Chapter 2: A Tour Through Ice and Iron
After their meeting with the thunderous Mayor Brann, Kael stepped out into the crisp afternoon chill with John by his side and a name clinging pleasantly to his soul like a newly-donned coat.
"Come on," John said, tugging his fur cloak tighter. "Can't live in Frosthollow without knowing where to get a decent pair of boots, a sharp axe, and a fireproof potion or two."
Kael followed, his eyes wide as a child's at Yule.
The town was a tapestry of frostbitten charm and rugged practicality, laid out in no particular order—just how things grew over time when magic, survival, and a stubborn streak were all trying to fit into one frozen valley.
First, they passed Madame Tilda's Alchemy & Cures, marked by a crooked chimney coughing up green smoke and a painted sign featuring a winking toad. Inside, Kael glimpsed glass jars stacked to the rafters: glowing mushrooms, frozen eyeballs, a suspiciously wiggling worm labeled "DO NOT TOUCH."
"She makes the best frostbite salve this side of the Frostspine Mountains," John said. "Smells like burnt cabbage, but works like a charm."
Next came Grom & Sons Armory, run by three dwarf brothers who argued more than they worked but still managed to produce chainmail fine enough to stop a wyvern's claw. Sparks flew from inside the forge, and the air was thick with the scent of metal, sweat, and a little pride.
"Don't buy anything without haggling," John warned. "Grom says you only deserve a blade if you've got the guts to fight for a discount."
They moved past The Leaping Bear Inn, where a snow-bearded bard was singing something off-key about falling in love with a snow golem. Beside it was The Magic Hall, a round tower that leaned ever so slightly to the left and crackled with arcane energy. A small sign read: Spell casting after mead consumption is strictly prohibited.
Kael chuckled. "Is that a common problem?"
John shrugged. "Mages get bored in winter."
At the Hunters' Guild, men and women with fur-lined cloaks lounged about, comparing antlers, wounds, and wild tales. One of them offered Kael a raw rabbit's foot "for luck." Kael declined, politely, as it was still twitching.
Then there were the leatherworkers, the tailors, the shoemakers (where one grumpy halfling claimed to make boots "fit for trolls"), the city guard station (which mostly looked like a glorified shack with spears), and finally, the Tamers' Pen.
It was a wide, fenced field where creatures both majestic and mildly terrifying were trained. Mammoths stomped about like overgrown puppies, massive snow-fanged bears rolled lazily in the slush, and Kael even saw a curious little drake curled around a fire pit like a scaly cat.
"That's Stumpy," John said, pointing to the drake. "Burned his own tail off trying to sneeze fire."
Kael laughed, the sound loud and surprising in his own ears. "This place is… alive."
John gave him a sidelong look. "Aye. Hard, cold, and half-mad—but alive."
Everywhere they went, people waved at John or gave him a respectful nod. And while Kael drew curious glances—being new, tall, and carrying the air of an unfinished legend—no one frowned or whispered behind his back. That was Frosthollow for you. If you fought the cold and didn't steal boots, you were part of the family.
And as they stood atop a small hill overlooking the marketplace, the twilight sun spilling pink and orange across the ice, John crossed his arms and grunted in satisfaction.
"Well then, Kael," he said, "what d'you think of your new home?"
Kael took a deep breath, the air freezing the inside of his nose in a way that oddly felt like a hug.
"I think," he said slowly, "that if the monsters don't eat me first… I might actually like it here."
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The sun had sunk lower, painting the snow a soft gold, as Kael and John stood in the children's park, a white-dusted hill with wooden swings, a frozen fountain, and tiny snowfolk with uneven button eyes. From here, the whole of Frosthollow stretched below them like a painting done in frost and smoke and life.
"Well then," John said, eyeing Kael with the calculating gaze of a man who once sized up wolves the same way. "Let's see if you're made for hunting… or if you'd rather knit scarves with the dwarves in the leatherworks."
Kael blinked. "Do the dwarves really knit scarves?"
John's lips twitched. "Only when they're drunk."
With a laugh and a clap on Kael's shoulder, they turned and made their way back to John's home. Claire was hanging herbs near the window and raised an eyebrow when she saw the glint in John's eye.
"Don't get him eaten by anything on the first day," she said without turning around.
"No promises," John called, already rummaging in the weapons rack near the hearth.
