I burst through the woven-vine curtains of the Nectar Hollows—the palace's massive, living pantry—like a woman possessed.
This wasn't a human kitchen. There were no metal stoves or gas burners. Instead, massive, hollowed-out gourds bubbled with glowing stews over blue spirit-flames. Sous-chefs didn't chop with knives; they used wind magic to slice Sun-Tubers into perfect discs. The air didn't smell like grease; it smelled like elderflower, roasted starlight, and ozone.
I didn't stop to apologize for the tray I'd dropped.
I sprinted past a line of enchanted whisks that were beating batter by themselves and ducked behind a mountain of Moon-Melons.
'Blend in,' I told myself, my heart hammering against my ribs. 'You are not a legendary SSS+ Grail. You are Ivy. You scrub the Nectar-Vats. You are invisible.'
I grabbed a spare apron hanging from a branch-hook—one stained with purple berry juice—and threw it over my gala tunic. I ripped the silk ribbon out of my honey-blonde hair, letting it fall into a messy, frizzy tangle to hide my pointed ears. I grabbed a handful of Star-Dust (flour made from grinded glowing grain) and smacked it onto my cheeks to hide my flush.
There.
I looked like a disaster. I looked like a stressed, low-caste worker who had been grinding grain for twelve hours.
"You!"
Elder Gorn, the Nectar-Master, floated toward me. He didn't walk; his roots literally dragged him across the mossy floor. He was a Treant-Elf hybrid with bark for skin and a very bad temper.
"Why is the Spirit-Soufflé deflating?!" he roared, his voice sounding like cracking timber. "There was a tremor! Who disturbed the roots?!"
"I... uh..." I stammered, grabbing a bundle of Purifying Moss and aggressively scrubbing a crystal vat. "The World Tree hiccuped! I'm just cleaning up the spill, Elder!"
"Hiccuped? The Tree hasn't moved in a millennium!" Gorn grumbled. "Get to the Scouring Pits! Scrub the sap off the cauldrons until your hands turn green!"
"Yes, Elder! Thank you, Elder!"
I practically dove into the Scouring Pit—a shallow pool of bubbling acidic water used to clean magical residue.
'Safe,' I thought, submerging my hands in the tingling water. 'The King will never look here. High Elves don't enter the Hollows. It's beneath their dignity.'
But my relief lasted exactly ten seconds.
Because while I could hide my face with flour and my body with a dirty apron, I couldn't hide the Heat.
The golden dust from the World Tree hadn't just vanished. It had settled inside me. I felt like I had swallowed a miniature sun. My stomach was buzzing with a warm, steady thrum-thrum-thrum that felt completely alien in this cold, magical city.
And worse?
The acidic water in the pit—which was usually cold—was starting to steam.
Hiss.
"Why is the water boiling?" the worker next to me asked. She was a Dryad with leaves for hair. She pulled her vine-hands back. "Ouch! It burns!"
"It's... uh... a chemical reaction!" I lied frantically, plunging my hands deeper to try and cool it down (which only made it boil faster). "I used too much moss!"
BOOM.
The massive wooden doors of the Hollows didn't open; they were blasted off their hinges by a wave of frost.
The kitchen went silent. The enchanted whisks stopped beating. The spirit-flames flickered and died.
A squad of Frost Sentinels marched in. They weren't wearing metal armor; they wore armor carved from enchanted ice that swirled with mist. Their eyes were glowing blue slits.
"Halt!" the Captain shouted. His voice echoed like a cracking glacier. "By order of the Crown, the Nectar Hollows are under lockdown! No one leaves!"
Elder Gorn floated forward, his bark bristling. "Sentinels? You freeze my dough! What is the meaning of this?"
"We are hunting a fugitive," the Captain announced, holding up a shimmering crystal tablet. "A suspect was identified on the Upper Terrace. Extremely dangerous. High-priority target."
I shrank behind a stack of giant, glowing pumpkins.
'They have my mana signature,' I thought, panic rising in my throat. 'I'm dead. I'm going to be put in a breeding sanctuary and fed organic leaves for the rest of my life.'
"We are looking for a male Elf," the Captain read from the tablet. "Name: Bob."
I bit my lip to keep from laughing hysterically. The sheer absurdity of hearing a High Fantasy Sentinel say the name "Bob" was almost enough to break me.
"Bob?" Elder Gorn blinked, his leaves rustling in confusion. "There is no Bob here. These are Nectar-Weavers. We have names like 'Thistle' and 'Oak-Heart'."
"Do not lie to the Crown!" the Captain barked. "The fugitive identified himself as Bob! He is described as... elusive. Fast. And radiating SSS+ Fertility energy."
The Dryad next to me whispered, "Highly fertile? Bob? Is that the new guy in the fermentation sector?"
"Search the premises!" the Captain ordered. "Check everyone! Any male Elf named Bob is to be detained immediately for... genetic verification!"
The sentinels fanned out, grabbing terrified workers and checking their ears.
