FROST Chapter 29: A Realization

Silvermist strode confidently into the hallway she had chosen, determined to find her way to the throne room—or at least sowhere important. The flickering torches cast eerie shadows, but she ignored them, keeping her head high.

After several turns and an embarrassingly long stretch of walking in circles, she finally pushed open a grand, ornate door.

And promptly froze.

She blinked.

Then blinked again.

Before her was the most extravagant, unnecessarily luxurious toilet she had ever seen in her life.

The floor was made of polished crystal, gleaming like the night sky, and the walls were lined with diamond-encrusted mirrors. A fountain—yes, a fountain—flowed gracefully in the center of the room, surrounded by silken curtains that fluttered despite the lack of wind. The toilet itself? A throne. An actual, golden throne. The kind of throne ant for ruling kingdoms, except... well, it flushed.

Silvermist’s jaw dropped.

"This... this bathroom is bigger than my entire house." She clutched her head in disbelief. "Who needs this much space to pee?!"

She turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. The towels looked softer than any bed she had ever slept on. The soap dispensers were probably worth more than her life. And was that—?

Silvermist’s eyes narrowed at a shimring lever beside the golden toilet. A plaque above it read:

"Royal Flush: In case of ergencies."

Her brain stalled.

"What kind of ergencies are we talking about here?" she muttered. "A war? A demonic summoning? Did soone eat sothing so bad that the entire palace needed evacuation?"

For a brief, terrible mont, she was tempted to pull it.

But she knew better.

With a shudder, she backed away, resisting the urge to cleanse herself in the unnecessarily fancy fountain.

"Alright, that was a waste of ti," she grumbled, stepping back into the hallway. "Ti to—"

She paused.

Wait.

Wasn’t this door supposed to lead her back to where she ca from?

She squinted at her surroundings.

Nope. Different hallway.

Different very ominous hallway.

The air was heavier here, thick with an eerie silence. The torches flickered wildly as if warning her to turn back now, but because Silvermist was Silvermist, she ignored them and kept going.

Then, she slled sothing.

Sothing... beastly.

The mont she turned a corner, her brain officially gave up.

Because in front of her, caged in massive crystal bars, were creatures that looked like they had crawled straight out of a nightmare.

One had the body of a lion but the scales of a snake, its multiple eyes blinking in different directions. Another was a towering, shadowy figure with limbs too long to be comfortable, its mouth stretching way too wide into an unsettling grin. And then there was—

Silvermist gagged.

"Oh hell no."

She took a step back as a gigantic, hairless rat turned to look at her. Its teeth were jagged, its beady eyes unsettlingly intelligent. Worst of all, it smiled at her.

Silvermist grimaced so hard she thought her face would collapse.

"NOPE. Absolutely not. Have a nice day."

She spun on her heel so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.

Just as she started power-walking away, she heard a guttural, deep voice rumble from one of the cages.

"Oh? A new plaything?"

Silvermist’s soul nearly left her body.

"PLAYTHING?!" she screeched, now in a full sprint.

Behind her, the creatures started to laugh—a raspy, bone-chilling sound that sent shivers down her spine.

"I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s not gonna be in your stomachs!" she yelled, bolting down the hallway as fast as her legs could carry her.

And thus, her grand escape from the Toilet of Luxury had led her directly into the Dungeon of Nightmares.

She was never trusting hallways again.

Silvermist staggered through yet another hallway, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She had taken so many turns, climbed so many damn stairs, and nearly gotten eaten alive—all because she couldn’t read hallways correctly.

But finally—finally—she burst through a set of grand doors, and—

She blinked.

The throne room.

At last.

The sight before her was sothing out of a dream. The room stretched so far it could probably fit an entire village inside. The walls, the ceiling, even the massive throne at the far end—all made of shimring crystal, reflecting every flicker of torchlight like a never-ending prism. The chandeliers above twinkled like captured starlight, bathing everything in an ethereal glow.

And yet, Silvermist couldn’t even appreciate it.

Because the first thing she saw was herself.

Reflected in the polished floor, in the countless mirrored surfaces, in every damn shiny thing in this palace—was her own disastrous appearance.

She looked wrecked.

Her uniform was a ss—one sleeve half-off her shoulder, the buttons misaligned like she had gotten dressed in the dark. Her hair? Completely ruined. Strands stuck out in every direction, like she had just lost a fight with a wind spirit and then rolled down a hill for good asure. There was even a streak of dirt across her cheek from who-knows-where.

She let out a slow, horrified breath.

"Dear god," she muttered, patting her hair down in vain. "I would arrest myself looking like this."

