrying the infantry, although I'm not sure the Southern commander knew that. Weselton wasn't just planning to kill you, your majesty. They want Arendelle."

Elsa clenched her fists, letting out a short, sharp breath through her nostrils. Her brow furrowed in genuine anger as she fumed silently, trying to calm herself before making a reply. Though part of her wanted it to be, this situation was not Gerhardt's fault. In part, it might have been her own, given that it was she that had made the decision to cut off trade with Weaseltown. But the Duke had, after all, tried to kill her. The petty little ruler of that nation deserved everything he got.

"There is another issue," Elsa's voice was low, carefully maintaining her calm. "Weaseltown's agents turned my own citizens against me. In so doing they have forced me to make a difficult choice, while all our allies and enemies look on. They will all see how I deal with traitors and assassins, how I punish my own citizens, perhaps in the hopes of turning more against me out of fear of what I might do."

"That, your majesty, is likely a most unexpected consequence of their failure and your resilience. We have rooted out their spy, and Weselton now has only second- and third-hand reports of what is now happening in Arendelle. I know our allies well enough to know that they would not balk at your plans, and neither will they condemn us for them. Any attack against a member of the royal family must be taken seriously, and the perpetrators punished accordingly. May I be honest for a moment?"

"I have never known you to be anything but, Marshal."

"Very well. Aside from the cold fire of vengeance you showed in rescuing your sister, I had thought you weak on matters of law and punitive action such as this. I make no bones about it—and aside from using that knowledge to provoke and abuse you in the harbour—I keep such opinions to myself. I was wrong about you. I have been wrong before, not often, but it happens. I wonder if something within you has changed, your majesty, as you appear to have a greater thirst for vengeance now—even against your own citizens. Even those born to members of your own council. I find myself quite impressed by your conviction in this matter."

Holding her tongue, the Queen of Arendelle took a deep breath, drawing herself back under control, spreading her hands towards the floor in order to dispel the icy fractals spiraling out from her chair. Gerhardt's words had needled her, though she knew they were not meant to do so deliberately. Not this time, at least, and while his bluntness was grating, his honesty was also refreshing. She had never caught a word of a lie from him, no duplicity or deception. It was not that he was simple—far from it, she knew—it was that he considered his time, and that of others, most likely, to be valuable, so he did not mince words, he spoke his mind and dealt with the consequences. He even went so far as to apologize in front of the other council members for his transgressions. She had to accept, eventually, that Marshal Gerhardt was, in point of fact, a good man, much as she might personally dislike him and his manners.

There was another matter, of course. The Marshal was a military man, through and through. He had likely seen battle, and death, possibly having stared into the face of it—she still remembered his comments about the dead having names, and the haunted look behind his eyes when he had said that. He knew it from hard won experience, but there was still something that felt wrong. It was the fact he was impressed by her conviction. He approved of what she was doing, and for some reason that approval was worse than anger or defiance would have been. She wasn't sure if it was even remotely rational to feel that way—because it was so unlike her, not to be ashamed, but to be approved of, and especially by someone such as Gerhardt.

She let out a short, sharp exhalation in her frustration, breath turning to fog in the air. Her powers were not completely in check, and she was hardly slighted. But maybe that was a good thing, because whenever her powers exposed her inner turmoil, she knew when to pull back—even if she hadn't always managed to do so. Knowing what she should do did not mean she was always capable of acting upon it. She had been unfair to a number of people, and while some may have deserved it, she knew others did not. But that was not the issue she came to the Marshal to resolve.

