Lostwartz was a kingdom of perpetual winter, a land where the sun shone pale and the rivers were solid glass. But despite the biting cold that coated the castle walls in rime, Eira's childhood was filled with a golden, hearth-fire warmth.
"Again, Papa! Again!"
A six-year-old Eira squealed, her small boots skidding on the polished blue marble of the throne room floor. She darted behind a massive pillar of carved ice, her breath misting in the cool air, eyes wide with the thrill of the hunt. She clutched a small, stuffed penguin—Mr. Waddles—tightly to her chest.
King Alaric Frosht, a man built like the mountains he ruled, with a beard like frosted iron and eyes that crinkled into warm crescents when he smiled, was not sitting on his throne. He had discarded his heavy fur cloak and the platinum crown of Lostwartz lay forgotten on a side table next to a half-eaten tray of frosted cookies. He was down on his hands and knees, lumbering across the floor with exaggerated, heavy movements, pretending to be a Great Northern Snow Bear.
"I can smell a snowflake..." Alaric growled, sniffing the air theatrically, causing Eira to stifle a giggle behind her hands. He turned his massive head toward the pillar where she hid. "Is she... here?"
He lunged, not with the speed of a warrior, but with the clumsy, playful pounce of a father. Eira shrieked, darting out, but she was no match for his reach.
"I'm going to catch you, little snowflake!" Alaric roared playfully, his large hands engulfing her waist as he scooped her up high into the air. He spun her around, the room becoming a blur of blue and white, until her squeals of delight echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
"Papa! You're scruffy!" she laughed as his beard tickled her cheek.
"And you are caught!" He pulled her into a bear hug, burying his face in her small shoulder. He smelled of pine needles, old parchment, and the crisp scent of winter air. It was the safest smell in the world.
Queen Isabella sat on the throne, stitching a tapestry of the Aurora Borealis, shaking her head with a fond, exasperated smile.
"Alaric, you are the King. If the generals saw you crawling on the floor like a beast..."
"Then the generals would learn how to be happy. My daughter is the future of this Kingdom. She is my heart. A King without a heart is just a tyrant in a fancy hat."
Eira hugged his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. "Will you always be a bear, Papa?"
"For you? Always," he whispered, smoothing her silver hair. "Even when you are grown and ruling this kingdom, I will be the bear that guards you."
"I love you, Papa."
"And I love you, Eira," he kissed her forehead. "More than all the snow in the North. More than the stars in the endless night."
Those were the happiest days of Eira's life. She lived without fear, she lived without worries, being born as a princess, having both parents' love, and a dedicated mentor. That was a life that many dreamt of having, but the dream didn't last long. Soon there was a man who appeared in the kingdom. A man named Malakor. He didn't have a history. He didn't have a family name. He simply arrived at the castle gates with a scroll claiming he was a scholar from the Far East, bringing solutions to the magical plague affecting the western crops.
King Alaric, desperate to help his people, granted him an audience. That was the last time Eira saw her father smile. Within a week, Malakor was appointed Royal Advisor. Within a month, her father stopped seeing her and the Queen completely. Within two months, they were forbidden to see the King anymore.
"The King is unwell," Malakor would say, standing in front of the heavy oak doors, his smile oily and patronizing. "He requires absolute silence to meditate on the affairs of state."
"I am his daughter! Let me in!"
"Princess, your father finds your noise... distracting. I must ask you to leave."
Eira stopped banging. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
The castle grew dark. The servants whispered that the King had gone mad. He signed decrees without reading them. He raised taxes. He arrested loyal knights. And always, Malakor was there, holding the quill, guiding the hand.
"Mother, why doesn't Papa love us anymore?"
"He is sick, Eira. A sickness of the mind. We must be patient."
Queen Isabella looked tired. She had aged ten years in six months, growing tired of worrying about her husband's health. But Eira wasn't patient. She knew something was wrong. She could feel it; the uncertainty urged her to investigate what was going on. It was the night before the Winter Solstice. The greatest holiday of the year. Eira, now eighteen, stood at the window of her tower. The wind was howling, a blizzard raging outside. No guard would be patrolling the walls in this weather.
"If I can't go through the door, I'll go through the wall."
She opened her window. The gale force wind hit her, but she didn't flinch.
"Ice Bridge."
She stepped out onto thin air. Moisture in the blizzard condensed instantly beneath her boots, forming a translucent, slippery walkway. It was dangerous. One slip meant falling three hundred feet to the frozen jagged rocks of the moat.
She crept along the castle wall, fighting the wind, until she reached the King's balcony. The curtains were drawn, but there was a sliver of light. Eira crouched, shivering not from cold, but from fear. She peered through the gap. The King was there. He was sitting on a simple wooden chair, not his throne. He was staring at the wall. And Malakor was there. Malakor wasn't advising. He was sitting on the King's desk, eating an apple, his feet resting on the royal seal.
"Tomorrow is the big day, Your Majesty. The Solstice. The perfect time for a transition."
The King didn't move. He didn't blink.
"The Cult is pleased," Malakor continued, tossing the apple core at the King. It hit Alaric's chest and fell to the floor. Alaric didn't react.
