#glitteringfrost

In the northern reaches of the world, cradled between jagged mountains and an endless expanse of snow, lay the village of Vinterhollow. Every winter, a miracle unfolded there: the Glittering Frost. As the first true cold of the season settled in, the trees surrounding the village would transform overnight. Their bare branches would shimmer with a frost so brilliant it caught the morning sun like a thousand diamonds, casting rainbows that danced across the white landscape.

The villagers celebrated the phenomenon with a festival. They draped the frost-covered trees with ribbons and lanterns, feasting beneath the glistening canopy. Travelers came from far and wide to marvel at the sight, bringing gifts of gold and spices, their laughter filling the frigid air. It was said that the Frost was a blessing, a gift from Ylva, the Winter Spirit who protected the valley.

But there was one rule—never touch the Frost.

It was whispered to be sacred, a direct manifestation of Ylva's power. Those who dared to brush a finger against the glittering ice were said to vanish, spirited away by the Winter Spirit. It was a tale told to children and skeptics alike, the kind of story meant to keep curiosity in check.

Despite the warnings, one young woman named Elen was drawn to the Frost like a moth to flame. Unlike her neighbors, who reveled in the festival's warmth and cheer, she felt a gnawing unease about the Frost. It wasn’t just its beauty that unsettled her—it was the silence beneath it. No birds perched on the sparkling branches. No animals wandered near the frost-laden trees. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as it passed through the shimmering woods.

On the third night of the festival, when lanterns glowed faintly under a crescent moon and the villagers danced in the square, Elen crept away. Wrapping her fur cloak tightly around her, she ventured into the frost-coated forest, her breath puffing like ghostly wisps in the cold air.

The trees were even more enchanting up close. The frost on their branches pulsed faintly, as though alive. Elen hesitated, her hand hovering near a branch. What harm could a single touch do? she thought.

Her fingers brushed the frost. It was colder than anything she had ever known, a chill so intense it burned. She gasped and pulled back her hand, but the damage was done.

The world around her changed in an instant. The frost began to crackle, the sound sharp and echoing. The glittering beauty drained away, leaving the branches blackened and skeletal. The air grew heavy with the scent of iron, and the silence was broken by a low, keening wail that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Elen turned to flee but found herself frozen in place. A figure stepped out from the shadows of the trees. It was Ylva—or what the villagers believed to be Ylva. She was not the benevolent spirit of their songs and stories. Her form was tall and gaunt, her face obscured by a veil of frost that shimmered with malevolence. Her voice, when it came, was the sound of ice fracturing on a frozen lake.

"You dare to take what is not yours," Ylva hissed.

Elen tried to explain, to apologize, but her words turned to vapor in the icy air. Ylva raised a hand, and the frost began to creep up Elen's legs, binding her to the forest floor.

"You are the price for their beauty," Ylva said. "For each branch that glitters, a life must pay."

As the frost consumed her, Elen's last thought was of the villagers, blissfully unaware of the truth behind their beloved Frost.

The next morning, the festival continued, the villagers marveling at the trees' renewed brilliance. The Frost was even more radiant than before, they said, a sign that Ylva was pleased.

But no one noticed Elen's absence.