The Winter's Embrace: A Rescue Mission into the Veil of the Snow Witch
As the first flakes of the ever-arriving winter kissed the cheeks of the old world, a team of six, draped in the fur-lined cloaks of the earnest and desperate, trekked the vast, undulating whispers of the blizzard-stricken Freyja’s Nape. They had set out under the pale watch of a half-hearted moon to find Alaric, a bold soul who had vanished like smoke into the icy folds of the north. What they sought was a man; what awaited them was a brush with the arcane, draped under the Veil of the Snow Witch.
Our tale begins, as many do, with a map. Not an ordinary map, but one sketched in the shivering hand of a dying explorer, handed to Madeleine, the team’s leader, an unsentimental woman with eyes like storm clouds. This map tangled through the mother-of-pearl terrain bearing unspoken secrets; a squiggle here, a dot there, and at the edge of reason—“the unseen village."
As they advanced, the air grew thicker with snow, the world shrunk under its white shroud, and the wind howled like the chorus of the lost. Madeleine, with her stormy eyes, gazed through the blizzard as if she could command it to part. Beside her, Tom, whose laughter could outshine summer, now trudged silently; his jokes buried under the snow. Sara, the scholar, clung to her notebooks as if they could protect her from the biting cold. Every so often, she scribbled notes about phenomena none had ever witnessed. Lucas, the navigator, held the map close, whispering to it like a lover. Eliza, skilled with ropes and picks, kept them from stumbling into oblivion’s embrace, while Ivan, the old hand at mountain treks, sang softly in his rugged baritone, a ballad that made the ghosts of the mountain weep.
On the twelfth night, as the veil of darkness stitched itself with stars, the team encountered the edge of reason: footprints, not those of Alaric, but smaller, delicate, as if a flock of birds had donned boots and marched through the snow. Following these, they stumbled into the glow of a phenomenon—a village swaddled in ice, shimmering under the embrace of a spell. Houses, nestled like sleeping beasts, exhaled snowflakes. A tower, carved from what seemed to be a single massive icicle, spiraled towards the heavens, challenging the stars.
Before they could decide their approach, a figure appeared, as sudden and silent as the falling snow. Her skin was pale as a winter lake; her hair flowed like the northern lights. She studied the team, her gaze frostier than the howl of the wind.
“Travelers,” she said, her voice the echo of a winter dream, “you tread ground unmarked by human whispers. Why disturb the sleep of my sanctuary?”
Madeleine adjusted her fur hood, meeting the icy gaze with her stormy eyes. “We seek one lost, a man named Alaric. He may have found his way here.”
The Snow Witch, for none could mistake her for anything but what she was—power and winter woven into one—smiled, though no warmth reached her eyes. “He did wander into my realm, drawn by tales of what winter guards. And here he remains, by his choice, under the curtain of my protection.”
Tom’s laugh finally broke free, nervous and quick, as he asked, “May we see him? Speak to him?”
“Come,” she gestured, and led them through streets paved with frosted intentions into the heart of her tower. There, in a room that sparkled as if the sky had traded its stars for shelter against the wind, sat Alaric. Not as a prisoner, but as a disciple, his eyes reflecting the azure spell of the witch’s influence.
“You came for me,” he said, his voice a hollow echo of his former self. “But I belong to the winter now.”
The Snow Witch’s gaze swept over them, her voice a weave of frost and velvet. “You may leave with him if you wish, but know this—winter demands a trade. One of you stays, for the one who leaves.”
Storm met ice as Madeleine stepped forward, determination set in her gaze. “Very well. I will stay. Let the others return with Alaric.”
Tears, those traitors of emotion, swept down Sara’s cheeks, freezing before they could flee her face. Lucas clutched the map, now just a piece of paper, for perhaps he too realized maps are mere suggestions, not promises. Ivan ceased his song, and Eliza dropped her rope, knowing too well the binds that held them there weren't of hemp.
So it was, under the Veil of the Snow Witch, they traded heartbeats for heartbreak, leaving with Alaric, his soul icebound but free, leaving behind Madeleine, her eyes storms no longer, but calm horizons of endless winter.