Within the intricately carved corridors of the Frozen Palace, two silver blades danced beneath the eternal light of the Winter Realm.
Elven blades were coveted weapons. Masterworks by nature, the long, slender silhouette of the single-edged sword was recognisable for both its design and its devastating cutting edge. It required a lifetime of work for an elven swordsmith to craft their first blade worth wielding.
And yet, they were all but pale imitations of the fae weapons.
Count Landin's blade shone as he struck, matching the eyes illuminated with winter, magic and delight as his fae sword pierced the space where his opponent's head had just resided. The air shimmied where his blade passed through, as though something unseen to the eye had been torn by the sharpness of that sword.
Ophelia had no doubt this was the case.
Fae swords were magic given form, twisted and moulded until it resembled the shape of a weapon.
There were no blacksmiths among the fae. Only artists and singers, and together, they crafted swords which spun a melody of the cruellest winter as they carved through the air.
Ophelia found herself at the end of such a deadly weapon, again and again.
She slipped between the strikes, her graceful form seeming to bend like shifting water as she evaded attacks which seemed destined for her head or her heart.
As Count Landin pressed forward, his aggressive footwork ensured Ophelia could do little but skip away as she gave ground. It was all the elven woman could do to keep her eyes focused on the silver weapon as she grieved over the loss of her ability to attend a simple family get-together without feeling ashamed.
“It's not like I'm against finding a partner,” said Ophelia, her face strewn with exasperation as she lifted her blade to deflect a strike. “Look, I'm as keen as anyone to find a soulmate. Who doesn't want to be happy? It's not like I have anything against finding someone. It's just ...”
“Complicated?” replied Count Landin, his calm voice in contrast to the viciousness of his attacks. He readjusted his upside-down crown once more.“Despite your assertions, I maintain that it is not. Your situation is far less complicated than you make it out to be. Despairingly so.”
Ophelia shook her head, dodging a twin pair of strikes as she was momentarily distracted by the upside-down crown. Neither the glow from the fae's eyes, nor the light from his blade could match that artifact's gleam.
“I'm an elf,” she said, her consternation rising. “I'm going to live centuries. And divorce isn't a thing. And yet the way everyone looks at me, it's like I'm the only pescatarian fruit slime in a forest.”
“And that's what concerns you? Mere looks? Why, if you wilted beneath my blade as much as you did beneath the eyes of your compatriots, you would be a stain upon the Frozen Palace's floor now.”
“You don't know what it's like,” groaned Ophelia. “I can't even visit my cousins for the Yule Festival anymore. Every time I sit down at a family gathering, I can feel everyone avoiding the topic. They've all got families, you know? Husbands, wives, kids, the lot. A few of my cousins only got married a few weeks ago … and they purposefully skirt the topic. It's so embarrassing.”
Ophelia parried another strike. This time, she sent her silver blade up the fae's magical sword, almost catching her opponent's arm before he twisted his sword guard to meet her.
“You're correct. I have little idea of what it's like.” Count Landin attempted to seize the opportunity by hooking Ophelia's sword away. She was already gone, her sword safely in her grip as she stole a measure of distance between them. “Frankly, I don't see the issue in taking your time as you see fit. You certainly have that luxury. Forgive me, but I fail to see what the urgency is.”
“Exactly! That's what I mean!”
Ophelia kept her sword raised as Count Landin casually approached. His sword twirling in his grip. A show of needless bravado. But also to bait a sword strike.
“Despite the seriousness of any commitment, I get shoved around like I'm some human towngirl needing to pop out a few babies to help with the family business. It's absurd. And yet the taboo is still there.”
“Then ignore it,” said Count Landin, clearly calculating the length of Ophelia's reach. “A taboo is a social construct. It is not a law you must bend over to obey.”
“It's practically law. In elven society—”
“In elven society, does romance not exist?”
“What?”
