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CHAPTER: Frost That Hunts
Sabre's lungs felt as though they were collapsing under the weight of cold fear. Each breath he drew scraped painfully against his throat, as if shards of winter were slicing him from the inside out. His pulse thundered unevenly, too fast, too frightened, too fragile. Everything around him seemed blurred—not by speed or confusion, but by the raw panic gripping his senses. His cheek still burned with the echo of the princess's slap, the heat of it mocking him even as the rest of the forest froze under her icy pressure.
The world had turned quiet in a cruel, suffocating way. No rustling leaves. No chirping insects. Just the gentle, persistent whisper of the frost… creeping after him like a living thing.
It didn't spread normally.
It didn't behave like ice.
It followed him.
Sabre didn't need to be told that he was marked—chosen by that unnatural force that seemed born from the princess's will. Every instinct he possessed screamed that this chilling presence would not stop until it had pierced through him and turned his heart into a lifeless crystal.
But he refused to accept that this was where he died. Not here. Not like this.
He pushed himself forward, stumbling between trees, forcing his trembling legs to move even when his muscles protested with pain and exhaustion. His breaths came in short bursts, each one sharper and more desperate than the last. It wasn't just the cold that chased him—it was the humiliation, the terror, the raw certainty that one wrong step would end everything.
His mind kept replaying the moment the princess struck him. The effortless force behind her slap, the disdain in her eyes, the cold perfection of her posture as she watched him fall like an insect before her. She hadn't even needed to use a weapon; her bare hand had been enough to send him crashing several meters away. He had never encountered a person whose mere presence felt so overwhelmingly beyond anything he could ever hope to challenge.
And she wasn't even chasing him herself.
She didn't need to.
Her frost was doing the hunting.
But something else haunted the edges of his awareness.
The knights.
They had been there from the beginning, even when he hadn't realized it. Hidden between the shadows of the tall trees, armor muted, faces unreadable, weapons cold and ready. They had watched the entire exchange. Watched him dodge the ice spear. Watched him get slapped into the dirt. Watched the frost awaken and begin stalking him with unnatural precision.
Yet none of them had moved.
None had drawn their blade.
None had stepped forward.
Because they believed the frost alone was enough to kill him.
He wasn't worth the effort.
Sabre didn't know whether that should offend him or terrify him.
He pressed on, body screaming for rest, mind refusing to slow down. He had to think—had to find something, anything—that might save him. His eyes scanned the forest floor, not for an escape route, but for patterns. Movement. Reactions. Clues. Anything the frost did that didn't match natural behavior.
And then he noticed it.
A tiny, almost invisible trail of steam drifting upward from a crack in the soil. A soft hiss rising every few seconds. A faint pulse of warmth. A geothermal vein, small enough to miss, hidden beneath scattered leaves.
He wouldn't have paid attention to it—until he saw the frost's reaction.
As a tendril of living ice crawled across the ground, chasing his footprints with demonic patience, it touched the steam lightly… and hesitated.
Just for a second.
Barely even noticeable.
But Sabre noticed it.
A jolt of desperate hope sparked inside him. Not confidence, not certainty—just enough hope to keep him from collapsing into despair. He didn't understand the princess's magic, but he understood the physical world. He understood patterns. Reactions. And this frost was reacting to something it shouldn't.
It wasn't movement the frost was tracking.
It wasn't sound.
It wasn't even breath.
It was heat.
His heat.
His presence.
His life.
The frost didn't behave like a spell—it behaved like a predator that had locked onto its prey's warmth and refused to let go.
Sabre forced himself to slow his breathing, even though panic clawed at his chest. He had to think clearly. He had to act deliberately. There was no brute force escape. No direct confrontation. Only strategy, timing, and luck.
He took a step toward the geothermal crack, then another. The frost slithered behind him, the air tightening with its unnatural cold. Leaves crackled beneath its touch. The ground stiffened as thin sheets of crystalline ice crept across the soil.