She attempted to straighten her uniform. That didn’t help much.

She tugged at her hair. That sohow made it worse.

Her reflection stared back at her in disappointnt.

And as if things couldn’t get any worse—she finally realized.

"Where the hell is everyone?!"

Cloud? Gone.

Sapphira? Nowhere.

Nix-slash-Frost? Vanished into the abyss.

Silvermist whipped her head around, half-expecting them to jump out from behind a crystal pillar yelling "Surprise, biatch! Who the hell are you?" but the throne room was as silent as a graveyard.

"Great. Just great." She threw her arms up. "I went through hell—literally, a toilet and monster hell—just to get here, and everyone’s already left?"

She marched up to the grand throne, placing her hands on her hips.

"I swear, if I find out they just casually walked out of here while I was running for my life, I will throw myself into the next abyss I see."

The throne, naturally, did not respond.

Silvermist groaned, rubbing her temples. "Okay. Think. Think. Where would they have gone?"

The mont the words left her lips, sothing clicked.

The throne.

The crystal palace.

The purification ritual.

"It must be—"

Silvermist spun on her heel and bolted out of the throne room, nearly slipping on the damn crystalized floor in her rush.

She had wasted so much ti running through hallways, getting lost in giant royal bathrooms and dungeons filled with nightmare fuel, while Cloud, Sapphira, and Nix-slash-Frost were already moving forward with the purification ritual.

Sothing Silvemist shouldn’t miss. She needs answers, and answers she’ll get.

Her boots clacked against the polished floor as she stord through the hall.

"Okay, okay," she muttered to herself, trying to think. "If I were a bunch of secretive, powerful magic users trying to ’purify’ a kid against his will, where would I do it?"

Her mind raced through the palace layout—or at least, the parts she hadn’t gotten hopelessly lost in.

The throne room was empty.

The dungeon was for monsters—and apparently, Silvermist’s own terrible decision-making.

That left...

Her breath hitched.

"The Moon Chamber."

Of course.

She had heard rumors about it from Ezekiel when she ntioned about Frost and her purification that didn’t even happen.

Ezekiel even pointed out where it can be found—in a secluded chamber at the highest point of the palace, directly beneath the Moonstone—the power source of the Academy and the Crystal Palace itself.

It was where the Moon’s power was at its strongest—a place ant for ceremonies, blessings, and... purification rituals.

And now, she was certain that’s where they had taken Nix.

Silvermist’s eyes flicked to a nearby spiral staircase, winding up into the towering heights of the palace.

She sucked in a breath.

"This is a terrible idea," she muttered.

Then she bolted up the stairs and after two hundred steps...

"WHY DOES THIS PLACE HAVE SO MANY STAIRS?!"

Silvermist dragged herself up the last few steps, clutching her ribs like she had just fought a war.

"Who—the hell—designed this palace?" she wheezed between gasps. "So sadistic—asthma-hating—architect?"

She barely had ti to recover before she heard voices.

Silvermist froze.

At the end of the hall, past the towering crystal archway, she saw them.

Cloud.

Sapphira.

Several royal guards standing like statues.

And in the center of the chamber—Nix.

Or at least... what was left of him.

Silvermist’s stomach twisted.

He was floating—literally floating—inside a shimring orb of pale blue light. His limbs were slack, his head lolled slightly forward, and his dark hair drifted around him weightlessly, like he was subrged in water. And the most exciting part, his hair slowly turned silver and his skin even paler.

The air in the chamber was thick with energy, pulsing in waves that made Silvermist’s skin crawl.

Cloud stood before the orb, his ivory eyes glowing faintly as he chanted sothing in an ancient tongue.

Sapphira stood beside him, hesitant but obedient, watching Nix with sothing dangerously close to pity.

Silvermist didn’t like that look. She feels as though they are killing Nix and he was just going along with it as there’s nothing else that he could do.

"You both know where I co from. You know the origin of my birth. If we beco truly one, we might end up becoming into sothing even a greater chaos than the Sand man and his apprentice. This won’t work unless she’s willing to do it."

Silvermist’s mind spun.

The chamber, the shaking ground, the blinding magic surging around her—all of it faded into the background as a mory surged forward, shoving its way into her consciousness.

"Was this... the origin Frost was talking about?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling energy filling the room.

She stared, breathless, as Nix—no, Frost—shifted before her eyes. The delicate features of the boy trapped within the orb slowly lted away, replaced by the sharp, familiar presence of the Winter Guardian she knew.

His transformation was nearly complete.

But sothing was wrong.

The orb—once a shimring, translucent blue—began to pulse.