"Are you Bob?!"
"No! I'm Willow!"
"Likely story! Check his aura!"
I sank lower behind the pumpkins. 'Okay. This is good. They are looking for a guy. Stupid guards. I just need to wait for them to leave, then I'll sneak out the waste-chute.'
But while the guards were shouting at poor Willow, the temperature in the massive room began to drop.
It wasn't a gradual cool-down. It was a sudden, violent plunge.
The boiling water in my Scouring Pit stopped bubbling. The steam froze into ice crystals mid-air. The sap in the vats turned solid.
The chatter of the guards died down.
The entrance darkened.
This time, there was no marching. There was just silence.
King Winter walked in.
He didn't look at the Elder. He didn't look at the guards harassing the workers.
He stood in the center of the chaotic, bioluminescent kitchen like a shard of midnight. His presence sucked the light out of the spirit-flames. His platinum silver hair fell over his eyes, and his expression was one of intense, predatory focus.
He wasn't looking for faces. He was looking for warmth.
"Your Majesty!" The Captain saluted. "We have not found the target named Bob yet!"
"Release them," Winter said softly.
His voice was terrifyingly calm. He took a slow breath, inhaling the scent of roasted tubers and fear.
"The target is not named Bob," Winter said, taking a step forward. Frost raced out from his boots, killing the moss on the floor. "And the target is not a man."
He turned his head slowly.
His gaze swept over the fermentation vats. Over the hanging herbs. Over the Scouring Pits.
"She is here," he whispered.
I stopped breathing.
'He can feel me. He can feel the connection.'
I was crouched behind a stack of glowing pumpkins near the back exit.
Winter took another step.
The ice spread faster now, aggressive and searching. It coated the walls in diamond-hard frost.
"Come out," Winter commanded. He wasn't shouting. He was speaking to the room, his voice vibrating in the air. "You are burning, Little Thief. You cannot hide a star in the night."
He walked toward the Scouring Pits. Toward me.
I looked at the back exit—a small, circular hatch used to throw out compost. It led to the Abyss Moat, the dark water that surrounded the palace roots.
'Better wet than pregnant,' I decided.
I grabbed a handful of Blinding Pollen—a bright yellow powder used to make glowing cakes—from a jar next to me.
I stood up.
Winter saw me instantly.
His frozen flake eyes locked onto mine. Across the frozen room, our gazes met. Green-gold collided with ice-blue.
For a second, the terrifying King looked... relieved. The tension in his shoulders dropped.
"Found y—"
"EAT POLLEN!" I yelled.
I threw the handful of glowing yellow powder directly at a wind-chime hanging above his head.
The chime spun. The wind magic caught the powder.
Whump.
A cloud of blinding, glittering yellow dust exploded into the room. It wasn't just dust; it was magical pollen. It stuck to everything and glowed with the brightness of a flashbang.
"My eyes!" a guard screamed. "It's sticky! It burns!"
The kitchen erupted into chaos. Even Winter flinched, raising his arm to shield his face from the sudden burst of light.
That was all the time I needed.
I turned and dove headfirst into the Compost Hatch.
It was a tight squeeze. I scraped my shoulders. I smelled like rotting fruit. But I shimmied through the dark, wooden tunnel just as the room behind me exploded with the sound of ice shattering.
"STOP HER!" Winter's roar shook the palace roots.
I tumbled out of the chute and fell.
I plummeted twenty feet and splashed into the dark, cold water of the Abyss Moat.
Splash.
"Cold! Cold! Cold!"
The water was freezing. I gasped, paddling frantically toward the muddy bank of the Lower Roots. My heavy tunic was soaked, dragging me down.
I scrambled up the bank, shivering violently, coughing up moat water.
'I made it. I escaped.'
I looked back at the palace towering above me.
High up in the kitchen window, a figure stood silhouetted against the light. He was looking down at the moat. He was looking right at the spot where I had crawled out.
Even from this distance, I could feel his gaze. It felt like a hook in my navel.
He raised a hand.
Suddenly, the water in the moat began to solidify. The mud under my boots turned to rock-hard permafrost.
[SYSTEM ALERT]
Status Effect: Absolute Zero Lockdown.
Range: The Entire Capital City.
Message from King Winter: "Run all you want, Bob. The gates are frozen."
I stared at the massive, translucent ice dome that was rapidly forming over the entire city, sealing us all in like a snow globe.
"He froze the city," I whispered, my teeth chattering. "He literally froze the entire capital because I threw pollen at him."
I looked down at my stomach.
There was no voice. No talking baby.
Just a soft, defiant golden glow that pulsed through my wet clothes, keeping me warm in the unnatural winter.
It wasn't a child yet. It was just a promise. A promise that I was in deep, deep trouble.
"Okay," I shivered, wringing out my hair. "New plan. Find dry pants. Then... find a way to melt a magical ice dome."
I turned and ran into the shadows of the Lower City. The hunt had just begun.