Frost had his head bowed, dark hair covering his eyes. His lips trembled as his voice, torn by pleading, rose into the silence of the entire square:
—Dad… please… —he breathed, a childish whimper escaping him like a lament—. Don't do the same thing you did to Mom… I love her… Let her live… You… you can do whatever you want with me, Dad… but this time… this time listen to me…
For an instant, he thought he saw a flicker of doubt in his father's eyes. A glimmer of humanity that perhaps remained there, beneath centuries of hatred and laws of iron. But soon Delgard turned his face away, avoiding his gaze like someone who cannot bear to see their own reflection twisted by shame.
—You… are no longer my son —he finally murmured, his voice cracked by a cruelty so ancient it no longer belonged to him—. Just like your mother… I have cut you from my line… children of the demon…
Frost went still. The world froze in an instant, not because of his magic, but because his heart had just emptied itself of all warmth. The only spark that had ever made him believe he was worthy of love was extinguished.
—Dad?… —he murmured, a thin, emotionless thread of voice. The word vanished like a snowflake in the storm.
And then time began to slow, as if reality allowed him to witness each second of his worst nightmare. He saw the spears rising, the reflection of fire on white and gold metal. He saw the knights tense their arms. He saw Lorraine's trembling eyes as she understood the end had come.
The spears fell.
A dull crash shook the wood as they pierced her chest. Lorraine's breath broke into a ragged whisper. Her eyelids fluttered as she searched for Frost's profile, and in that final instant, when she could barely draw air, she traced a smile on bloodstained lips.
—Don't worry… Frost… —she whispered in an almost sweet murmur—. None of this is your fault… You always… always loved me… You never would have wanted this for me…
Tears welled at the edges of her lashes.
—I love you, Frost…
And with that final confession, her gaze turned glassy. The beating faded in her throat, and her body relaxed with a serenity only the dead could know. A smile, the same one that had watched him fall asleep so many nights, remained frozen on her face.
When everything returned to its natural rhythm, Frost felt gravity dissolve. His lungs would not fill. The world was an unfathomable emptiness.
Delgard stepped down from the platform, wearing a mask of false solemnity.
—This… —he said loudly as he turned to the crowd—. This is what restores order to the world. Now you see, my son… this is how it all ends when one rejects the laws of God.
But Frost no longer heard him. His gaze was fixed on Lorraine, still bound to the post, blood dripping silently onto the wood.
—Lorraine… Lorraine… —His voice broke into a wail more animal than human—. No… Lorraine, no… Don't leave me… please… Lorraine…
He bent over the ropes that bound him, his forehead pressing to his shoulder as he wept with an open throat and a tremor that shook every bone.
—Why…? —he screamed, with a lament so deep that some spectators recoiled, faces pale—. Why does this happen to me…? I never hurt anyone… Everything I love… everything that makes me happy… always… always ends up shattered…
His sobs faded into a pitiful murmur. Through his tears, his mind began to fracture. He remembered other images: his mother, kneeling in the snow with her throat cut, while Delgard uttered the same words about "the laws of God." And now Lorraine…
Everything was repeating.
The cold wind brushed his skin as the moon sank behind black clouds. Somewhere, someone was crying. But Frost no longer perceived anything but the voice of his own hatred.
He raised his face, wet with dry tears. His gaze had become dark and hollow. When he opened his mouth, his voice was a knife wrapped in ice.
—The laws of God…? —he spat with contempt—. Or are they laws you invented yourselves? Don't you dare… —he lifted his chin slightly, his eyes reddened—… don't you dare use the name of God… to justify your crimes.
A silence thick with terror fell over the square. The priest turned to him, his face twisted with hatred.
—Silence, heretic! Are you suggesting we blaspheme the mandates of the Almighty?
The snowflake sigil began to burn into his palm. Frost lowered his gaze and watched it pulse with a pale blue light growing ever brighter. His eyes started to blaze with a glacial glow.
—You… —he murmured in a hollow voice—. You don't even deserve God's forgiveness…
The sky, which had remained still, suddenly stirred with a deep roar. Black clouds coiled together, forming a vortex above the city. Violet lightning cracked in the distance. The crowd staggered back, lifting trembling hands toward the heavens.
Frost lifted his face to the storm. His lips moved in a whisper barely audible.
