Beneath the crystalline boughs of the Winter Court's forest, Ophelia danced across the snow as she fled from a very, very angry swarm of fae.
Sweeping past snow slimes and frozen streams, she occasionally caught the reflections of her pursuers as they flew relentlessly after her. And while the cold didn't make her shiver, those maddened faces certainly did.
Behind her, she could hear a ceaseless buzzing as every fae of the Winter Court dove after her with murder sketched across their faces. Highly detailed sketches, as well. It was impressive. There was something about the Fae Realm which made everything evoke imagery. And the faces of the fae were no different.
Gone were the chins lifted high in arrogance, and the eyes that burned with nobility.
Now all Ophelia saw was a primal wish to end her life, preferably with as much blood spurting mess as possible.
No, words weren't really needed.
It made sense, in a way. The fae were stories, said to be born each time a child ever imagined anything more concrete than eating pencils. Which was cute. And also hopefully a lie.
Because if a child birthed these fae, then they needed help.
Each time she glanced behind her shoulder, she could see in visceral detail how each fae planned to murder her. And judging by the fangs which had appeared where shiny white teeth should be, only a few planned to use their weapons to do it.
Ophelia whistled to herself as she ducked beneath a branch, leaving snow and crystalline leaves to fall behind her as she brushed past.
It was, by all accounts, a poor situation to be in.
With the Crown of Winter in her hand and the Winter Court's entire population keen to have it back, there was little chance of dancing away forever. Eventually, they would realise that she really wasn't going anywhere as well, but was circling the same wide area. And that'd be a terrible problem.
The moment they stopped following and started thinking, she'd be stuffed.
Literally stuffed. She'd seen it in their faces. It was awful. But given what she'd done when she killed #7 and #15, even she had to admit it's probably what she deserved.
Then, Ophelia skidded to a halt.
From the crystalline underbrush of the trees, a new score of fae emerged.
They were armoured in silver regalia and carried halberds glistening with snowflakes. Within their helmets, blue eyes pulsing with magic swept her up and down.
Ophelia breathed a sigh of relief.
These ones only intended to stab her normally. That was great. She never considered being eaten by fae as a way of dying until she'd seen it on the faces of those behind her. Suddenly, she understood the joy of 'dying a warrior's death' muck. It sure beat being digested.
Only one fae was different among the armoured group.
He wore a white chiton and a smirk as he led the others behind him. He stopped only when he was close enough to dive for Ophelia, but still far enough away that she couldn't reach him. Or so he believed.
“Quite a merry chase, isn't this, cousin?” said Count Landin.
Ophelia frowned.
“I'm 85% certain I just booted your head away.”
“You did,” he replied, his head partially sliding off to reveal the crystalline flesh underneath. He pushed it back into place. “It was a disgraceful way to treat a worthy adversary after honourable combat. The joy of watching my own body flounder about while searching for me was rather muted.”
Ophelia shrugged.
“In my culture, kicking away heads is a way of showing respect.”
“Is that so? In my culture, dismembering limbs while our prey is mewling for death is also a way of showing respect.”
The elven woman nodded. As an A-rank sword saint who'd been threatened by everything under the sun, she had a very open and liberal view on other cultures.
“I'm happy to keep being chased,” she said, shrugging as she shook the Crown of Winter like a tambourine. “I take it this is the main reason you can still follow me?”
“This is the domain of the Winter Court. Even the snowflakes watch you. Nowhere is beyond our sight and knowledge.”
Ophelia raised an eyebrow. The snowflakes didn't tell them where she was when she first broke into the Frozen Palace. In fact, she could have been juggling flaming torches and gone unseen if she really wished to.
For all the fae's bluster, they were neither omnipotent nor divine beings sent from above. But they were magical. And they were apparently drawn towards their Crown.
Thus, Ophelia ticked off another goal on her list.
“So, what do I need to snip off for you to die?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Is it because you have a title that you can survive a gentle beheading?”
Count Landin smirked, answering her question.
“I live in service to the Winter Queen. Only she can release me from this body.”
“I don't suppose that means giving you a new one? Yours is slightly damaged.”
“It is enough.”
Count Landin casually waved a few of his comrades onwards.
