Noria Storn's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Noria Storn did not know her own name until the wind stole her memory of everything else. She only knew two things now. The ice stretched flat and white in every direction. And a wall of grey cloud was rushing toward her, faster than she could run. She pulled the silver fur cloak tight at her throat. Someone had given it to her once. She could not remember who, or where, or why her hands knew the clasp so well. That empty space frightened her more than the storm. She had woken this morning with a head full of nothing. No home. No family. No path back. The first gust hit like a shove. Snow tore sideways across the ice and stung her cheeks. She staggered and dropped to one knee. If the blizzard caught her in the open, she would freeze before dark. Then a light danced past her face. It was a tiny woman with wings of frost and bright violet eyes. She hovered just out of reach, watching Noria the way a bird watches a cat. She did not speak. She only darted a short way off, then stopped, then looked back. "You want me to follow," Noria said. Her voice cracked in the cold. The pixie flew. Noria forced herself up and chased the small glow into the white. The wind screamed louder. She could not see her own feet. She followed the light because it was the only thing left to follow. The pixie led her to a dark shape rising from the ice. A cave, carved into a low snowy slope. Noria threw herself through the mouth of it as the blizzard slammed shut behind her. Inside, the wind fell to a hush. The cave held old wooden furniture, a narrow bed, and a cold stone hearth. Someone had lived here long ago. Ash still filled the fireplace. Noria found dry wood stacked against the wall and struck a spark with numb fingers. Flame caught. Warmth spread across her hands. The frost pixie settled on the hearth's edge, wary, ready to bolt. Then Noria saw it. On a small table by the bed sat a flower made of ice. Its petals were clear as glass. Its heart was a crystal core that caught the firelight and threw it back in sharp blue points. It was not frozen over. It was fresh, as if picked that morning. Her chest tightened. She had seen this flower before. She was certain of it. The memory hovered close, then slipped away like the pixie. Noria reached for the icy bloom. Her fingers trembled, not from cold now. "Whose is this?" she whispered. The pixie stared at the flower, then at Noria. She backed toward the cave mouth, afraid. The storm had spared her. But the shelter was not empty of the past. Someone had left this flower here for her. And Noria meant to find out who.