The Cradle of Frost

The cold came gradually.

It began as a bite in the wind, then grew into a steady ache that crept into their cloaks and boots, numbing fingers and slowing thoughts. The Stormlands gave way to high cliffs and brittle grass, and soon after, to frozen plains blanketed in snow so white it reflected the gray sky like polished bone.

"This is it," Ren murmured. "The Frostlands."

Mike checked the map. The new path glowed faintly blue, threading through what looked like mountain peaks and a hollowed region marked only by a symbol—three icicles curled inward around a single flake.

Aero flew low, her flight cautious now. The cold seemed to sap even her great energy, though her silver-white feathers blended perfectly against the winter sky.

As they crossed into the deeper wilds, they saw signs that something else had passed before them.

Footprints—large, clawed. Deep impressions in snowbanks that melted more slowly than they should. Trees frozen mid-bend, like they'd tried to escape some invisible force.

They found a village on the third day—abandoned, its homes built from pale wood and stone, roofs collapsed under the weight of forgotten winters. Strange runes carved into doorways and totems warned of a place called "The Cradle."

Mike stood before one of the runes, running his gloved fingers over the etchings.

"It's a warning," he said. "Not to go forward."

Ren kicked snow from a doorway. "Which means that's where we're going."

⸻

The Cradle lay within a glacier.

A massive hollow carved into the side of a mountain, its walls smooth and impossibly reflective. As they stepped inside, the world went silent. No wind. No footfall. Even their breathing was dampened, absorbed by the ice.

Glowing frost coated everything. Shapes were preserved beneath the surface—ancient armor, scrolls, weapons, bones. As if the glacier had swallowed the past whole.

At its center lay a circular platform of ice and stone, inscribed with spiraling glyphs and elemental symbols.

On it stood a statue.

Not of a warrior or king—but of a child.

The child's hands were outstretched, and between them hovered a frozen sphere of water, inside of which swirled snow and stormclouds.

A plaque lay at the base:

"To warm the cold, you must give what cannot be taken.

To melt the frost, speak what cannot be said."

Mike stared.

"I don't understand."

Ren looked up. "It's another riddle. But it's… personal."

Mike stepped onto the platform. The glyphs lit beneath his feet, glowing pale blue.

The voice came again—familiar now. The voice of the trial, distant and elemental.

"The third seal lies not in strength, but in surrender. What have you hidden, Speaker?"

The frozen orb pulsed.

Mike's mouth was dry. He looked to Ren—then to Aero, whose eyes were fixed on him with unwavering trust.

"I never said goodbye," he whispered.

The orb trembled.

Mike stepped closer. "To Jake. I was angry that day. I thought he'd left me behind. But I never told him I forgave him for wandering off. I never told him I still needed him."

The orb cracked slightly.

"I still do."

A soft breeze stirred the chamber.

"I'm scared I'll never see him whole again. I'm scared that even if I save this world, I'll lose mine."

The ice shattered.

The orb dissolved into mist, and in its place floated a crystalline snowflake—gently glowing, delicate but unmelting.

The voice spoke once more:

"The third seal is given not through conquest, but confession. You have spoken the unspoken. You may pass."

Mike stepped forward and caught the snowflake.

As his hand closed around it, the map ignited again. Three seals now glowed—each pulsing in harmony. The path forward curved sharply south—into a place marked only with a single rune:

"End."

Aero stepped beside him, brushing her beak against his shoulder.

Ren said nothing.

But in his eyes, Mike saw it—the understanding that they were no longer climbing toward a goal.

They were being tested toward a reckoning.