"For generations, the Frosht line has guarded the Northern Seal. And tomorrow, you will sign it over to us. I'm pleased about your performance, my Lord, but sadly, everything has an end, and tomorrow, it will be your legacy's finale."
Eira clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. The Cult?
Malakor stood up and walked over to the King. He grabbed Alaric's face, digging his nails in.
"It really is a shame we have to rush. I wanted to play King for a few more months. But my scouts tell me that she is coming back early."
Malakor shuddered.
"Lydia. That woman is too much... she is too much for me to handle."
Malakor leaned into the King's ear.
"You will give the speech. You will officially announce me as your heir, then, in such an unlucky event, your family was assassinated in a rebellion against the authority, and then..."
A single tear rolled down King Alaric's cheek. He couldn't move. He couldn't scream. He was a prisoner in his own skull, forced to listen to the murder of his family being planned. Eira pulled back from the window. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought it would crack her ribs.
He's not sick, she realized, horror washing over her. He's controlled.
She scrambled back across the ice bridge, tumbling into her room. She collapsed on the floor, gasping.
Lydia wasn't here. The guards were loyal to the King; no one would believe such nonsense. No one would believe her. He controlled the King; she was powerless against him. If she waited for tomorrow, Malakor would become Regent. He would have legal authority. The kingdom her ancestors built would only be reduced to ruins.
'I have to stop him.'
She looked at her hands. They were trembling.
'I have to save Father.'
Part 4: The Unforgivable Sin
The Winter Solstice Plaza was packed. Ten thousand citizens gathered in the snow, waiting for the King's address. Banners of blue and white snapped in the wind, but the festive mood was dampened by a strange, heavy tension. Eira stood on the balcony beside her father. Queen Isabella stood on the other side. Malakor stood behind them, his mouth twisting into the smirk of a winning man. King Alaric walked to the railing. His movements were jerky, unnatural, like a marionette being pulled by invisible strings made of barbed wire.
"Citizens of Lostwartz, today... marks a new era."
Malakor smiled from the shadows. He was winning. Alaric's hand reached into his robe. He was pulling out the Scroll of Abdication. The seal of the kingdom gleamed in the pale sunlight.
Eira stepped forward. Her heart beat against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Father."
The crowd went silent. It wasn't scripted. Malakor frowned, his eyes narrowing.
"Princess, sit down. Your father is speaking."
Eira ignored him. She looked at her father. She looked into his eyes—the eyes that used to sparkle when he chased her, the eyes that promised to be her guardian bear forever.
For the first time in months, Alaric looked back.
The spell Malakor used controlled his muscles, his voice, and his mana. But it couldn't completely extinguish the soul.
In that split second, Eira saw him. The real Alaric. And what she saw broke her.
His eyes were screaming. They were filled with an agony so profound it transcended physical pain. It was the shame of a King forced to betray his people. It was the terror of a father forced to sign his daughter's death warrant.
He held the scroll. If he read it, everything would end. She was powerless against Malakor; she had seen it. Malakor had been ambushed by rebels once, and he single-handedly deleted them without a single injury. She knew what he was capable of. Eira looked at her father's face one last time, tears streaming down from her face.
Eira placed her small, trembling hand on his massive arm.
"I know, Father. I know what you are going through."
"..."
"You can't control yourself, Father. You can't win this battle alone."
Malakor stepped forward, sensing an unknown variable in his plan.
"Guards! The Princess has decided to revolt against her own father! Remove her!"
Two guards moved toward her.
Eira looked at her father. He was a prisoner in his own flesh, a weapon aimed at everything he loved.
There was only one way to break the connection. Only one way to stop the abdication.
Eira's mana flared. It was cold. So cold it burned her insides.
"I'm sorry, Father," Eira sobbed, her voice cracking. "Please, forgive me."
Alaric saw the magic gathering in her palm. He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away.
Instead, with a strength born of pure love, he managed to break the paralysis for one second. Just his lips moved. There was no sound, but Eira saw it. She read the words on his lips as clearly as if he had shouted them.
"I forgive you."
And then he smiled. It wasn't the metallic smile of the puppet. It was the warm, crinkling smile of the father who played bear.
"Thank you, Father. May you rest in peace."
Eira managed to let out a sad smile while holding her father's hand. The magic froze her father instantly. Instantaneously, the warmth vanished. Only her father's body was left, but he was smiling, like he had no more regrets in this world. King Alaric Frosht was encased in a block of diamond-hard ice. The temperature dropped to absolute zero. His heart stopped between beats. His brain froze before he could feel pain.
He was gone.
The scroll fell from his frozen fingers, shattering on the balcony floor into a thousand useless pieces.
Silence.
Absolute, terrifying silence descended on the plaza. Ten thousand people stared up. They didn't see the politics. They didn't see the demon spell. They didn't see the father smile. They saw the Princess freeze the King to death.
Eira stood there, her hand still outstretched, touching the cold, hard surface of the ice. She looked at her father's face, preserved forever in that final moment of forgiveness.
"Murderer!" Malakor shrieked, his face twisting from shock to fury.
"She killed the King! Seize her!"
Guards tackled Eira. They slammed her face into the cold stone balcony. She didn't fight. She didn't struggle. She just stared at the ice statue of her father.
'Father... did I do the right thing?'