Frostmarked

Welcome to Glamour Dust! Today’s story is the backstory of a character who has been hanging out in the back of my mind for a while, both as a D&D character and a stand-alone fantasy protagonist. I hope you enjoy your first introduction to Sable and Rif!

I stayed two steps to the right and five steps behind my father, as he'd instructed me. Our footsteps crunched across the layer of frozen snow that blanketed everything in sight. My fingers and toes had long since gone numb, despite my thick wool socks and sheep-skin lined boots and gloves that were more than sufficient back home.

Behind us, the soft rustling wind of the portal that my family guarded faded away from us, muffled by the snow-laden cedars we walked between.

The fey land of Winter had to be the coldest place I would ever traverse in my life. But I might as well get used to it. I hitched my cloak tighter around my body, clenching handfuls of it as I crossed my arms over my chest and tucked my hands close to my sides. I snuck a glance to my left, where my best friend Rif walked, two steps to the left and five steps behind my father. Rif shivered, the tendrils of dark hair that had escaped his braid trembling against his wind-chapped face.

His golden eyes caught mine, and he snuck the tip of his tongue out of the side of his mouth.

My mouth twitched before I could catch myself. I could have sworn I'd made no noise, but my father suddenly stopped in his tracks.

"Sacrifice." He didn't turn around.

Rif straightened his shoulders. Behind him, just for a split second, his coat billowed outward in the illusion of wings. "Sir."

My father half-turned, but it wasn't Rif he glared at--it was me. His light violet eyes--a match to mine--bored into me with the same intensity he always showed during my training.

I straightened too, fighting back a wince as the sword strapped to my shoulders pulled at my muscles. I didn't normally wear it, but my father had said I had to get used to its weight--it was only a few short years before I would wield the white-iron blade, after all.

If everything went his way today.

My father said, his voice flat and colder than the snow we stood in, "If you somehow spoil this for Sable today, rest assured I will flay the skin from your back as soon as we get home."

"Sir," Rif repeated, quietly this time.

We resumed our trek, each of us focused on our place in the little procession.

I didn't know why my father had brought Rif along anyway. Somehow, even growing up with a family of gloomy dark elves had never dulled Rif's cheerfulness or sense of humor--despite the many times my father had followed through with his threats. For both of us.

If I failed today--the thought brought a lump to my throat, and I pushed it away. It simply wasn't an option.

When we'd left to walk from the manor to the portal, my older brother Elios had jostled me against the doorframe, using the moment to hiss at me under his breath. "You'd better hope you please the Lord of Winter today, Sable. Otherwise we might as well rid ourselves of the Sacrifice tonight."

I'd tried to tell myself Elios was just sour that I'd beaten him in our last sparring match. He was three years my elder, and still several inches taller, but heavier on his feet, and I was quick on mine. A lifetime of dealing with six older brothers had taught me how to run and how to dodge, at least. But nothing I'd whispered to myself had eased the knot of tension in my gut.

It had taken me years to realize that 'Sacrifice' wasn't just an odd name my parents had chosen for the half-human, half-other boy that they'd raised alongside me. It meant something. Loss. Giving up something you loved. Offering it.

And Rif was more of a brother to me than any of my blood brothers.

Footsteps crunched to my right, and I glanced to the side without turning my head. The hair on the back of my neck prickled when I saw them--two large, white direwolves, slinking through the trees. I pulled in a breath, wincing as the needle-sharp air hit my lungs.

One of the wolves bared its teeth at me.

I bared my teeth back.

The wolves escorted us through the trees until, suddenly, the thick cedars cleared, and we stood in an open hollow under an enormous, red-barked pine. The thick trunk stretched upward more than fifty feet before it spread its branches, and I could see the thick, evergreen needles crusted with a heavy layer of snow.

My father dropped to his knees, and Rif and I followed suit. I kept my gaze on the ground, all too aware of who sat on the throne of carven roots under the truck of that tree, and unable to face him just yet. The lump in my throat was gone, replacing by burning, by a sour taste at the back of my mouth, by the thick feeling of my own dry tongue.

The clearing thrummed with magic, prickling across my skin, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. If I thought about it too long, I could almost imagine the magic as a net, wrapping me tighter and tighter until I could barely breathe...

A hand clasped mine. Rif. He shouldn't be doing that. Not here. But my fingers tightened around his, grateful for his steadying presence.

"So, these are the children you wanted me to meet."

Children? I looked up, forgetting for a half-second about the deference my father had taught me, and glared across the clearing at the fey Lord of Winter.

He stood a few feet from his throne, taller than even my father, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes, the iris a blue so light they almost seemed to blend into the whites, stared straight through me. Long hair, as white as my own was dark, spilled down his back almost to the waist of his blue robe--a robe that seemed too light for the thick, cloying cold in the clearing.

"You two." His eyes shifted from me to Rif, then back. "Stand and come closer."