And there it was—nestled between hunting spears and swords—Kael's axe.
The moment he touched it, something changed.
The weapon, massive and ominous, looked as though it had been carved from the bones of a storm. It was a beautiful and terrifying thing: a circular blade, polished to a mirror-like sheen, mounted on a steel bearing that fit around Kael's arm like a promise. The hilt, wrapped in worn crimson leather, seemed to breathe in his grip. The arc-shaped blade gleamed with faint runes, ones Kael had never learned but somehow... understood.
As his fingers curled around it, energy stirred deep within him.
Not magic exactly—something older. A wild, wordless pulse that moved through his chest and down his arm like lightning searching for thunder.
The axe thrummed in response, and a single word echoed in his mind.
Arc Edge.
The name wasn't spoken aloud, nor whispered by John—it simply was, like a memory returning after a long nap. Kael's eyes widened.
"I remember its name," he murmured.
John gave a low whistle, his expression unreadable. "That's a good sign. Usually, weapons don't tell their names to just anyone."
"Is that normal?" Kael asked.
"For magical weapons?" John shrugged. "Sometimes they name themselves. Sometimes their wielders do. And sometimes... well, sometimes it's best not to ask where they come from at all."
Kael looked down at Arc Edge and felt the weight of it—not just in his hands, but in his very bones. It was as though it belonged there, as though he'd always been meant to wield it.
"You ready?" John asked.
Kael looked up, snowflakes drifting lazily between them, and nodded. "Let's find out."
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John was many things—a seasoned hunter, a hardened northerner, and the kind of man who could gut a boar with one hand while drinking soup with the other—but reckless, he was not.
So, it came as no surprise when, after half the day wandering the outskirts of Frosthollow, he didn't drag Kael headfirst into a nest of frost trolls or challenge an ice bear to a wrestling match.
No, instead, he paused atop a ridge, pulled back the hood of his heavy cloak, and knelt silently in the snow. He pressed a gloved hand to the ground. Then, without a word, he pointed.
There.
Two figures in the distance, darting through a glade of frost-touched pine. Not massive beasts, but still formidable: ice foxes.
They were beautiful creatures—sleek, with shimmering silver fur that glinted like moonlight on snow. Their long tails left curling patterns in the snow, and their paws made no sound at all. They moved like ghosts, and Kael found himself staring.
"They're young," John whispered. "Maybe a year or two old. Not enough time to learn full cryomancy, but don't be fooled—they're fast, sharp, and clever."
Kael nodded, eyes narrowing. "Do we attack both?"
John's lips twitched into something between a grin and a grimace. "You'll take one. I'll take the other."
Without waiting for a reply, John drew a black-feathered arrow from his quiver, nocked it against his ashwood bow, and closed his eyes.
Kael watched.
The air shifted.
John didn't glow or chant or change shape, but something happened. His muscles tightened beneath the leather of his coat. His breathing slowed. For just a moment, it felt like the entire forest was holding its breath.
Then—snap!—the arrow flew like a streak of light.
It struck the first fox clean through the shoulder. The beast yelped once, then collapsed into the snow, still and silent.
John lowered his bow, then turned toward Kael. "Your turn."
Kael stared at the second fox. It had frozen at the sound of its sibling's cry, head raised, eyes alert. Its pale blue gaze met Kael's—and the young man felt something stir in his chest.
Excitement. Fear. Purpose.
He gripped Arc Edge, the cold steel buzzing faintly in his hand. The axe felt heavier now, more... expectant. As though it, too, wanted to see what he could do.
The fox bolted.
Kael ran.
The world narrowed to footsteps and breath, the pounding of his boots in snow. His body moved without thought, weaving through trees, dodging low branches, instinct guiding every stride. His muscles burned, but he barely noticed.
Then, something deep inside him shifted.
A thrum, like a second heartbeat.
Ki.
He didn't know what it was, not by name—but his body did. A faint warmth surged through his limbs, his movements sharpened, faster, stronger. His legs kicked off the snow like a spring-loaded trap. His fingers flexed tighter around Arc Edge.
The fox zigzagged—fast, graceful—but Kael twisted mid-run, planted his foot, and leapt forward with a roar.
The axe moved.
It didn't feel like swinging it. It felt like becoming part of it. A spinning arc of steel and red leather sliced through the air—and clipped the fox along its flank. Not fatal, but enough to knock it sideways into the snow.