"We need to send a clear message to Weaseltown that attacks against myself, my family, or my people will be met with the harshest possible consequences," Elsa's voice was hard, edged with a tranquil fury. "But we cannot alienate our allies, and nor can we prosecute a war of conquest. I will not use my magic for this—any message should be clear and direct without recourse to such intimidation. I should not need to use my powers to send such a message to one petty little man ruling a petty little kingdom. That message should also dissuade any other kingdoms from attempting any similar acts of regicide or kidnapping"—Elsa paused, rolling herself towards Gerhardt's campaign desk, feeling the magic beginning to surge through her hands—"but if they do…"

An icicle formed in her clenched fist, point down like an assassins blade. She slammed the makeshift weapon into Gerhardt's desk with her left hand so hard that the icicle stood on its own, fractals of ice branching and plating out from where it had struck. She would not truly use her powers so aggressively or destructively—the cost to her soul would be too great. But if someone were to threaten Anna's safety, or the safety of her people, then Elsa was perfectly willing to sacrifice that part of herself in order to ensure it never happened again. She had already done it once, and it clawed at her mind in idle moments. Let Gerhardt interpret the icicle stabbed deep into the wood of his desk however he wanted; she would find a way to ensure her sister's safety without magic. She would find a way to keep her people safe—even if, at times, it had to be from herself.


"Dad?" The quiet question dug a blade deep into Søren's heart. He could hardly fail to recognize his son's voice, but he knew he would not be hearing it for much longer. After talking with Gudbrand, and Vanja, later, he knew more than when he had visited Konrad earlier. He knew that he was not a failure as a father, and neither was Konrad a failure as his son. He also knew that sometimes people simply made bad decisions, and at times, those were punished far more harshly than might be strictly necessary. He even understood why Elsa had to do what it was she was doing. It could not have been an easy decision—she had waited at least a day after gathering her information. She had consulted with the council.

She had even had the common decency to tell him to his face, not shrinking behind messengers and royal seals. She had explained her reasons—and when he had responded in anger about losing his son, she had responded that he was lucky to have had children at all. In the heat of the moment he'd missed that, but now, facing the cell his son was in, contemplating the future, he understood Elsa's outburst far better than before. A strange mixture of anger and resentment, and not a little sadness. The Queen would never have an heir—the Royal Princess might, and her child would inherit the throne. But not Elsa's—because of the accident, she was now barren.

After all of that, he still didn't feel lucky. Not when he knew that his son would be hanging from the gallows in only a few short days. He wasn't even sure where to start talking, what to talk about. All he knew was that he didn't want to leave things unresolved, he wanted his final words to Konrad to be comforting, even though their reality was anything but. Søren didn't answer his son at first. At least, not with any words, not trusting his voice not to break. Instead, he lifted Konrad from the bench he was sitting on and embraced him as warmly as he could.

"I don't want to die," Konrad's voice was not angry, it was small, and scared, and Søren noticed the change from the last time he had visited. Clearly his son was realizing just what his imprisonment meant, how appallingly he had acted. Søren shook his head slowly, and they both sat on the stone bench that served as Konrad's bed as the palace guard locked the cell once more. Søren reached out, right arm wrapping around his son's shoulders, pulling him close. Konrad had drifted away from him, and Søren knew he had no one to blame but himself for that. He knew—at least, people were telling him—he had not failed as a father. It didn't feel that way, and that only added to his guilt about failing Sylvi in the same way. He couldn't protect those he loved most.

He even had some love left for Queen Elsa, after everything was said and done. That forced him to imagine the harbour, the stories he'd heard. He didn't know if he had lieutenant Erikson's courage; Marshal Gerhardt's capacity for swift retribution. And now he questioned whether he would have been one of the townspeople who had helped the Queen, or one of the many that had simply milled around in confusion. He did not stop to consider what would have happened had he been next to Elsa's attackers—had he been next to Konrad. Everything would be different, but he had been talking with the silversmiths at the time, who were complaining about a lack of precious metals to work into their art.

"Dad, I'm scared."

Konrad's voice cut through his reverie, and Søren knew he'd fallen into the same trap as before. Or maybe this time he was merely distracting himself from the painful truth. He didn't know what to say, but he knew he had to say something. He didn't want to lose this tenuous bond, frayed so close to the edge. There was a time when he knew what to say, what to do, how to act in certain situations. But that had been a long time ago, and all he could do now was make one small admission.