“I note your lack of pleading, grovelling and tears,” said Count Landin. “While I admit you possess some skill at arms, you have neither the means to escape, nor the strength to best the entire host of the Winter Court. I say this, because were you to display contrition at your actions today, I would be content to return the favour of beheading you. A much kinder gesture than staying my hand, I hope you agree.”
Ophelia did, actually.
By now, the buzzing had become a maelstrom of noise.
She didn't need to look around to know that the swarm was about to headbutt her. And Ophelia doubted if they'd wait for one fancy fae's hand waving gesture before they began enthusiastic updating their current knowledge on elven anatomy.
Thus, she held up the Crown of Winter.
“Wait,” she said.
“Oh?” Count Landin ushered his comrades to a halt. “What's this? Will I actually hear a note of remorse? Truthfully, I think I'd be rather disappointed. Shameless impudence is a worthy quality to have in the face of certain demise.”
“Still have that, actually. Got buckets' worth.”
Count Landin frowned.
“Then to what reason do you ask us to wait? To bargain?”
“Nope. To waste time until the angry fire mage can finish her incantation.”
To his credit, Count Landin reacted reasonably fast.
Using his wings to propel himself forwards, he leapt. Snow burst behind him as the fae lunged with his silver sword directly for Ophelia's head, intent on at least making this a draw.
The rest of the Winter Court followed. Silver armour and enchanted weapons glinted beneath the eternal light of the Fae Realm as they hurled themselves into a business-like charge. Somewhere above, the sound of diving wings whipped against the air. The magic burned bright in all the eyes of the fae.
“[Inferno Wall].”
But not as bright as the barrier of flames that erupted before them.
Screams resounded throughout the Fae Realm as neither the Winter Queen's children, nor the whispering snowflakes noticed the woman that had been casting a very big spell beneath a pile of particularly slushy snow.
The flames were as indiscriminate as they were devastating.
A great wall of hellfire which burst from newly created fissures, sending steam and misery in every direction.
Those fae which were impaled by the wall of death were incinerated. Those that failed to stop their eager charge in time were scorched beyond recognition.
Between licks of flames, Ophelia caught sight of wings alight and faces bubbling as they melted. The sound of screams overwhelmed the roaring of the inferno as the fae found themselves caught aflame as easily as a dry leaf in summertime. Jets of burning vapour hissed against the [Inferno Wall] as fae dived to the snow in a desperate bid to rid themselves of fire which burned hotter than any brand.
Ophelia turned around.
Before her was the most normal human woman she'd ever seen in her life.
She had hazelnut hair and brown eyes. She was thin without being slender, pretty without being beautiful, and the cloak she wore looked as though it had once belonged to a pauper.
Or maybe a shopkeeper without many customers.
“You know they can fly, right?” said Ophelia, pointing up at the gap in the sky.
Before her, Marina Lainsfont rolled her eyes.
“I do.”
The moment the first fae was sighted hovering over the open ceiling, a secondary jet of flame burst upwards, doubling the length of the barrier.
Those few fae who braved an attempt over the wall were consumed. Incinerated and charred remains turned to ash as they fell, becoming a black dust which dispersed before even meeting the ground.
Ophelia tried not to breathe it in.
“You could have done this any time, you know?” she said, hands around her mouth. “Don't tell me you needed to wait for me to sprint in a circle for twenty laps first.”
“Please don't direct criticism towards me when you repeatedly failed to stop at the correct location. It was blind luck where the fae halted you.”
“It's snow. And trees. And a few deer. Just because I'm an elf doesn't mean I can tell each leaf and critter apart. I was running around hoping you'd give me a signal.”
Marina pursed her lips and frowned, her hands tightening around her staff.
That staff was the only thing that stood out about her.
A branch seized from a rare ebony tree, then twisted and mutilated until it resembled the shape of a stave. It brimmed with magic. Actually brimmed. The entire thing was glowing, almost sparkling with tiny embers. Each time a fae wilted in the snow, another ember burst forth.
Ophelia wanted a sword that could do that as well.
Hers would be a fireworks display.
“I did give you a signal,” she said, in that passive-aggressive way that angry human women did when they wanted to pretend to be diplomatic but actually wanted to start separating heads from torsos.
“Really?” Ophelia was quite puzzled. “What was it?”
“The one I informed you about while you were blindly and heedlessly dashing off towards the direction of the heart of the Winter Court. I see you failed in getting yourself killed.”
