An Inferno of Ice

An Inferno of Ice - Part 3

The journey through Frostglimmer is long and arduous. It takes more out of me than I could have ever expected. After leaving the village of Snowbell, the walk to the next settlement takes longer than it likely should because of the little obstacles of hunger and cold. I wait for as long as I can, hoping I'll reach my destination and won't have to take such a monumental risk on my very first day of travel. But by the time the two suns have reached their zenith and swapped places to begin their downward descent and there's still no sign of life, I admit defeat and make my way off the road and pick carefully over the uneven terrain. Once I'm far enough that I hopefully won't be spotted within seconds of lighting a fire, I lower myself into a crouch upon the unforgiving ground. With fingers that are half numb and shaking, I open my satchel and pull out a loaf of bread that the innkeeper had insisted upon giving me before my departure. Right now, I couldn't be more grateful for it. I remove my gloves and allow flames to burst into life in one palm, not daring to let it get too strong for fear that it will melt the ice around me. The moment the fire appears, warmth suffuses every part of me. Even though this is the best I've felt since arriving on Icelandia, I'll have to make this quick so as not to be spotted. By the time I'm finished with the bread, my energy is higher than it's been all day. It feels as though the previous night of restlessness hadn't even happened. Knowing that every second my fire burns could mean one second closer to capture, I extinguish the small blaze by curling my fingers into a fist to smother it. Then I rise to my feet, replace my gloves, and turn around to head back toward the road. That's when I see him. the loan figure is standing stock still not 3 feet from me, face hidden behind a mask of intricate purple and blue-dyed ice and dressed entirely in white. He would have blended in seamlessly with the snowy landscape if it hadn't been for his mask and his hair, which is black as outer space except for intermittent streaks of palest white. My heart seems to stop at the sight of him, even as my instincts scream for me to make a run for it. As I stand there, frozen with indecision, the masked figure raises one hand and presses a single finger to his lips before gesturing me onward. I blink in shock, having fully expected to be tackled to the ground, or at the very least Told to make no moves as he called for reinforcements. At last, my fear wins out over my better judgment, and I take off at a sprint. My shoes slip and slide on the ice, but I don't stop, not even when I reach the road. The air is sharp and cold in my lungs, feeling like Thousands of tiny knives each time I inhale. But not even that slows me down as I flee what could have so easily been the end of this mission for me.