Verkhoyansk, Siberia
Outside, the snow was falling—full of sound, heavy.
As if the sky were pouring all its savings onto the earth .
This city is one of the coldest in the world—here, winter is not merely a season; it is a destiny. Christmas lights glowed somewhere in the distance, but even their brightness could not pierce the deep silence surrounding everything.
Each white flake descending from the sky slowly covered the land in an endless, unyielding blanket of frost. The streets were nearly deserted, as though the world itself were sealed inside ice.
I was walking.
Toward someone.
After all, people cross great distances for someone—through piercing snow, through air so cold it freezes your breath. I was on my way to the one I love, who was waiting for me on this bitter evening. Snow crunched softly beneath my boots, and my breath rose like pale smoke in the frozen air.
Then, from behind me, a calm, deep voice drifted through the silence—
"Merry Christmas."
I froze.
Slowly, I turned—and saw him.
Erwin Frostvale.
Tall. Unnaturally pale. Perfectly built. Straight white hair fell to his shoulders like freshly fallen snow. His eyes were clear as ice—yet sharply piercing. The mysterious smile resting on his lips was cold, but within that coldness hid something razor-edged… a dangerous tenderness.
He was not merely a man.
He was a winter elf—the echo of the season, the spirit of frost itself.
His beauty was enchanting; his manners polite and mesmerizing. But those who had stared too long into his eyes knew—he did not only win hearts.
He imprisoned them.
Erwin is bound to the Hearth King—an ancient Yuletide spirit whose existence endures only through the presence of one particular human.
And that human—
is me.
When I am near him, the snow falls softer. Christmas lights burn brighter. Winter's cruelty becomes gentler. As if my warmth balances his frozen power.
When I turned fully toward him, he stepped closer. His white hair brushed lightly against my shoulder. I stood still—unable to move. The snowflakes resting on my coat melted at his touch, as though his presence alone could bend the laws of nature.
"You're trembling," he murmured softly. "I told you not to walk so far alone."
There was affection in his voice—like someone long familiar, warning me gently. It felt as though he could read even the fears I never spoke aloud.
He leaned closer.
His cold hand touched mine. The touch was gentle, yet firm—like a bond forged of ice.
"Do you know what it feels like," he whispered,
"to wait in this cold for someone?"
"someone who may never return?"
My breathing slowed. Even the falling snow seemed to pause. Time stood still.
Erwin lowered his head slightly. Though softness flickered in his gaze, deep within lay something unyielding—an unwavering sense of possession.
"Tonight, you are mine," he said quietly. "Tomorrow, too. And you will be mine every winter night after that."
His voice dropped lower.
"I don't like to share what belongs to me."
I tried to step back—but he brushed a strand of hair from my forehead. For a moment, I stood mesmerized. The touch was tender, yet beneath it pulsed a certainty that could not be denied—he had already decided. And once he decides, there is no turning back.
"Come with me," he said. "Stay with me… and never, ever think of leaving."
In the distance, bells began to ring. Lights shimmered. Christmas warmth spread through the night.
And yet—
all I felt was cold.
The bells kept ringing.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
Then wrong.
Not joyful—no. There was something uneven in their rhythm, like a heartbeat that had forgotten how to beat properly.
My fingers went numb inside his grasp.
The cold wasn't just around me anymore.
It was inside me.
It began at the tips of my toes—an invisible frost creeping upward, slow and deliberate.
My lungs burned when I inhaled, as if I were breathing shards of glass instead of air. The world tilted slightly—then faster.
A wave of dizziness washed over me. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, slow and heavy.
My vision darkened at the edges.
The snow beneath my boots no longer felt solid. I tried to steady myself, but my legs refused to listen. My fingers went completely numb.
Everything felt far away.
The lights.
The sound of the wind.
Even him.
My body swayed once.
Twice.
Then the strength left me.
As the darkness closed in, some words kept roaming inside my head—his voice, echoing not in the air, but inside my very thoughts.