“Yeah, I get worse at that every year.”
Ophelia waved the Crown of Winter at the mage.
As she did so, she could feel its power tickling at her fingertips, drawing on her to place the crown atop her head.
Perhaps if it was anyone else, they would have done just that. But Ophelia didn't care about destructively powerful artifacts. She cared about her cottage. And her ducks.
And it was time to go home.
“Let me hold the crown,” said Marina, after she'd clearly gone through a thousand permutations for what would happen if she simply tried seizing it from Ophelia.
The elven woman smiled brightly.
“You can pinch it. But no holding. You know how it is.”
Thus, Ophelia offered the Crown of Winter with a firm grip.
The mage didn't immediately reach for it, opting to dent her brows instead. Ophelia found it impressive that the mage's need to look indignant was stronger than whatever monstrous pull the Crown of Winter was having on her.
Then, Marina reached out and pinched one of the crown's edges. She began to siphon magic. And not just from the crown.
For a split second, immeasurable to anyone but Ophelia, she watched as the embers from the staff were drawn to her like fireflies towards a pond.
Ah. So the ebony staff wasn't a conduit. It was a repository. That was handy to know.
After all, Ophelia fully expected she'd need to kill this human woman one day.
She didn't know why or when that'd be, but in her experience, the strong only gravitated towards one another to reconfirm the pecking order.
And as she thought that—
Crack.
A sound like a biting whip resounded in her ears.
The next moment, she felt the snow beneath her feet disappear.
A primal force tugged at her as she was lifted as easily as a child's doll, and she lost all sense of time and direction. The sights, sounds and colours of the world rushed by her as a single din of chaos, severe enough that if anyone was exposed to it for even a heartbeat longer, they would be lost immediately to the throes of insanity.
Ophelia blinked. A gap the length of a single step separated her soles and the floor.
She landed gracefully despite the vertigo she felt. And then she was looking at a portly man with greying hair sitting atop a chair more splendid than the Throne of Tirea.
“Snow Dancer,” said Duke Valence, ruler of the Duchy of Aquina. “You've returned.”
His eyes crept down to the crown held in Ophelia's hands.
And then he smiled.
Beneath the crystalline boughs of the Winter Court's forest, Ophelia danced across the snow as she fled from a very, very angry swarm of fae.
Sweeping past snow slimes and frozen streams, she occasionally caught the reflections of her pursuers as they flew relentlessly after her. And while the cold didn't make her shiver, those maddened faces certainly did.
Behind her, she could hear a ceaseless buzzing as every fae of the Winter Court dove after her with murder sketched across their faces. Highly detailed sketches, as well. It was impressive. There was something about the Fae Realm which made everything evoke imagery. And the faces of the fae were no different.
Gone were the chins lifted high in arrogance, and the eyes that burned with nobility.
Now all Ophelia saw was a primal wish to end her life, preferably with as much blood spurting mess as possible.
No, words weren't really needed.
It made sense, in a way. The fae were stories, said to be born each time a child ever imagined anything more concrete than eating pencils. Which was cute. And also hopefully a lie.
Because if a child birthed these fae, then they needed help.
Each time she glanced behind her shoulder, she could see in visceral detail how each fae planned to murder her. And judging by the fangs which had appeared where shiny white teeth should be, only a few planned to use their weapons to do it.
Ophelia whistled to herself as she ducked beneath a branch, leaving snow and crystalline leaves to fall behind her as she brushed past.
It was, by all accounts, a poor situation to be in.
With the Crown of Winter in her hand and the Winter Court's entire population keen to have it back, there was little chance of dancing away forever. Eventually, they would realise that she really wasn't going anywhere as well, but was circling the same wide area. And that'd be a terrible problem.
The moment they stopped following and started thinking, she'd be stuffed.
Literally stuffed. She'd seen it in their faces. It was awful. But given what she'd done when she killed #7 and #15, even she had to admit it's probably what she deserved.
Then, Ophelia skidded to a halt.
From the crystalline underbrush of the trees, a new score of fae emerged.
They were armoured in silver regalia and carried halberds glistening with snowflakes. Within their helmets, blue eyes pulsing with magic swept her up and down.
Ophelia breathed a sigh of relief.
