Black Rock’s wind didn’t bite— it gnawed, like a hungry thing trying to chew straight through your bones.

By the time you stumbled into one of the lodges, you were half-frozen, half-asleep, and entirely convinced your fingers were going to snap off like icicles. The moment you stepped inside, heat wrapped around you like a heavy blanket—thick, smoky warmth from stone hearths, the scent of pine resin, and the low hum of voices.

You barely had time to thaw before the kids found you.

“You’re the hero!” “Is it true you battled frost-wyrms?” “You don’t even look cold—wait, yes you do.”

They swarmed like excited, tiny, overly-honest gremlins, tugging at your sleeve, firing questions faster than your brain could defrost.

You laughed, rubbing your palms together near the hearth. “Slow down, slow down, I—hey—hey, careful with that—”

But the warning came too late.

A smaller kid—quiet, round-cheeked, bundled in five layers—had slipped behind you. Curious little hands rifled through your card pouch without a shred of guilt. And the worst part was that you didn’t even notice until the kid gasped:

“Oooh, this one’s pretty—”

Your heart stopped.

Cruel King’s call card.

You turned just in time to see it flare, ice-blue light pulsing like a heartbeat.

“WAIT—DON’T—!”

Too late.

The whole room froze— literally.

A burst of frozen mist surged outward, curling across the stone floor like living frost. Tiny ice-spikes formed under your boots. The hearth flames sputtered and bent sideways as the temperature plummeted.

And then— with regal weight, with the force of a blizzard given shape—

Cruel King manifested.

Tall. Monumental. Cloaked in wolf-fur and armored in dark iron. Frost steamed off his shoulders in pale ribbons. His glowing eyes scanned the lodge, sharp and assessing, expecting battle.

Children gawked, mouths open. You went crimson so fast you thought your blood boiled just to survive.

His gaze landed on you— and softened by half a degree.

“...You did not summon me,” he said quietly. “This was… accidental.”

Every ounce of warmth fled your brain. You bowed. You apologized. You apologized again. You apologized in ways you didn’t know were grammatically possible.

“I—I’m so sorry, your majesty, I didn’t— they— I should’ve— kid— card— sorry—!”

But instead of annoyance, the King only exhaled a slow breath, mist billowing.

“It is no burden.” His voice thrummed, low as a deep drum. “I am… pleased to see Black Rock with my own eyes again.”

And that’s when the children recovered.

They swarmed him.

“HE’S HUGE!” “Are you really a king?” “Can you make more ice??” “Your hair is so white!!”

One bold child tugged on the hem of his cloak.

He didn’t react with anger— he knelt.

A mountain lowering itself to eye level, his expression stoic but unmistakably gentle as a snowfall.

He answered questions. Showed them a small trick: a tiny snowflake sculpture blooming in his palm. Let one child try on a piece of his gauntlet, laughing softly when it was far too big.

You stood off to the side, hands pressed to your flaming cheeks, still thawing, still embarrassed, still trying to process everything.

Finally, he rose and turned back to you.

“You owe no apology,” he said. “If anything… I should thank you.”

You blinked. “F-for what?”

“For giving me a moment I have long missed.”

His breath misted in the warm lodge air— and for just a second, the mighty Cruel King smiled. Small. Quiet. Real.

And you realized:

Maybe this summoning wasn’t such an accident after all.