Slow. Steady. Like a heartbeat.

Cloud’s head snapped toward it, his expression unreadable.

Then he barked out a single, chilling command.

"Get ready and brace for impact!"

Silvermist barely had ti to react before—

The orb turned black.

A deep, ink-like darkness bled through the glowing sphere, consuming it from the inside out like a festering wound.

The air cracked. The ground lurched.

The walls of the chamber trembled, the crystalized structures groaning under the pressure of whatever unholy force was now brewing inside that sphere.

But Silvermist?

She barely noticed.

She stood frozen—paralyzed—as realization ca crashing down on her like an avalanche.

Her mind reeled, piecing together fragnts of conversations, warnings, and secrets she had buried under the weight of her own ignorance.

Adeline’s words. East’s cryptic murmurs. Ezekiel’s warnings. And then—Frost himself.

His voice in her dream, laced with sothing far heavier than regret.

"Hisstaff."

Silvermist’s breath hitched. It wasn’t just a tool. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was a seal.

A suppressor.

A cage.

Not to keep others safe from Winter’s power, but to keep Winter’s power safe from him. Frost wasn’t just a Guardian. He was sothing else. Sothing that should have never been.

"ButwhydidTheMoon—theircreatorchosehimifhewillonlyenduptearingtheworldapart?Andofallpeople, Iwaschosentobehisapprentice?"

And now—now—the cage was broken. And whatever was locked away inside him?

The chamber suddenly exploded into motion as the orb cracked and slowly shattered.

Silvermist and her unnoticed presence was yanked from her thoughts as a violent shockwave ripped through the air, knocking her clean off her feet.

There was no ti to scream, no ti to react—just the sheer, gut-wrenching sensation of falling as the earth cracked open and swallowed her whole.

The purification room vanished in an instant, replaced by an abyss of endless black.

Wind howled past her ears, whipping her hair wildly around her face. Her limbs flailed, desperate to grasp onto sothing—anything—but there was nothing. Just an overwhelming, all-consuming void dragging her down into its depths.

And then—

Through the chaos, through the sinking weight of inevitable doom, she saw him.

Frost.

He had stepped out of the shattered remains of the orb, his body illuminated by a warm, otherworldly glow.

His once-childlike features were gone, replaced by the sharp, defined face of the Guardian she knew. And his eyes—those beautiful endless, stormy blue eyes were back. Araging sea caught between power and sothing... else. Sothing raw. Sothing ethereal.

His gaze locked onto her and his pupils dilated.

For a split second, Silvemist swore she saw sothing flicker across his expression—shock? Recognition? Fear?

His lips parted, and though the void was swallowing her whole, she could still make out what he said—

"Silvermist..."

And then—nothing. The darkness devoured her.

"Is this it?" she thought. "Am I going to be finally stuck here forever?"

Then—

A flicker of light.

So faint at first that she thought she had imagined it. But no. It was real. And it was growing.

A soft, bluish glow blossod in front of her, piercing through the shadows. The darkness retreated, curling away like smoke. Silvermist’s eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the sudden brightness.

Slowly... slowly...

A figure erged.

A man.

Tall, with long silver hair cascading down his back, dressed in flowing bluish-white robes that shimred like frost under moonlight. His presence was overwhelming, like a storm trapped in a human form, yet there was an ethereal stillness to him.

Silvermist blinked. And then blinked again.

The edges of her vision sharpened, bringing him into focus—bringing him into focus.

Her breath hitched.

Her chest tightened.

"No..." Her lips trembled as she uttered his na—"F-Frost?"

And then she saw it. The blood. Dripping—pooling onto the concrete floor beneath him.

Her heart stopped.

Her knees buckled.

Her fingers numbed as she slowly lowered her gaze—to the crystal spear she had driven straight through his stomach.

Her own hands were gripping it.

She had done this.

She had stabbed him.

And behind him, barely visible through the haze of shock clouding her vision, lie the unconscious Athyst and everyone who survived whatever she did.

Safe. Unhard. Shielded by the very man now bleeding out in front of her.

Frost’s body slightly trembled, but his eyes never left hers. Even as his blood soaked the ground—even as his lips parted, his breath shallow—he still looked only at her.

And in his gaze, she saw not anger. Not hatred. Just regrets.

With trembling fingers, Frost reached out, his touch featherlight as he brushed aside the strands of hair clinging to Silvermist’s face. His breath hitched as he took in her weary, battered expression.

Guilt carved deep lines into his features, his voice breaking as he whispered, "I’m so sorry." His hands curled into fists at his sides. "I never should have left you alone."