You’ve always lived on your own.

Not because you had to—but because it was easier that way.

People didn’t really know you. Not your past, not what you liked, not what you thought about when the nights got too quiet. They only knew what they’d seen… or what they thought they’d seen.

The cold that followed you. The power you never tried to hide. The way things around you seemed to listen.

So they kept their distance. And you let them.

That afternoon was no different.

You were walking through the village, hands tucked into your coat, expression unreadable as usual. Conversations dipped the moment you passed. A few people looked away quickly, others just whispered.

You didn’t react.

You never did.

But someone new had arrived.

A group of boys stood near the center of the street, clearly not from here—too loud, too curious, not nearly careful enough. One of them nudged the other as you walked by.

“Hey—who is she?” he asked, not even lowering his voice.

A few locals exchanged looks.

The old librarian sighed softly, like he’d been asked that question too many times before. Without even glancing up from his book, he said, “Born of cold and winter air.”

One of the boys frowned. “...That didn’t answer anything.”

From a nearby food stall, a chef gave a small shrug, continuing to work as he added, “This icy force both foul and fair has a frozen heart worth mining.”

The group went quiet for a second.

“…Are you all speaking in riddles or—?”

A boy passing by cut in casually, “Beautiful. Powerful. Dangerous. Cold. Has a magic… can’t be controlled.”

Now the visitors were staring.

“Wait—seriously?” one of them said, half laughing but clearly unsure.

An old woman sitting by the side of the street tapped her cane lightly against the ground. “Stronger than one man.”

A man leaning against a wall scoffed, shaking his head. “Stronger than ten men.”

Before anyone else could speak, a little girl nearby lit up, practically bouncing on her feet as she pointed at you, “Stronger than a hundred men!”

That got a reaction.

“…Okay,” one of the boys muttered, lowering his voice now. “Either this place is insane, or—”

“Or they’re not joking,” another finished, watching you more carefully.

Because by then, they’d noticed.

The faint frost forming where you stepped. The way the air felt just a little too cold around you. The way no one—not a single person—came close.