“Romance.” Count Landin tested Ophelia's patience with a purposeful swipe at the tip of her blade. “Your poems and stories are the height of dullness. Not a single elven author has made it into the Frozen Palace's library archives for 50 years. Yet even with your crippling lack of creativity, I at least acknowledged that you were a race predisposed towards the dance of courtship. What I hear has greatly changed my opinion.”
“Stories are different to reality. That's why they're so loved. In real life, people expect you to either be a grandmother at the tender age of 100 or one of those forest sages who only eat berries and talks to trees, and everyone pretends they're wise when they're just weird.”
“And is it your family who suggests this?”
“No,” admitted Ophelia, switching sword arms as the fae guessed at her weaker side. “They barely say anything. Most of them, anyway. It's my mother and the villagers who won't stop griping.”
“Then they should be thoroughly ignored. Individual choices should be celebrated. How else can romance blossom, if not at the sole discretion of time and fate?”
Count Landin thrust his blade forward, inviting Ophelia to skip back. He knew this and continued onwards, pirouetting on the ball of his feet to perform a vicious hack across the elf's undefended side. The Crown of Winter spun briefly in the air before landing on his head once more.
“Romance is dead,” replied the elven woman, neither turning nor raising her sword to deflect the bow. Instead she leaned backwards, a graceful bend of her back which sent her beneath the sweeping blade. “I saw it die before I even left the forest. My earliest memories is being stood up. How awful is that?”
“Ah.”
Count Landin's eyes softened—even as his blade spun back to cut down at the woman whose back was bent. She was prepared. As the sword came for her, she dropped fully to the snowy floor and rolled.
“I understand now,” continued the Count, not falling for Ophelia's ruse as she instantly swept her sword up to impale him had he dived for her grounded form. “You've been bitten by a very poor experience. Gravely so.”
Ophelia rose to her feet, far more clumsily than she wished, and stamped her foot.
“I know what you're about to suggest! And it is not true!”
“If your mother is so keen on you recovering from a past trauma, then perhaps you are mistaking nosiness for simple concern over your mental well-being?”
Ophelia groaned. It was this conversation. Again. Even in the Fae Realm, everyone was a psychiatrist.
“Instead of telling me how I need to be grateful that I have family who care deeply about my ability to pop out children, I don't suppose you can be useful and tell me if you're in the market? I honestly want to see everyone's reactions if I bring home a fae. Enemy of the people and all.”
Count Landin's blade gathered with snow as he held it with both hands. The snow seeped through gaps between the windows and from the ground, rushing to envelop the length of the blade. Ice formed where snow met silver.
“I'm married.”
“Oh. Damn.”
“My apologies,” said Count Landin, his laden sword pointing towards Ophelia. “However, I've little doubt a woman of your stature will find a suitable partner before long. Few can dance the song of swords with me and live to hear the final elements of the melody.”
Ophelia resumed her defensive stance in the centre of the corridor, again inviting the fae to strike at her.
He obliged with a sweeping cut across the air. The snow turned to ice surged forwards. A guillotining blade that Ophelia sliced in two with her own blade. The Frozen Palace stood firm against the two halves of the strike, breaking the ice into powder as it slammed into the wall behind her.
“It's a song I've heard all my life,” said Ophelia. “And I'll allow your brethren waiting in the wings to continue it after you've perished.”
Count Landin smirked, though not before nodding at the robustness of Ophelia's blade. A pale imitation it may be, but it was one of the finest ever forged.
“You sense that you're surrounded by the host of the Winter Court, then?”
“We're in the middle of the Frozen Palace. Quite frankly, I'd be stunned if an audience wasn't watching.”
“Then you understand the futility of raising your sword against me.”
“I understand that if you're already hitched, then I need to hurry up and find the next guy who isn't. Sorry for using you as a gripe sponge. We should probably end this before your peers start throwing rotten fruit at us.”
Count Landin softly chuckled.