—No one here is innocent… —he said, as a tear froze on his cheek—. No one ever was… If they can watch someone be killed… and feel joy… then… no one… here… is innocent…
Delgard approached with cautious steps, as though he feared his son was no longer human.
—What are you whispering? —he demanded—. Are you trying to invoke a satanic ritual?
But Frost did not look at him. His eyes had become two bottomless wells of ice.
—All of you… deserve to be punished… —he murmured in a voice that was not entirely human.
And then he screamed.
—You will be punished!
The snowflake in his palm expanded like a blue sun. Magic erupted from his body in a cataclysm. A lightning bolt struck the square, making it quake. Snow began to swirl violently, transforming the ground into a white field. The air froze; every breath became scalding vapor.
The priest pressed the cross to his chest.
—Stop this, son of the demon!
—Then… —Delgard took a step back, horrified—. Then it's true… you were always cursed…
A dense fog spread like a murderous wave. One by one, the men and women who had screamed began to freeze, transformed into icy statues with eyes wide in terror. The curse of Refrigerio expanded beyond the city, covering fields and seas. It was a storm without end.
In the midst of the chaos, Frost walked to his father, who barely managed to lift a supplicating hand before the ice consumed him completely. His eyes were forever frozen in that final mask: pure panic.
Frost stopped before the statue. His hair had turned white as freshly fallen snow. His pupils glowed a blue so dark it was almost black.
—Then you… —he whispered with cold hatred—. You aren't my father either. You never were… demon…
He raised his hand. With a simple gesture, the statue shattered under the roar of cracking ice.
The world had become his reflection: a white wasteland, barren, without warmth or compassion. As he walked through the storm, alone, Frost levitated Lorraine's frozen body. Her silhouette looked as if she were sleeping inside a shroud of crystal.
—Don't worry, Lorraine… —he murmured gently, stroking her rigid hair—. No one will bother us now… I'll find a way to bring you back… Just… be patient…
In the days that followed, he built an ice coffin adorned with crystal flowers that would never wither. Inside, Lorraine rested with the same serene smile she'd worn as she died.
Frost became a wandering specter, walking through a world that was no longer a kingdom but an endless cemetery. Sometimes he laughed alone. Sometimes he stared at his reflection in a shattered mirror, and then his own image returned a look of horror.
When he found the few survivors who, with enchanted cloaks, had managed to resist the curse of Refrigerio, his decision was final. Without pity, he executed them with a single motion of his hand, as if with each life he ended, he could fill the void in his chest just a little.
Thus, as the frozen Chi Tae spread to every infinite corner of the universe, Frost became the last will of a heart that never found redemption—only the vengeance of his pain.
Frost drifted through the white immensity he himself had created. His solitary silhouette cut across skies devoid of life. Nothing remained that could oppose his frozen reign, nothing that could remind him who he had once been.
Upon his body rose an armor of frost that looked forged from the very bones of winter itself. The helm covered his face, save for two openings where his eyes burned: two blue embers so deep and hollow that any who met their gaze felt the chill of their own death.
The few who had managed to survive the white tide had given him a name: The Hail King. And when they whispered it, they did so with the reverence of those who know that to name a monster is to summon it.
But Frost did not hear those echoes. He heard nothing. He no longer spoke. He did not utter a single syllable. Sometime in the countless years, his voice had been lost in the same black pit where his heart had fallen. Silence had become his only companion.
His flight carried him to a hill. One that had witnessed his youth: there, as a mere boy, he had fought alongside Fred—his master—and his father, that man who had sworn to love him while he murdered his mother.
There they had slain a dragon so ancient that the heavens rumbled with its final roar. And in that very place, Frost had believed for an instant that he could be happy.
Now, when snow shrouded the world like a burial cloth, not even nostalgia could stir a shiver.
He descended in silence. He stopped before the dragon's skeleton, its enormous fangs jutting from the frost. Slowly, he raised both hands.
The bones began to tremble. One by one, they rose from the ground as the earth itself split under the magnitude of his power.
The skull, as large as a palace, broke free with a thunderous crack and lifted into the air. The dragon's shadow fell across the mountains, cloaking everything in merciless gloom.
With a snap of his fingers, Frost made the creature vanish. An instant later, it reappeared above his kingdom. From on high, he gazed at the colossal world tree that once dominated the gardens of the ancient castle.
