Frost Winterchase's Arc

Chapter 7 of 8

The ice steed stared at Frost. It had come from her leaking magic, tall as a horse, its legs like sharp frost. When she reached for it with her mind, it did not answer. It felt nothing like her serpents. Her four serpents circled her wrists, warm and hers. The steed stood apart, cold and blank. She whispered to it. She pushed her will at it. It only tilted its glass head and pawed the grass. Behind her, the camp slept in the warm valley. If the steed turned wild, it would trample them. Magnus came over the rise first, short and broad, his orange beard stiff with frost. He led the crew that had brought Frost this far. Behind him stood Greta, the troll maiden, her red braids swinging, a pack slung across her wide shoulders. Frost Thornpaw came last, the white were-bear, huge and silent, his black eyes on the steed. "That thing wasn't here last night," Magnus said. His hand went to his belt. "Can you hold it?" "No," Frost said. "It won't obey." The steed swung its head toward Magnus and stamped. A crack of cold shot across the grass. Wind flowers near its hooves froze black and shattered. Greta stepped in front of the crew. "Then don't make it a threat," she said. Thornpaw lowered his head and growled, ready to charge. Frost lifted her hand to stop the bear. She had been forcing it, the same mistake Caeleth had beaten out of her. She had tried to grip the steed like a tool. But the steed was not a summoned serpent. It was wild, like her bonded one had been. Wild things did not answer force. She let her shoulders drop. She stopped pushing. She thought of the closing she had found, the belonging she had held. She could not command the steed. But she could offer it what she had offered the wild serpent. She opened her hands and let her cold pour toward it, slow and steady, a gift. The steed shuddered. It stepped closer. Frost held the thread, not the power. Mine, she thought. Come. The steed lowered its glass head and pressed its cold muzzle to her palm. The pull hit her spine, sharp, and her knees buckled. Thornpaw caught her shoulder. But the steed stood still now, its blank eyes gone quiet. It was fed. It was bonded. "It's yours now?" Magnus asked. "It's mine," Frost said. She rose, shaking, drained deeper than the serpents ever left her. The steed folded its legs and knelt beside her like a mount. Greta grinned. "Now you ride." Frost pressed a hand to her chest. Each larger creature cost more of her life force than the last. She had won the steed. But she felt how thin she had worn herself, and the riders were still out on the ice, coming.