Sabre lowered himself onto the ground beside the small vent, heart pounding wildly. His legs felt weak, trembling from exhaustion and fear, but he didn't let that stop him. He needed to act. Now. Before the frost reached him.
He shoved his hand into the crack.
Heat surged upward in a sudden burst of steam.
The frost lurched—not away, not toward him—but in confusion, as though its senses had momentarily lost track of its target. The tendrils froze mid-motion, tiny cracks forming along their edges.
That was his chance.
His only chance.
Sabre tore off his cloak in a frantic motion, forced it into the vent to absorb the unstable heat, then swung his arm outward and threw the cloak as far as he could into the opposite direction.
The cloak flew through the air, carrying steam, warmth, and his body's remaining heat.
The frost instantly surged after it.
Sabre didn't stay to watch. He moved—silently, carefully, forcing himself not to gasp for breath or step too loudly as he slipped behind a fallen trunk. He crawled low, slipping through thick brush. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, but he didn't allow himself to look back.
For the first time, the frost wasn't chasing him.
But the danger wasn't gone.
Not even close.
A cold wind swept through the forest, and the temperature dropped so sharply that Sabre's skin prickled in alarm. He froze behind the tree, forcing himself to remain absolutely still.
Then he saw her.
The princess stepped into the clearing as though she were gliding on invisible ice. Her silver hair shimmered faintly, untouched by the wind. The frost curled around her feet like loyal serpents returning to their master.
Her eyes moved slowly, assessing the disturbance—the shift in warmth, the scattered leaves, the cracked ground where he had knelt.
And then her gaze hardened.
She realized what he'd done.
Not because she saw him.
But because her frost had been tricked.
A flicker of disbelief crossed her expression—brief, sharp, and quickly buried beneath cold pride. Her jaw tightened slightly, and her fingers curled into her palm. Sabre could feel the air tightening around her, as though she was suppressing something volatile.
"So…" she murmured, voice soft but filled with disdain. "You dare deceive me?"
The frost recoiled instantly, bunching into a single mass before her feet. She extended her hand slightly, and the ice responded, like a beast awaiting its command.
In the shadows, the knights quietly stepped forward. Their armor blended into the forest's darkness. They had been watching silently from the start, ready to intervene only if needed. Now, several of them exchanged glances—not out of concern for Sabre, but in disbelief that he had survived this long.
One knight stepped closer and bowed. "Your Highness, he cannot have gone far. Shall we eliminate him?"
"No."
Her voice cracked like frozen glass.
Every knight froze.
"I gave him a chance to flee," she said softly. "And he used it… to trick me."
Her eyes narrowed, sharp enough to pierce stone.
"I will not let that go unanswered."
Sabre felt a shiver crawl down his spine. Her anger wasn't loud or wild—it was cold, controlled, and terrifying. The frost around her pulsed like a heartbeat, reacting to her displeasure.
"Spread out," she ordered. "He is nearby. And I want him alive."
Alive.
Not dead.
Somehow, that scared Sabre more.
The forest erupted into motion. Knights moved with frightening coordination, slipping between trees, narrowing the perimeter. Their frost-coated spears glinted with the same living energy as the princess's ice.
Sabre's pulse hammered against his ribs. He pressed himself deeper against the tree, trying to quiet every instinct screaming at him to run. Running now would give him away instantly.
He could hear the knights' footsteps approaching.
Slow.
Steady.
Inevitable.
The princess took a step forward, then another, her gaze shifting slowly, calculatingly, as though she were listening for the faintest disturbance in the air.
Sabre clenched his teeth.
He had escaped the frost.
But now he was trapped by something far worse—
a forest full of knights ready to obey every whispered command of a princess whose pride he had just wounded.
Leaves rustled to his right.
Armor scraped softly to his left.
The circle was closing.
And the last thing Sabre saw before the chapter of his fate snapped shut was the princess stepping toward his hiding place—eyes sharp, expression calm, and the frost at her feet already awakening for a second hunt.