“Indeed. A marvellous demonstration of showmanship this has been. But even an eager audience will tire of the same play. I fear I must prove myself a bit more thoroughly.”
“Fae are a rather demanding crowd, I take it?”
“Demanding? No. Easily bored? Yes. And so even as the Custodian of Treasures, I fall prey to the whims of my kind. Currently, they desire your demise for the grand insult you've delivered us.”
“Entering the Frozen Palace without permission and despoiling the inner sanctum of the Winter Court?”
“No. Eschewing the meal we've prepared. It is not common to allow mortals to dine in the Fae Realm.”
Ophelia frowned.
“We don't eat bricks.”
“No?”
“We use them for construction. To build houses and other buildings. We don't eat them.”
Count Landin looked mildly puzzled.
“To each their own. We find them most delicious. Grainy, with all the flavours of the land mixed unto it. The finest fare those of you from beyond the Wovencoille have ever concocted.”
“Then I'll make sure to bring some the next time I break into the Frozen Palace.”
The fae smiled.
“Please endeavour to do so.”
Then, he casually clicked his fingers.
At once, all the light in the corridor blackened to a moonless night. Despite the sky over the Fae Realm remaining bright beyond the windows, no light shone through into the sudden dark.
All that briefly remained were the glowing eyes of the Count, fading even as he took a single step towards Ophelia.
“Come,” came his voice, resounding all around her. “Let us see how well you dance in the night of winter, cousin.”
Ophelia had no such intention.
She sheathed her elven blade, her hand remaining around its hilt as she offered her reply to the darkness.
“See the path amidst unfaltering cold. Mine is the wrath ordained by the snow.”
A moment later, a surge of light erupted in a circle around the elven woman, revealing both Ophelia's amusement—as well as the embarrassment on Count Landin's face as he was caught attempting to strike her from above. His beautiful, butterfly-like wings fluttered in the light, casting a delightful shadow against the corridor of the Frozen Palace.
Blindness and an aerial attack? Ophelia made sure the fae knew that such double lack of chivalry was noted by her expression.
However, any embarrassment the fae felt was wiped out when he saw what was happening around Ophelia's feet.
The snow was gathering around her.
All of it.
A groan resounded throughout the Frozen Palace's corridors as snow lifted from the ground, less like a white cloud and more a frozen iceberg.
“You … You would dare use the snow against us?” he said, all the joviality replaced by stunned indignation. “You would attempt to use the snow of the Frozen Palace against the fae of the Winter Court?”
Ophelia smiled.
It wasn't like how the Count had summoned the snow, piecemeal and powdery, seeping through gaps and toiling from the ground.
When Ophelia called the snow, it slammed into the windows from outside, as though a howling gale was propelling each speck with the power of a ballista. The snow throughout the corridor lifted around her, save for the circle in which she stood.
“Yep,” she replied simply.
Count Landin was appalled. But only briefly.
Sword in hand, his wings fluttered as he dived towards the elven woman.
Ophelia responded by unveiling her sword. She exhaled a short breath.
“Snow Helix Form, 2nd Stance … [Gravity Reversal].”
With a sickening crunch, all the snow within eyesight of her slammed into the ceiling.
Count Landin had no room to manoeuvre as he was struck like a mosquito from the sky. The snow beyond the windows lifted high into the air, but within the corridor, it froze against the crystalline ceiling, offering no grace for the Count who was now crushed and imprisoned in a block of ice.
Satisfied, Ophelia leapt, slicing where she knew the head of Count Landin was now helpless against the ceiling. Down dropped two objects.
Ophelia picked up the Crown of Winter and kicked away the other.
As she turned to leave, she could already hear the clamour in the distance. A buzzing like the waking of a swarm jostled from its hive.
The Winter Court would be here soon. All of them. Coming from the sky where any ordinary blade could not reach.
But the elven woman didn't worry.
Because Ophelia was the Snow Dancer.
And she could dance faster than wings could fly.