Kael landed hard, rolling to his feet, heart thundering in his ears.
The fox snarled, frost curling around its teeth, but it limped now.
Kael advanced, steady.
He could end it.
He didn't know where the knowledge came from—how to read his opponent's stance, how to breathe, when to move—but it was there. Buried, instinctual. A memory etched in bone.
The axe flashed one last time.
The fight was over.
Kael stood in the snow, panting, axe in hand, as the cold wind brushed his face and the silence returned to the woods.
Behind him, John gave a soft whistle. "Well, well. Looks like you're no scarf-knitting dwarf after all."
Kael let out a breathless laugh. "I… don't know what that was. But I felt something. Like fire in my chest."
John slung the fox over his shoulder with a grunt. "That's Ki, lad. And if it's waking up in you now, you're not just anyone. You've got warrior blood."
His fingers brushed Arc Edge, humming softly at his side.
He didn't know where he came from.
But now, at least, he knew this: he was a fighter.
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The body of the ice fox lay still in the snow, its once-lustrous silver fur now dulled by stillness, and its breath forever stilled. Kael stood over it, Arc Edge humming quietly in his grip like a cat purring after a long stretch.
And then he felt it.
A tug. A pull.
Not from the earth or the wind, but from somewhere within—a part of him he hadn't known was hollow until that very moment. His chest ached, not with sorrow or guilt, but with yearning. Something about this creature… it called to him. Whispered in a language only instinct could understand.
Kael blinked, staggered slightly as his vision shimmered—and there it was.
The soul of the fox.
It glowed faintly, pale blue and pulsing like a candle behind a curtain. It hovered just above the snow, not afraid, not angry—just waiting. Waiting for him.
"I…" he muttered, unable to finish his sentence.
His hand moved before he could stop it. Slowly, gently, almost reverently, he reached out, fingertips brushing against the ethereal shimmer of the fox's spirit.
And it entered him.
Like warm water poured into a cold cup, the soul sank into Kael's chest, and he gasped. Not in pain—but in sudden fullness. As if a piece of a story had just found its rightful page in the book of him.
He stumbled backward slightly, clutching Arc Edge with one hand and pressing the other over his heart. His breath fogged in the cold air, but he barely noticed.
It was there now. The fox.
He could feel it curled within him, proud and silent, as though it were content to simply exist inside him—until he chose to call on it.
And call on it, he did.
"Alright," he murmured. "Let's see what this means."
Kael closed his eyes.
The cold air swirled, his boots sank lightly in the snow, and then—whoosh!
Where moments before a boy stood, now there was a fox—silver and lean, with a single scar across its front paw, the only mark hinting at the battle just fought. The fox blinked and tilted its head, as though surprised to be seeing the world from so low to the ground.
He sniffed. His nose wriggled. The world erupted into scents and sounds and sensations he never knew existed.
Snowflakes sang. Bark whispered. Even John's stew still clinging to his sleeve had a personality now.
"...Huh," John muttered, raising an eyebrow from where he stood leaning against a snow-covered rock. "I thought you were a warrior, but it might seem… you could be a druid."
The fox gave a tiny startled bark—Kael gave a bark—and then poof, he was back to human again, sitting flat on his behind in the snow.
"A what?" Kael asked, blinking, his expression a perfect mix of sheepishness and awe. "What's a druid?"
John crossed his arms and grinned. "Someone who can turn into animals, speak to nature, borrow power from wild things. Forest hermits, mostly. Wear moss in their beards. Drink bark tea. Complain when you step on mushrooms."
Kael's brow furrowed. "I don't like mushrooms."
"Good," John said. "You'll be a different kind of druid, then."
Kael looked down at his hands—still tingling faintly. "So... does this mean I am a druid?"
John shrugged, then offered a hand to pull him up. "Could be. Could also be your magic just hasn't decided what to be yet. Sometimes it takes a tumble, or a fight, or a fox soul to help it along."
Kael accepted the hand and stood, brushing snow off his back. He looked at the place where the fox had fallen, now just a still shape in the white.
He bowed his head slightly. "Thank you," he said to the snow.
John nodded approvingly. "Respect for the beast. Good habit to have. Better than those city folks who think magic is just for flinging fireballs and growing extra arms."
Kael chuckled. "I'd like to try growing an extra arm someday."