"I'm scared too."

"You'll be okay; you're strong." Søren sagged at that, burying his head in his hands. If only Konrad knew how strong he wasn't, how hard he'd had to fight to keep moving forward, every single day. Because in the end it had been his duty as a father to Konrad that had brought him back from the brink. His friends as well, who noticed how he'd begun to change. Even the King, who had delivered a very personal message.

"Konrad, I don't know if I'm strong enough. If you… when… after—just, after…" after you're gone, he wanted to say, but he couldn't. It would have been too much to admit what they both knew as the truth. He was haunted by enough demons as it was, every bad choice, every little mistake. He'd done his best to atone for his past, but apparently the gods were less than happy with his offerings—they wanted more. And now he was powerless to change things. "I fell apart after Sylvi died. I couldn't keep her safe. I can't keep you safe."

"You did your best. You tried so hard. It's… it's my fault," Konrad was trying to be reassuring, but Søren could hear the uncertainty and fear in his voice. It wasn't right, needing comfort from his son this way. It wasn't right, either, the way they would be parted. Yet if he interfered with fate's design, he knew everything would come undone. He had few enough friends now as it was. He had no need to be a fugitive, in exile, unable to ever return home.

"It's not your fault Konrad, it's theirs—the men who used you. They're going to die for their crimes. And…" Søren stood, suddenly angry, needing a target for that rage. "You should have listened to your mother!"

But instead of being frightened, Konrad laughed, leaning back against the stone wall behind the bench. "I did. She was there for me… until you had to be."

"And I wasn't?!" It was only half a question, but in his anger Søren was having trouble thinking clearly.

"Not when I needed you! You forgot me! You left me alone. You left me… and it was worse, because at least mom was dead, so I knew she didn't hate me."

Søren knew he shouldn't speak out in his current state. He also knew not to speak of ill of the dead. But anger clouded his mind, and it was all he could do not to lash out and strike something. But all he could do was not enough, and he felt his fist meeting flesh. All emotion fled as the grim realization sunk in that in his anger he had struck his own son, without reason, without want, all because he couldn't handle his world changing. But when he found the courage to open his eyes he was not staring at a bruised young man, but a defiant teenager, hands out like a pugilist's trainer, capturing his father's fist in both hands. But his voice still shook when he finally managed to speak.

"You don't want to hurt me, dad, you just need time. Like after mom died," Konrad's voice became firmer the longer he spoke. "Run away again, I don't care. You ran away after mom died." Søren lashed out again, and again Konrad caught his fist, cushioning the blow. "You loved her too much. You didn't have enough left for me!" Another blow caught against an open palm—but Konrad would not be driven back. He stood his ground, defiant. "You didn't care about me! Not until they made you care!"

"Liar!" The next strike was so forceful Konrad collapsed onto the stone bench, stumbling when he backed into it. Søren's angry yell echoed through the dungeon, but the guard did nothing. "I was there for you when no one else was! I made time for you!"

"It wasn't enough!" And this time Konrad fought back, rising and throwing a powerful right hook, catching his father in the shoulder, forcing him to step back. "I was your son!" Another blow, and Søren was forced onto the defensive, holding his arms crossed in front of him, not trusting himself not to hurt his own son. "I was your son!" Another blow, but there was no fire behind it. "I was your son…" Søren didn't know what to make of the repetition. There was not a single word of deception between them right now. "I was your son…" it came out as a choked whisper, Konrad falling to the floor, sitting brokenly against the bench. "…and you left me."

Søren sat heavily, virtually collapsing against the far wall, trying to put as much distance between himself and the person he'd almost become. He would have beaten his son, a son sentenced to death. A son convinced he had been left behind. It was almost more than he could take, but Søren still sought a way out, a way to make things better, at least, until… until that day was over. Any words he left with now would not be enough, but he had nothing else left after his anger was spent.