Within the intricately carved corridors of the Frozen Palace, two silver blades danced beneath the eternal light of the Winter Realm.
Elven blades were coveted weapons. Masterworks by nature, the long, slender silhouette of the single-edged sword was recognisable for both its design and its devastating cutting edge. It required a lifetime of work for an elven swordsmith to craft their first blade worth wielding.
And yet, they were all but pale imitations of the fae weapons.
Count Landin's blade shone as he struck, matching the eyes illuminated with winter, magic and delight as his fae sword pierced the space where his opponent's head had just resided. The air shimmied where his blade passed through, as though something unseen to the eye had been torn by the sharpness of that sword.
Ophelia had no doubt this was the case.
Fae swords were magic given form, twisted and moulded until it resembled the shape of a weapon.
There were no blacksmiths among the fae. Only artists and singers, and together, they crafted swords which spun a melody of the cruellest winter as they carved through the air.
Ophelia found herself at the end of such a deadly weapon, again and again.
She slipped between the strikes, her graceful form seeming to bend like shifting water as she evaded attacks which seemed destined for her head or her heart.
As Count Landin pressed forward, his aggressive footwork ensured Ophelia could do little but skip away as she gave ground. It was all the elven woman could do to keep her eyes focused on the silver weapon as she grieved over the loss of her ability to attend a simple family get-together without feeling ashamed.
“It's not like I'm against finding a partner,” said Ophelia, her face strewn with exasperation as she lifted her blade to deflect a strike. “Look, I'm as keen as anyone to find a soulmate. Who doesn't want to be happy? It's not like I have anything against finding someone. It's just ...”
“Complicated?” replied Count Landin, his calm voice in contrast to the viciousness of his attacks. He readjusted his upside-down crown once more.“Despite your assertions, I maintain that it is not. Your situation is far less complicated than you make it out to be. Despairingly so.”
Ophelia shook her head, dodging a twin pair of strikes as she was momentarily distracted by the upside-down crown. Neither the glow from the fae's eyes, nor the light from his blade could match that artifact's gleam.
“I'm an elf,” she said, her consternation rising. “I'm going to live centuries. And divorce isn't a thing. And yet the way everyone looks at me, it's like I'm the only pescatarian fruit slime in a forest.”
“And that's what concerns you? Mere looks? Why, if you wilted beneath my blade as much as you did beneath the eyes of your compatriots, you would be a stain upon the Frozen Palace's floor now.”
“You don't know what it's like,” groaned Ophelia. “I can't even visit my cousins for the Yule Festival anymore. Every time I sit down at a family gathering, I can feel everyone avoiding the topic. They've all got families, you know? Husbands, wives, kids, the lot. A few of my cousins only got married a few weeks ago … and they purposefully skirt the topic. It's so embarrassing.”
Ophelia parried another strike. This time, she sent her silver blade up the fae's magical sword, almost catching her opponent's arm before he twisted his sword guard to meet her.
“You're correct. I have little idea of what it's like.” Count Landin attempted to seize the opportunity by hooking Ophelia's sword away. She was already gone, her sword safely in her grip as she stole a measure of distance between them. “Frankly, I don't see the issue in taking your time as you see fit. You certainly have that luxury. Forgive me, but I fail to see what the urgency is.”
“Exactly! That's what I mean!”
Ophelia kept her sword raised as Count Landin casually approached. His sword twirling in his grip. A show of needless bravado. But also to bait a sword strike.
“Despite the seriousness of any commitment, I get shoved around like I'm some human towngirl needing to pop out a few babies to help with the family business. It's absurd. And yet the taboo is still there.”
“Then ignore it,” said Count Landin, clearly calculating the length of Ophelia's reach. “A taboo is a social construct. It is not a law you must bend over to obey.”
“It's practically law. In elven society—”
“In elven society, does romance not exist?”
“What?”
