Ravenbreath

The Stillness Below: Not all frost is natural

It started with whispers. Then the wards dimmed. Not failed—dimmed, like they were listening to something else. She thought it was a fluke. Then a child wandered into the snow barefoot, smiling. A hunter returned without memory, humming a melody no one taught him. Now strangers pass through the village with pale eyes and empty warmth, speaking of a stillness that preserves.

She watches from the edges. They call themselves pilgrims. They claim the cold is eternal, and they wish to become so. They leave offerings outside the caverns. They do not shiver. And they do not leave.

Whatever is gathering beneath the mountain is not a storm. It is older than weather. It speaks through imitation, and it’s crawling toward the heart of the frost. She will not let it take root.