"You are my son, and you always will be."

Konrad hiccoughed, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

"Make something. To remember me. Please… I don't want to be forgotten like them. Please."

Søren could only nod—how could he deny his own son's dying wish? He nodded again, voice low. It was all he could do now, faced with the reality that what he made might be the only thing left of his son. Konrad's legacy had to be more than just a memory. Søren knew what it meant. It had to be something that served not just as a reminder, but also as a beacon of hope. A sign that one day he could be better. At what; by what standard; in which way; he did not know. Just… better.


Bishop Gudbrand finished writing the next line of his speech in his ledger before turning to the other occupant of the chapel's anteroom. "More tea, Hanne?"

"Please. And you're avoiding the question, Clarence. It's not like you to be this evasive."

"We all have some secrets to keep," Gudbrand smiled at his oldest friend, pouring more tea into their cups. "It's also meant to be a surprise—can't have you ruining that now, can we?"

Justicar Kristoffersen's face was a mask of affronted dignity. "Just what are you implying here?"

"Eighteen thirty-three. March."

"I thought the idea was to forgive and forget, according to your holy books."

"Supposedly," Gudbrand offered him a thin, mischievous smile.

"Keep your secrets then, I'll just let Ari talk with you," Kristoffersen supplied with a wink.

"You wouldn't dare," but Gudbrand's tone was light. He relented, eventually passing his ledger to Kristoffersen so the justicar could peruse the contents of the current page. It took him a minute or two to finish, at which point he handed the leather bound volume back to the bishop.

"I assume this is to come after the traitors have had their sentence carried out."

"Quite. I have a feeling that being forgiven for her actions after the resolution of what appears to have been her hardest decision will do much more to salve her conscience and soothe her troubled soul than it would coming before that event."

"Very astute of you, Clarence," Kristoffersen smiled warmly. "I can see why you want to do this, for the kingdom as well. Politics is an evil beast at the best of times."

"Perhaps not by nature, but that of its masters. The same can, unfortunately, be said of religion—otherwise we would not be having this very discussion. At least this time it's religion twisting politics to ennoble the latter. I detest the reverse, for politics seems to corrupt religion so easily, and many do not care to question why."

"It's more than a little disappointing, seeing your beliefs twisted around like that, I'm sure. I might not seem to hold faith in any gods, Clarence, but I never doubted you were always trying to do what was right. You… I guess you may always have been the better man between us."

"Hah, don't sell yourself short, Hanne, you're better than a lot of people I could mention. You've got conviction, and determination, and a sense of justice—even if it comes from the laws of the people and not from the scriptures. And in our little debates you have—as I hope I have—have always taken the time to at least try to understand my arguments. You respect my position, even if you can't believe in something yourself."

"You don't deserve anything less, and that's the truth," Kristoffersen graced the bishop with a small grin. "But just because you feel everyone deserves a second, or third, or even higher chance, doesn't mean it's right. The law is clear on that point. There is such a thing as an unforgivable crime."

"Not if the perpetrator is willing to repent their sins. There is nothing that cannot be forgiven with sufficient grace or time."

"What about what is rumoured to have happened to the Royal Princess?" Kristoffersen's voice hardened. "I would never forgive that—and not just because she's royalty. She's only eighteen, and given how protective the Queen seemed of her during our last meeting, I don't think those scars will go away."

"I think you might be wrong on that last point. Queen Elsa herself assured me that Princess Anna is recovering, albeit slowly, when we last met. The scars will fade, in time. As to your previous point, what was done could be forgiven—but only if the perpetrator showed true remorse and repentance for their actions, and was willing to make amends in full to their victim. What is less forgivable is the way they twisted the words of the Divine in order to justify their actions, especially against the Queen. They have dragged my faith through their filth, and I will not stand for it."