“Romance.” Count Landin tested Ophelia's patience with a purposeful swipe at the tip of her blade. “Your poems and stories are the height of dullness. Not a single elven author has made it into the Frozen Palace's library archives for 50 years. Yet even with your crippling lack of creativity, I at least acknowledged that you were a race predisposed towards the dance of courtship. What I hear has greatly changed my opinion.”
“Stories are different to reality. That's why they're so loved. In real life, people expect you to either be a grandmother at the tender age of 100 or one of those forest sages who only eat berries and talks to trees, and everyone pretends they're wise when they're just weird.”
“And is it your family who suggests this?”
“No,” admitted Ophelia, switching sword arms as the fae guessed at her weaker side. “They barely say anything. Most of them, anyway. It's my mother and the villagers who won't stop griping.”
“Then they should be thoroughly ignored. Individual choices should be celebrated. How else can romance blossom, if not at the sole discretion of time and fate?”
Count Landin thrust his blade forward, inviting Ophelia to skip back. He knew this and continued onwards, pirouetting on the ball of his feet to perform a vicious hack across the elf's undefended side. The Crown of Winter spun briefly in the air before landing on his head once more.
“Romance is dead,” replied the elven woman, neither turning nor raising her sword to deflect the bow. Instead she leaned backwards, a graceful bend of her back which sent her beneath the sweeping blade. “I saw it die before I even left the forest. My earliest memories is being stood up. How awful is that?”
“Ah.”
Count Landin's eyes softened—even as his blade spun back to cut down at the woman whose back was bent. She was prepared. As the sword came for her, she dropped fully to the snowy floor and rolled.
“I understand now,” continued the Count, not falling for Ophelia's ruse as she instantly swept her sword up to impale him had he dived for her grounded form. “You've been bitten by a very poor experience. Gravely so.”
Ophelia rose to her feet, far more clumsily than she wished, and stamped her foot.
“I know what you're about to suggest! And it is not true!”
“If your mother is so keen on you recovering from a past trauma, then perhaps you are mistaking nosiness for simple concern over your mental well-being?”
Ophelia groaned. It was this conversation. Again. Even in the Fae Realm, everyone was a psychiatrist.
“Instead of telling me how I need to be grateful that I have family who care deeply about my ability to pop out children, I don't suppose you can be useful and tell me if you're in the market? I honestly want to see everyone's reactions if I bring home a fae. Enemy of the people and all.”
Count Landin's blade gathered with snow as he held it with both hands. The snow seeped through gaps between the windows and from the ground, rushing to envelop the length of the blade. Ice formed where snow met silver.
“I'm married.”
“Oh. Damn.”
“My apologies,” said Count Landin, his laden sword pointing towards Ophelia. “However, I've little doubt a woman of your stature will find a suitable partner before long. Few can dance the song of swords with me and live to hear the final elements of the melody.”
Ophelia resumed her defensive stance in the centre of the corridor, again inviting the fae to strike at her.
He obliged with a sweeping cut across the air. The snow turned to ice surged forwards. A guillotining blade that Ophelia sliced in two with her own blade. The Frozen Palace stood firm against the two halves of the strike, breaking the ice into powder as it slammed into the wall behind her.
“It's a song I've heard all my life,” said Ophelia. “And I'll allow your brethren waiting in the wings to continue it after you've perished.”
Count Landin smirked, though not before nodding at the robustness of Ophelia's blade. A pale imitation it may be, but it was one of the finest ever forged.
“You sense that you're surrounded by the host of the Winter Court, then?”
“We're in the middle of the Frozen Palace. Quite frankly, I'd be stunned if an audience wasn't watching.”
“Then you understand the futility of raising your sword against me.”
“I understand that if you're already hitched, then I need to hurry up and find the next guy who isn't. Sorry for using you as a gripe sponge. We should probably end this before your peers start throwing rotten fruit at us.”
Count Landin softly chuckled.