I released Rif's hand and stood, walking forward, not daring to take my eyes off the Winter Lord now that I'd looked at him. With every step, without Rif's steadying touch, it felt like the magic was closing around me again, winding around my legs and arms in thick threads. Our footsteps crunched on the frostbitten grass.

When we were halfway across the clearing, the Winter Lord raised his hand. I stopped immediately, straightening my shoulders.

The Winter Lord glided forward, devoid of the rise and fall of shoulders and head that I was used to seeing from mortals as they moved. He stepped in front of Rif, raising one hand. His fingers were too long, too many-jointed, tipped with chitinous claws that gleamed a pale green, like sunlight glimpsed through many layers of ice. He set the point of one finger under Rif's chin, tipping his head back until Rif's eyes met his. Rif's breath hitched, and his eyes widened in silent terror. His cloak rustled again, an illusion of wings wrapping tight around him.

I gritted my teeth. He shouldn't be here. Rif hadn't been prepared like I had been. He had no idea of how to deal with this magic, with this fey.

"This is the one you call Sacrifice?" The Winter Lord's voice had a subtle, shushing sound to it this close--like icy snow pellets, wind-whipped across a glass window.

"Yes, my lord," my father answered.

The Winter Lord nodded and stepped back. As soon as he let go of Rif's chin, Rif lowered his eyes to the ground, a full body shudder running from head to toe.

The fey lord stepped in front of me. I raised my chin, schooling my face to stone, hoping he didn't see the tremor in my limbs and the anger and fear I felt on Rif's behalf.

My father had told me what to expect here as well. I curled my fingers into fists, for one brief moment considering punching the fey lord rather than extending my hands.

But I wouldn't be the one punished if I acted out. Rif would.

So I peeled my gloves off and held my hands out.

The Winter Lord's chitinous fingers clicked as he wrapped the fingers of one hand around both of mine, his cold skin stealing the last bit of warmth I had left from the gloves. With his other hand, he pushed my sleeves up to my elbows, one sharp, pointed claw resting in the crook of my elbow, where I could feel my pulse quicken.

I gritted my teeth harder, feeling them squeak.

The Winter Lord pressed his claw into my vein. Blood--red and steaming and warm--welled up in my elbow, a jeweled droplet against my dusky skin. There was a splitting sound as he drew the claw downward, blood welling in the cut. I locked my knees, my grip tightening on the Winter Lord's fingers. Besides my harsh breathing, the only sound was blood pattering into a steady stream on the ground at my feet.

Frost reached into my veins, a pattern imprinting itself onto my skin from the inside out. It crawled upward, burning with a cold, clear scent that stung my eyes and nostrils. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes and froze on my cheeks. I dug my fingernails into the Winter Lord's chitin, hearing it crackle like long-dead insects. The inside of my mouth went dry. And still the burn of the frost spread, over my shoulders, down my back, up my throat, until it felt like my skin would crack open.

And I kept my mouth shut the entire time, my teeth aching, my throat clenched tight on a scream that I knew I couldn't release, my eyes locked on the Winter Lord, my hands crushing his bones.

The aching cold suddenly stopped, and in its place I felt a prickling, stinging heat, like frostbitten fingers coming back to life. The Winter Lord released my hands, and I staggered back a step. As I gasped in a breath, my lungs crackled, expanded, and that last little bit of pain was too much. I hit the ground on my knees and doubled over, wrapping my arms around myself, tremors pulling every muscle in my body tight against my bones.

"Sable!" Rif skidded to a halt beside me, his feet leaving dark streaks in the frosted grass. He reached for me, grasping my arms. Warmth suffused my chest--his healing magic, pouring recklessly from the golden glow surrounding his hands. I uncurled a little, shuddering, gasping, watching as the frost crackled and melted from my skin, the split seam in my right arm closing together, the cuts on my hands from the Winter Lord's sharp finger joints disappearing.

"I'm here." Rif pressed his forehead to mine, one hand cupping my cheek. "I'm here, sister. I'm here."

Above us, the Winter Lord chuckled, raising his hands. I watched his fingers spread, the frosted remains of my blood on his skin slowly melting. He looked at my father, who...hadn't moved.

Rage flared in my chest. He'd warned me. He'd told me what it would be like. But I wasn't prepared for the realization that he'd stayed on his knees at the edge of the clearing, watching his own daughter overtaken by burning frost, and done nothing. It cracked me open more than anything the Winter Lord could have ever done.

"She'll do," the Winter Lord declared, leaning down, reaching past Rif and running his fingers into my hair. Strands of it clung to his fingers as he pulled away, the chitin sliding smoothly through. "Such a brave soul. Yes, Sable of House Krolvath, you'll do nicely."

My white hair. As pale as his own. I reached over my shoulder and wrapped my fingers around a braid, dragging it forward and in front of my face. White hair. And frost patterns on my arms. Marked as his. Marked as the Lord of Winter's Knight.

And the magic net around me grew tighter.

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