Gudbrand took a breath, holding up a hand to stall any response from the Justicar. He wasn't finished yet.

"So, I will restore the good name of my faith, in the spirit of the Divine, and show both Arendelle and the wider world that religion is a power for good, and that that is how it should be used. We, as a people, will formally forgive the Queen for her transgressions; we will also offer her the clemency of the Divine, such that she may feel she is forgiven by a power greater than herself—and that the laity in our allies and enemies nearby should see that we, and He, are entirely capable of accepting the entirety of who and what she is."

"And just what is she, Clarence?"

"A scared young woman, forced to accede to the throne of her father far too early in her life, haunted by events from her past that were nothing more than unfortunate accidents. A devoted young monarch who almost lost her entire family. A good woman, thrown into the hardest trials of her life—and she has not broken. Mostly, she is just a good person, who thinks she has been cursed with her magic. At first I thought it might be a curse, the way it erupted, the way she stopped my arguments against her—but I was wrong. In hindsight it appears as if that same magic were protecting her, regardless of whether there was true threat to her person or not.

"I have seen the beauty in her magic, the tenderness hidden deep within her soul. Her magic is a gift; so much so that she was granted boon from the Divine himself."

Kristoffersen's eyebrows rose. "You have evidence of the Divine—through Queen Elsa's powers?"

"No, no I don't. I have supposition and theories. But tell me this, at least: Do you believe ice magic has the power to spark life, to create a mind; a soul?"

"I… I honestly don't know. I think I would seek your advice with such questions, Clarence."

"Thank you," Gudbrand chuckled, sipping at his tea. "It simply made sense to me. Only the Divine has the power to grant a being a soul, to bring something fully to life. Perhaps, in her darkest moment, she unwittingly called to Him, and He answered. He answered her, Hanne. Her."

"So you're telling me that the Divine has chosen her somehow, marked her out for some special destiny?"

"Yes."

"Your faith is as unshakeable as ever. I envy that sometimes. I still want evidence."

"Scientist."

"You say that like it's a bad thing. I do believe that science has given us far more progress in the last hundred years than religion gave us in the last thousand."

Gudbrand raised his fists in a fair imitation of a pugilist's fighting stance. His voice was full of barely suppressed laughter. "I fear we may come to blows over that statement, my friend."

Kristoffersen laughed deeply, setting his cup and saucer against the edge of Gudbrand's desk. "You know I could not strike a man of the cloth—it wouldn't be fair."

"We'll talk about it later, I'm sure you have some work to be finishing this afternoon."

"I do, I do. But certainly, we will talk. I do not think science and religion have always been so opposed. There are interesting stories from Araby and the surrounding lands. A religion that endorsed science to the fullest—one your Divine tried to destroy during the Crusades. Maybe I should try that one."

Kristoffersen left with a mischievous grin, laughing quietly at the mockingly affronted expression on his best friend's face.


Búi was lost. Not badly so, but he couldn't find the trail he had been using. He'd taken a wrong turn tracking a hare, stumbled against a log or large rock, and then he had fallen headfirst into the gully in which he now lay. There was a soft murmuring in the distance, formless words upon the wind. Búi decided to follow it, wiping a hand across his forehead, relieved when it came away clear of blood. No real damage, luckily. The murmuring voices were louder, but still indistinct. He couldn't make out a single word.

The soil beneath his boots grew softer, and leaf litter crunched underfoot. Sunlight shafted through the broken canopy overhead, casting subtle shadows and creating a dappled light against the forest floor. In the distance something glittered and shone. He knew gold could sometimes be found in rocks upon the surface, but most of the mines at home were deep underground. It was unlikely in the extreme to be gold—especially as Arendelle had its own well developed mining industry, but for iron rather than gold. He edged cautiously towards the shining object, crossbow in hand. The voices grew louder still as he approached.

