The snow never melted in Isvaldr.

Not in the heart of summer. 

Not under dragonfire winds.

Not even when the shamans lit their sacred pyres and sang until their voices cracked.

It simply stayed quiet, endless, and cold.

Isvaldr was a village forgotten by time, 

buried between jagged cliffs and ancient glaciers.

Some called the snow a blessing from the old gods. Others called it a curse.

But no one questioned it out loud. 

Not after Klaus was born.

He came into the world without a cry, 

without warmth.

The midwife claimed her hands went numb 

just from holding him. The elders whispered his name like it might bite them back.

Only his mother never flinched.

She wrapped him in furs, smiled softly, 

and named him Klaus.

She said nothing about the frost on the window the night he was born. Nothing about the dead bird found on the doorstep the next morning.

Now, ten winters later, Klaus walked through that same snow as if it answered to him.

He was tall for his age, 

thin as a pine sapling, 

with silver hair that hung over sharp, quiet eyes.

The other children avoided him, 

crossing themselves when he passed.

He didn't seem to care.

Klaus liked silence. He liked the forest.

That morning, he left before the sun had fully risen.

The sky was pale gray, 

clouds stretched thin like worn cloth.

A heavy wool cloak hung from his shoulders, 

the hood pulled low.

His satchel carried only bread, 

dried meat, and a skin of water.

He never brought a blade.

Frostpine Woods were thick.

With trees that creaked like old bones.

Most villagers never ventured beyond the warding stones. They whispered about spirits, beasts, 

and worse. And remnants from the "cataclysm" that shattered the sky.

Klaus didn't believe in those tales.

Until the woods changed.

It started with silence.

No birds. No wind.

Even his footsteps seemed swallowed by the snow.

He stopped beside a dead tree, listening.

Something felt wrong.

Then he saw it.

A clearing up ahead a patch of trampled snow and blood.

A white fox lay dead, its body torn open, ribs gleaming.

But that wasn't what made him freeze.

There was something standing over the fox.

Something tall. Misshapen. Breathing.

It looked wrong not beast, not man.

Its back hunched, arms too long.

Its skin was pale and cracked, 

like frozen meat left in the wind too long.

It turned.

Klaus saw its eyes.

They weren't wild. They were aware.

The thing snarled, a sound like gravel dragged across ice.

Klaus didn't run.

He should have. 

But something inside him moved instead.

A stillness deep beneath his ribs, colder than fear.

He raised his hand not knowing why. 

Not thinking.

The snow beneath the creature surged upward, solidifying into a spike of ice.

It hit. The beast staggered, roaring.

Then it lunged.

Klaus's hands flew up.

Frost erupted from the earth, a wall of ice crashing into the creature and hurling it backward.

Then nothing.

His vision blurred.

His knees buckled.

The forest tilted.

When he came to, the clearing was empty.

No sign of the creature. 

Only blood, broken ice, and silence.

He stared at his hands. 

They still glowed faintly blue.

Something inside him pulsed, 

alive and ancient.

Back in the village, the shamans gathered in the shrine of bone and stone.

They lit incense made from dried wolfroot and opened tomes wrapped in dust and fur.

None spoke, but they all felt it surge of mana.

Not new. Not young.

Something old had stirred.

They turned to the forbidden page.

One word stared back at them.

Deseus.

At the utterance of the name, the fire in the brazier flickered sideways.

The air grew still. Then colder.

The shadows in the corners of the shrine stretched long. One moved.

A figure stood there, 

cloaked in black that shimmered like frozen ink.

Its face hidden. 

Its form shifting between man and mist.

No footsteps. No breath.

One of the younger shamans gasped.

The eldest a blind woman with frost-bitten fingers fell to her knees.

"It watches," she rasped. "It remembers."

No one dared look directly at the figure.

Not even the elder dared speak its name.

They bowed their heads in silence, praying it would vanish before the incense burned out.

And just as suddenly, it was gone.

Only a faint trace of ice remained on the stone where it had stood.

The shamans did not speak for a long time.

Then the eldest whispered, her voice barely a breath:

"If Deseus stirs... the Watcher stirs with him."

That night, Klaus sat in the dark corner of their hut, still and quiet.

His fingers trembled, cold to the touch even near the fire.

His mother entered, carrying a bowl of stew.

"You went too far again," she said, kneeling beside him.

Her voice was calm. Not accusing. "The woods are changing."

Klaus didn't answer.

She placed the bowl beside him.

"You always come back colder than when you left."

He looked at her, hesitation in his eyes.

"Do you ever feel... like something's watching out there?"

There was a pause. Then, she gave a faint smile not one of amusement, but recognition.

"I used to," she said. Her hand brushed the hair from his eyes. "Your father did, too."

He blinked.

"You never talk about him."

Her eyes didn't waver.

"Maybe one day I will."

She stood and ruffled his hair.

"Eat. Before it freezes."

Later that night, while she slept by the fire, Klaus stepped outside.

The wind was low. The moon was distant.

Stars shimmered like frost scattered across black stone.

Then something blinked in the sky.

Not a star.

And a voice followed.

Not from the woods. Not from the wind.

"Child of ice. Born of surge. You are the key."

Klaus froze.

His breath steamed in the air, slow and shallow.

He wanted to speak but something held his voice still.

A snowflake drifted from the sky.

It glowed faintly blue.

Before it touched the ground, it vanished.

Klaus looked up at the stars.

Long cracks stretched through the firmament jagged lines of broken light. Broken and in pieces, 

No one knew why the lights were shattered. 

His breath steamed in the air, slow and shallow.

He wanted to speak, but something held his voice still.

A snowflake drifted from the sky.

It glowed faintly blue.

Before it touched the ground, it vanished.

Snow fell silently around him.

And Klaus just stood there, looking up at the shattered skies.