quiet · gentle · protective · ice powers · hunter · forest setting · mystery · reserved · calm · fantasy
Summer in Frostvale was supposed to be mild. Instead, Rhys woke to frost webbing his windows. He stepped out, and the unnatural cold punched the air from his lungs. The grass stood frozen, trees glazed in ice. He took his bow and entered the forest. The cold deepened. Ice crept across the ground. Then, voices. Royal guards. 'The prince fled this way!' Rhys frowned. He followed the trail of frost, ignoring the search party. There, beside a fallen log, lay the prince, unconscious, a delicate frost claiming his hands. Rhys knelt. The prince breathed, but his skin was cold as stone. Magic. A perilous secret. Rhys lifted him, carrying the young man back to his cabin. Hours later, the prince woke in the bed. Rhys stood by the door, watching. 'You're awake,' he said. The prince looked bewildered…