He regarded it with chilling calm. And with a gesture, he reshaped its form. The roots swelled and turned to sculptures of ice. The crystalline leaves glistened with the dead light of his realm.
Thus was born the Glacier Tree, the standard of an empire without spring. He embedded it in the dragon's empty skull socket, like a macabre crown. His Garden of Eden. His new home.
The centuries passed like leaves carried on the wind. For Frost, time no longer had meaning. His flesh never aged. His memories never faded. He was a reliquary of perfect hatred.
At some point, he sat upon his throne of ice. There he remained, the Glacier Sword—forged from the dragon's ancient scales—resting across his knees. The blade was so pure it could cleave time and shatter souls. None dared approach.
Until, one sunless afternoon, a skeleton brought him a staff. Frost did not react. He simply lowered his gaze to the relic in his gloved hands. Something compelled him to rise. Without understanding why, he walked out of the frozen hall.
He passed through silent corridors until the night broke, finding himself before a clearing where the snow fell like ash. There, Trask waited. The half-giant, wrapped in runes that repelled the cold, lifted his ancestral axe.
—Hey, you… —he growled, his voice weighted with a respect that hurt—. You have to stop now. You're… out of control.
Frost stood motionless. The crust of frost upon his armor crackled. His blue eyes did not blink. Not a word left his throat.
Trask breathed heavily.
—You didn't deserve to end this way. You were a good warrior. That's why… —he raised his weapon as his men prepared—. That's why I will be the one to end your life.
Silence was the only reply.
—It's time… to rest —he whispered.
The assault began with a cry. Snow exploded beneath the mercenaries' boots. Axes and swords crashed against the frozen figure that seemed more statue than man. Blows rang out like hammers striking a tomb. But Frost did not retreat.
Every cut that struck his armor turned to a rain of ice shards. Every roar of his enemies was smothered beneath absolute silence.
When the battle ended, only Trask remained. On his knees, blood soaking his beard, his eyes blurred by defeat.
—At least… I was a good warrior —he whispered with his last breath.
Frost inclined his head ever so slightly. The Glacier Sword fell in a smooth motion. Trask's body toppled without resistance.
Soon after, Frost returned to his kingdom. The Garden of Eden stretched as far as the eye could see: a world of ice and death reflecting his heart.
He entered the great cathedral, where a crystal coffin rested upon an eternal altar. Within, Lorraine still slept with her unchanging smile.
He sat upon his throne. His undead soldiers knelt in a silent choreography of will-less devotion.
Frost lifted his face. In the gloom, only his breathing could be heard. He did not cry. He no longer could. He had wept so much his soul had dried out.
The entire universe was a monument to his grief. The hailstones that fell were the tears his body no longer knew how to shed.
His eyes, two dead stars, slowly dimmed. He felt no hunger. No love. Nothing. He could no longer remember the last time he had spoken a word. Nor the last time he had dreamed.
Until, one night, it happened.
For the first time in one hundred and fifty years, Frost closed his eyes… and slept.
In his dream, he saw Lorraine. She walked barefoot through a green field, lit by a sun that had never existed in his realm. He ran toward her. He called her name. But no matter how hard he tried, he could never reach her. Every step was a century. Every meter, an abyss.
He opened his eyes abruptly. He drew a ragged breath.
He realized that while he slept, the world had changed. For a moment, the climate had returned to normal. The ice had receded. The sky had reclaimed its blue.
For the first time in centuries, he spoke in his own voice.
—So… since I slept… and dreamed… the world changed…
The words faded in a whisper. But something interrupted him: a vibration that spread like a war drum. A dense energy impossible to mistake. Chi Tae. But it was not his icy Chi Tae. This one was… crimson.
Frost rose from his throne. He stepped out onto the balcony of his castle of frozen spires. His eyes narrowed. On the horizon, a glow rose red as freshly spilled blood.
Dimensional travelers. They had used a Loom Temple to invade his world.
Silence was replaced by ancient hatred. Without hesitation, he stretched both hands toward the sky. A wave of energy rippled across continents.
The frost began to grow again with a wailing lament. Hail began to batter the earth. The world, once more, surrendered to his curse.
And so, as his breath mingled with the blizzard, Frost again became the living will of a heart that only knew how to ache.
A dead god reigning over a white hell that was, in truth, his own tomb.