“Indeed. A marvellous demonstration of showmanship this has been. But even an eager audience will tire of the same play. I fear I must prove myself a bit more thoroughly.”
“Fae are a rather demanding crowd, I take it?”
“Demanding? No. Easily bored? Yes. And so even as the Custodian of Treasures, I fall prey to the whims of my kind. Currently, they desire your demise for the grand insult you've delivered us.”
“Entering the Frozen Palace without permission and despoiling the inner sanctum of the Winter Court?”
“No. Eschewing the meal we've prepared. It is not common to allow mortals to dine in the Fae Realm.”
Ophelia frowned.
“We don't eat bricks.”
“No?”
“We use them for construction. To build houses and other buildings. We don't eat them.”
Count Landin looked mildly puzzled.
“To each their own. We find them most delicious. Grainy, with all the flavours of the land mixed unto it. The finest fare those of you from beyond the Wovencoille have ever concocted.”
“Then I'll make sure to bring some the next time I break into the Frozen Palace.”
The fae smiled.
“Please endeavour to do so.”
Then, he casually clicked his fingers.
At once, all the light in the corridor blackened to a moonless night. Despite the sky over the Fae Realm remaining bright beyond the windows, no light shone through into the sudden dark.
All that briefly remained were the glowing eyes of the Count, fading even as he took a single step towards Ophelia.
“Come,” came his voice, resounding all around her. “Let us see how well you dance in the night of winter, cousin.”
Ophelia had no such intention.
She sheathed her elven blade, her hand remaining around its hilt as she offered her reply to the darkness.
“See the path amidst unfaltering cold. Mine is the wrath ordained by the snow.”
A moment later, a surge of light erupted in a circle around the elven woman, revealing both Ophelia's amusement—as well as the embarrassment on Count Landin's face as he was caught attempting to strike her from above. His beautiful, butterfly-like wings fluttered in the light, casting a delightful shadow against the corridor of the Frozen Palace.
Blindness and an aerial attack? Ophelia made sure the fae knew that such double lack of chivalry was noted by her expression.
However, any embarrassment the fae felt was wiped out when he saw what was happening around Ophelia's feet.
The snow was gathering around her.
All of it.
A groan resounded throughout the Frozen Palace's corridors as snow lifted from the ground, less like a white cloud and more a frozen iceberg.
“You … You would dare use the snow against us?” he said, all the joviality replaced by stunned indignation. “You would attempt to use the snow of the Frozen Palace against the fae of the Winter Court?”
Ophelia smiled.
It wasn't like how the Count had summoned the snow, piecemeal and powdery, seeping through gaps and toiling from the ground.
When Ophelia called the snow, it slammed into the windows from outside, as though a howling gale was propelling each speck with the power of a ballista. The snow throughout the corridor lifted around her, save for the circle in which she stood.
“Yep,” she replied simply.
Count Landin was appalled. But only briefly.
Sword in hand, his wings fluttered as he dived towards the elven woman.
Ophelia responded by unveiling her sword. She exhaled a short breath.
“Snow Helix Form, 2nd Stance … [Gravity Reversal].”
With a sickening crunch, all the snow within eyesight of her slammed into the ceiling.
Count Landin had no room to manoeuvre as he was struck like a mosquito from the sky. The snow beyond the windows lifted high into the air, but within the corridor, it froze against the crystalline ceiling, offering no grace for the Count who was now crushed and imprisoned in a block of ice.
Satisfied, Ophelia leapt, slicing where she knew the head of Count Landin was now helpless against the ceiling. Down dropped two objects.
Ophelia picked up the Crown of Winter and kicked away the other.
As she turned to leave, she could already hear the clamour in the distance. A buzzing like the waking of a swarm jostled from its hive.
The Winter Court would be here soon. All of them. Coming from the sky where any ordinary blade could not reach.
But the elven woman didn't worry.
Because Ophelia was the Snow Dancer.
And she could dance faster than wings could fly.
