In The Frosted Plane

Arielle stood by the frost-kissed window of her small room, her pale reflection melding with the snow-covered landscape beyond.

Her white hair, long and straight, cascaded down her back like a waterfall of fresh snow, the strands almost blending into the icy scene outside. Strands of hair framed her delicate face, where sharp, angular features hinted at both youth and an air of cold determination.

Her skin was fair, almost as pale as the snow. Her eyes, the color of the deepest glaciers, were a mesmerizing shade of blue, shimmering with an intensity that hinted at the power she wielded.

 At just over twenty years old, she carried the presence of someone who had seen and learned far more than her years suggested.

She wore a robe of deep midnight blue, edged with silver embroidery that caught the light like the first stars of twilight. The fabric clung to her slender frame, flowing down to her ankles where it met boots lined with fur, practical yet elegant, designed for the harsh conditions of her journey. Around her neck, a crystal pendant rested, its faint blue glow pulsating in rhythm with her heartbeat, a relic of her days at Sylvarius Arcane Academy and a conduit for her formidable frost magic.

The room she occupied was as modest as the inn itself, but it was enough for her needs.

The walls were paneled in dark wood, polished by years of care but still retaining a rough, rustic charm. A small hearth in the corner emitted a soft, orange glow, the flames crackling quietly as they battled the pervasive chill. Though the fire warmed the room, the cold seemed to linger in the shadows, a reminder of the unforgiving world outside.

The bed was pushed against one wall, its frame made of the same dark wood as the rest of the room.

Thick furs and blankets were piled upon it, offering a cozy refuge from the biting cold.

A small nightstand beside the bed held a single candle, its flame flickering softly in the slight draft that crept through the wooden walls. A battered but sturdy wardrobe stood in another corner, containing the few belongings she had brought with her—a second cloak, a few books on ancient magic, and a leather satchel that never left her side.

The window, framed by heavy, deep blue curtains, was the room's most striking feature. The glass was old, slightly fogged around the edges, but clear enough to reveal the snow-covered streets of Svelgar.

The town, nestled in a remote valley, seemed almost deserted, with only the occasional flicker of movement as someone braved the cold. The mountains that surrounded the town loomed like silent sentinels, their peaks lost in the swirling clouds that threatened another snowfall.

A small desk was placed beneath the window, cluttered with parchment, ink, and quills. Arielle had spent hours there since her arrival, poring over maps and notes, planning her journey to Winter's Peak.

The surface of the desk bore the marks of her studies—doodles of arcane symbols, hastily scribbled notes in an elegant script, and a small vial of ink that had spilled, leaving a dark stain that spread like frost across the wood. Arielle's gaze drifted from the window to the desk, where a leather-bound journal lay open. It was filled with her thoughts, observations, and theories on the Grimoire she sought.

The pages were covered in neat, precise handwriting, the ink as dark as the night outside. She had been writing in it earlier, documenting the peculiar feeling she had upon arriving in Svelgar—the sense that she was on the verge of something monumental, something that would change her life forever. She turned back to the window, her breath misting the glass as she exhaled.

The night outside was still, the snow blanketing the world in a silence that felt almost sacred. As the fire crackled softly in the hearth, Arielle let her fingers trace patterns on the frosted glass, lost in thought.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her reverie. Arielle turned, her hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of her staff, propped against the wall nearby. The innkeeper, an elderly man with a weathered face and kind eyes, peeked in."Miss Arielle," he said in a voice roughened by years of mountain air, "your meal is ready downstairs, if you'd like.

"Arielle offered a small nod, grateful for the warmth of the inn and its simple comforts. "Thank you," she replied, her voice steady, though her mind was still on the path ahead.

As the door closed softly behind him, Arielle cast one last look out the window, towards the distant mountains.

Tomorrow, she would leave Svelgar and begin the journey to Winter's Peak.

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