These ones only intended to stab her normally. That was great. She never considered being eaten by fae as a way of dying until she'd seen it on the faces of those behind her. Suddenly, she understood the joy of 'dying a warrior's death' muck. It sure beat being digested.
Only one fae was different among the armoured group.
He wore a white chiton and a smirk as he led the others behind him. He stopped only when he was close enough to dive for Ophelia, but still far enough away that she couldn't reach him. Or so he believed.
“Quite a merry chase, isn't this, cousin?” said Count Landin.
Ophelia frowned.
“I'm 85% certain I just booted your head away.”
“You did,” he replied, his head partially sliding off to reveal the crystalline flesh underneath. He pushed it back into place. “It was a disgraceful way to treat a worthy adversary after honourable combat. The joy of watching my own body flounder about while searching for me was rather muted.”
Ophelia shrugged.
“In my culture, kicking away heads is a way of showing respect.”
“Is that so? In my culture, dismembering limbs while our prey is mewling for death is also a way of showing respect.”
The elven woman nodded. As an A-rank sword saint who'd been threatened by everything under the sun, she had a very open and liberal view on other cultures.
“I'm happy to keep being chased,” she said, shrugging as she shook the Crown of Winter like a tambourine. “I take it this is the main reason you can still follow me?”
“This is the domain of the Winter Court. Even the snowflakes watch you. Nowhere is beyond our sight and knowledge.”
Ophelia raised an eyebrow. The snowflakes didn't tell them where she was when she first broke into the Frozen Palace. In fact, she could have been juggling flaming torches and gone unseen if she really wished to.
For all the fae's bluster, they were neither omnipotent nor divine beings sent from above. But they were magical. And they were apparently drawn towards their Crown.
Thus, Ophelia ticked off another goal on her list.
“So, what do I need to snip off for you to die?” she asked, genuinely curious. “Is it because you have a title that you can survive a gentle beheading?”
Count Landin smirked, answering her question.
“I live in service to the Winter Queen. Only she can release me from this body.”
“I don't suppose that means giving you a new one? Yours is slightly damaged.”
“It is enough.”
Count Landin casually waved a few of his comrades onwards.
“I note your lack of pleading, grovelling and tears,” said Count Landin. “While I admit you possess some skill at arms, you have neither the means to escape, nor the strength to best the entire host of the Winter Court. I say this, because were you to display contrition at your actions today, I would be content to return the favour of beheading you. A much kinder gesture than staying my hand, I hope you agree.”
Ophelia did, actually.
By now, the buzzing had become a maelstrom of noise.
She didn't need to look around to know that the swarm was about to headbutt her. And Ophelia doubted if they'd wait for one fancy fae's hand waving gesture before they began enthusiastic updating their current knowledge on elven anatomy.
Thus, she held up the Crown of Winter.
“Wait,” she said.
“Oh?” Count Landin ushered his comrades to a halt. “What's this? Will I actually hear a note of remorse? Truthfully, I think I'd be rather disappointed. Shameless impudence is a worthy quality to have in the face of certain demise.”
“Still have that, actually. Got buckets' worth.”
Count Landin frowned.
“Then to what reason do you ask us to wait? To bargain?”
“Nope. To waste time until the angry fire mage can finish her incantation.”
To his credit, Count Landin reacted reasonably fast.
Using his wings to propel himself forwards, he leapt. Snow burst behind him as the fae lunged with his silver sword directly for Ophelia's head, intent on at least making this a draw.
The rest of the Winter Court followed. Silver armour and enchanted weapons glinted beneath the eternal light of the Fae Realm as they hurled themselves into a business-like charge. Somewhere above, the sound of diving wings whipped against the air. The magic burned bright in all the eyes of the fae.
“[Inferno Wall].”
But not as bright as the barrier of flames that erupted before them.
Screams resounded throughout the Fae Realm as neither the Winter Queen's children, nor the whispering snowflakes noticed the woman that had been casting a very big spell beneath a pile of particularly slushy snow.
The flames were as indiscriminate as they were devastating.
A great wall of hellfire which burst from newly created fissures, sending steam and misery in every direction.
Those fae which were impaled by the wall of death were incinerated. Those that failed to stop their eager charge in time were scorched beyond recognition.