It was only a forest stream. He had been on a rise above it, the sun striking it at the perfect angle so he could see it through the trees. Now he was even further from the trail, from the cave that was his home, and any food he had left stored there. The stream might prove better anyway, and there had to be caves nearby, or something he could construct a shelter from. Other animals would come to drink from the stream—hunting would be easier—and it was large enough that fish might also swim through it. It was also a ready supply of clean water, and that simple fact was more important than anything else.

Something in the distance pulled him forwards, his curiosity growing with every step. It was a small patch of white amidst the dark forest floor. It stood out as unnatural; it didn't belong. As he drew closer he could see why. The white had a slight hint of blue about it, but it was not solid. It was patchy, spiky, but perfectly flat across the dirt on which it rested. It was a stencil of fine powder. Powder that chilled his fingertips and melted against his palm. Snow. The symbol had been made of snow.

Snow.

The hairs rose on the back of his neck. Was the witch-queen out here? Right now? Was she planning to finish what she had started at the fort? Was she that vengeful? Then Búi remembered the fight, the way she'd used her powers, how Sten had been frozen to death and somehow preserved forever. Yes, the witch-queen was vengeful enough to finish the job permanently. He started to wonder if his survival at the fort was little more than a cosmic accident—because by rights he should have been dead along with the rest of his companions. But right now he simply couldn't help his curiosity. The mystery of snow in the forest was worth investigating.

There was another dusting of snow, fallen half against a large tree, looking almost like a handprint with the way it feathered out. Just as cold. Ahead he could see a larger patch of white in a small clearing between a stand of smaller trees. Three of the symbols. They had more form now, complexity. Snowflakes. Each symbol was a perfect snowflake, rayed stars, and identical. It was only mid-afternoon, yet the temperature was falling sharply—just like it had the morning the witch-queen attacked. He shivered, not sure if he was merely cold, or feeling some kind of supernatural dread.

He pressed on, and the next patch of white he saw contained seven near perfect snowflakes, arranged in a more ordered pattern. To his left and right, just at the edges of his vision through the forest, he could see more white patches. They were getting closer and closer together. Drawing in to some kind of centre. That was where the lines of ice began, and the air became colder still. But the strange thing about this snow, about the ice, was that it touched only the floor of the forest. It did not touch branches, nor leaves, nor the high boughs of the canopy overhead. It fell around rocks, not on them.

The ice line became two, splitting out at a sharp angle, drawing back together and erupting into a pattern of staggering complexity. He had no words to describe the sheer intricacy of the path the myriad lines of ice were taking across the forest. Perfectly symmetrical and mirrored. They soon hatched across each other so densely that it was impossible to tell them apart—they had merged into one thin sheet of ice, just a little proud from the earth, forming a perfectly flat plane for several yards around their centre. There was no one at the centre of that circle, but on the far side he could see the way the circle branched out again. Six times around its edge. Another snowflake.

Three columns of stone marked the centre of the formation, two of them slightly offset. There was writing on them, all hard angles and thick lines. There was no way to read it. Ice crept up the side of the central stone like ivy clinging to a wall. It fanned out in strange fractals, seeming almost as if it were fighting the very stone itself. He reached out a hand, a single finger, feeling the chill growing more intense as his flesh approached the stone. There was a strange jolt as his finger touched the ice and stone.

Cracks splintered the ice beneath him, racing outwards faster than he could follow. The ice shattered into glistening shards, then those shards dissolved to white powder, and drifted away upon the wind. The ice stayed wrapped around the stone, evident nowhere else. Búi found himself wondering what the significance of this was. This was strange ice, magical, infernal perhaps, but seemingly unconnected to the witch-queen. He walked back towards the stream, following the sound and the shadows.

Behind him, he never saw the ice at the base of the stone, creeping up just a little further, a little thicker. And out from that fell the first snow. It was just there, falling to the ground only inches below. The tendrils of ice covered a single word inscribed in Elder Futhark.

Ismakt.