"You understand, don't you? This bond we share, it's not something to be trifled with."
His whisper curled around my fading consciousness like smoke.
"The Hearth King thrives on devotion, and you, my dear, are the very essence of that devotion. Without you, the delicate balance of this season, this entire world, would crumble into an endless, desolate frost."
The bells rang louder. Or perhaps it was only my pulse.
"Every snowflake that falls, every candle that glows, it all sings of your presence. Why would you ever wish to stray from where you are so vital, so deeply cherished? My heart, you see, beats only to ensure your happiness, your safety… and your perpetual presence by my side."
Perpetual presence.
By my side.
The words wrapped around me like chains made of winter.
The last thing I felt was the freezing air brushing my skin—
and his arms catching me before I could hit the ground.
Snow swallowed the world.
The bells shattered into silence.
And I fell—
into blackness.
.
.
.
Elsewhere in Verkhoyansk, beneath a sky heavy with snow, warmth still existed.
Adrian Volkov stood outside the small wooden café near the frozen river, his hands tucked into the pockets of his wool coat. Snow gathered along his shoulders and in his dark hair, but he did not seem to notice. His breath rose in slow, steady clouds, dissolving into the night.
He checked his watch.
Irina was late.
That was unlike her.
The café windows glowed amber against the blue-white wilderness. Inside, families laughed softly, children pressed their noses to the glass, and someone had placed a crooked Christmas star above the door. The world here felt almost normal—almost untouched by the strange tension tightening the air these past few weeks.
Adrian lifted his gaze to the sky.
The snowfall was wrong.
Not heavier than usual—no, Verkhoyansk knew heavy snow. But the pattern was… deliberate. The flakes spiraled in tight formations, almost symmetrical, before settling. The wind had stilled too suddenly. The temperature had dropped nearly three degrees in the last twenty minutes alone.
He had felt it before checking his instruments.
A subtle pressure in the air.
Like something watching.
He exhaled slowly and rubbed his gloved hands together. Calm as always. Observant as always.
To everyone else, Adrian Volkov was simply a meteorology researcher studying abnormal weather patterns in the coldest city on Earth. A kind young man of 27 with thoughtful eyes and an easy smile. A devoted son who still lived with his parents and four siblings—two lively sisters who filled the house with chatter and two younger brothers who argued over everything from board games to politics.
Their home was warm. Loud. Alive.
His mother would worry if he stayed out too long.
His father would pretend not to worry, but wait up anyway.
Adrian was the steady center of that household—the quiet strength his siblings leaned on without realizing it.
And tonight, that steadiness was tested.
He glanced down the road again.
"Irina…" he murmured under his breath.
He was not possessive. He never demanded explanations. But he knew her rhythms—the way she walked, the way she texted if she was delayed, the way she always arrived slightly breathless from the cold but smiling.
There was no message.
No footsteps approaching.
Only snow.
Adrian stepped forward, scanning the dim streetlights. The air felt thinner suddenly, colder than the forecast predicted. His chest tightened—not with fear, but with instinct.
Something had shifted.
He did not believe in superstition. He believed in data. In measurable change.
And tonight, the change was undeniable.
A flicker passed through the nearest streetlamp. The light dimmed for a heartbeat—then steadied.
Adrian's jaw tightened.
The temperature had dropped again.
Not naturally.
Deliberately.
His calm did not break. But something beneath it hardened.
He pulled out his phone and tried calling her.
No signal.
That, more than anything, unsettled him.
He looked toward the direction she would have taken to meet him—the old square, the church bells faintly echoing from afar.
The bells.
They were ringing.
But the rhythm was wrong.
Adrian took a step forward.
Then another.
Snow crunched beneath his boots as he began walking toward the sound.
Toward her.
He did not know what he was walking into.
But he knew one thing with absolute certainty—
If something in this frozen city thought it could claim Irina Ardentova without consequence—
It had miscalculated.
To be continued....