Between licks of flames, Ophelia caught sight of wings alight and faces bubbling as they melted. The sound of screams overwhelmed the roaring of the inferno as the fae found themselves caught aflame as easily as a dry leaf in summertime. Jets of burning vapour hissed against the [Inferno Wall] as fae dived to the snow in a desperate bid to rid themselves of fire which burned hotter than any brand.
Ophelia turned around.
Before her was the most normal human woman she'd ever seen in her life.
She had hazelnut hair and brown eyes. She was thin without being slender, pretty without being beautiful, and the cloak she wore looked as though it had once belonged to a pauper.
Or maybe a shopkeeper without many customers.
“You know they can fly, right?” said Ophelia, pointing up at the gap in the sky.
Before her, Marina Lainsfont rolled her eyes.
“I do.”
The moment the first fae was sighted hovering over the open ceiling, a secondary jet of flame burst upwards, doubling the length of the barrier.
Those few fae who braved an attempt over the wall were consumed. Incinerated and charred remains turned to ash as they fell, becoming a black dust which dispersed before even meeting the ground.
Ophelia tried not to breathe it in.
“You could have done this any time, you know?” she said, hands around her mouth. “Don't tell me you needed to wait for me to sprint in a circle for twenty laps first.”
“Please don't direct criticism towards me when you repeatedly failed to stop at the correct location. It was blind luck where the fae halted you.”
“It's snow. And trees. And a few deer. Just because I'm an elf doesn't mean I can tell each leaf and critter apart. I was running around hoping you'd give me a signal.”
Marina pursed her lips and frowned, her hands tightening around her staff.
That staff was the only thing that stood out about her.
A branch seized from a rare ebony tree, then twisted and mutilated until it resembled the shape of a stave. It brimmed with magic. Actually brimmed. The entire thing was glowing, almost sparkling with tiny embers. Each time a fae wilted in the snow, another ember burst forth.
Ophelia wanted a sword that could do that as well.
Hers would be a fireworks display.
“I did give you a signal,” she said, in that passive-aggressive way that angry human women did when they wanted to pretend to be diplomatic but actually wanted to start separating heads from torsos.
“Really?” Ophelia was quite puzzled. “What was it?”
“The one I informed you about while you were blindly and heedlessly dashing off towards the direction of the heart of the Winter Court. I see you failed in getting yourself killed.”
“Yeah, I get worse at that every year.”
Ophelia waved the Crown of Winter at the mage.
As she did so, she could feel its power tickling at her fingertips, drawing on her to place the crown atop her head.
Perhaps if it was anyone else, they would have done just that. But Ophelia didn't care about destructively powerful artifacts. She cared about her cottage. And her ducks.
And it was time to go home.
“Let me hold the crown,” said Marina, after she'd clearly gone through a thousand permutations for what would happen if she simply tried seizing it from Ophelia.
The elven woman smiled brightly.
“You can pinch it. But no holding. You know how it is.”
Thus, Ophelia offered the Crown of Winter with a firm grip.
The mage didn't immediately reach for it, opting to dent her brows instead. Ophelia found it impressive that the mage's need to look indignant was stronger than whatever monstrous pull the Crown of Winter was having on her.
Then, Marina reached out and pinched one of the crown's edges. She began to siphon magic. And not just from the crown.
For a split second, immeasurable to anyone but Ophelia, she watched as the embers from the staff were drawn to her like fireflies towards a pond.
Ah. So the ebony staff wasn't a conduit. It was a repository. That was handy to know.
After all, Ophelia fully expected she'd need to kill this human woman one day.
She didn't know why or when that'd be, but in her experience, the strong only gravitated towards one another to reconfirm the pecking order.
And as she thought that—
Crack.
A sound like a biting whip resounded in her ears.
The next moment, she felt the snow beneath her feet disappear.
A primal force tugged at her as she was lifted as easily as a child's doll, and she lost all sense of time and direction. The sights, sounds and colours of the world rushed by her as a single din of chaos, severe enough that if anyone was exposed to it for even a heartbeat longer, they would be lost immediately to the throes of insanity.
Ophelia blinked. A gap the length of a single step separated her soles and the floor.
She landed gracefully despite the vertigo she felt. And then she was looking at a portly man with greying hair sitting atop a chair more splendid than the Throne of Tirea.
“Snow Dancer,” said Duke Valence, ruler of the Duchy of Aquina. “You've returned.”
His eyes crept down to the crown held in Ophelia's hands.
And then he smiled.
