You know that feeling when you forget to defrost the chicken for dinner and your mom is five minutes away? Now multiply that panic by a thousand, add a psychotic ice monarch, and trap yourself inside a giant magical snow globe.
That was my Tuesday night.
I was shivering in an alleyway in the Lower Roots—the slums of Yggdrasil. It wasn't nearly as pretty as the Upper Terrace. Down here, the World Tree's roots were thick, gnarled, and covered in questionable moss. The houses were carved into the bark like termite mounds, and the streetlamps were just jars of tired fireflies.
And it was freezing.
I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to stop my teeth from chattering. The cold wasn't just physical; it felt unnatural. Heavy. It pressed against my skin like a physical weight, a constant reminder of the power of the man hunting me.
I was hiding behind a dumpster filled with rotting Sun-Apples. The smell was atrocious, sweet and cloying like decay, but the heat radiating from the composting fruit was the only thing keeping my toes from turning black.
My plan was simple:
Find clothes that didn't scream "I work in the palace kitchen."
Find a sympathetic smuggler.
Dig a tunnel out of the city like a mole-rat.
But deep down, I knew it wasn't that simple. I wasn't just running from the law. I was running from biology.
I peeked out from behind the dumpster. In the center of the slum square, a massive holographic projection flickered to life. It was the Royal Decree Broadcast.
Usually, this was used for boring announcements like tax hikes. Tonight, the air crackled with a different kind of tension.
The giant, translucent blue face of King Winter appeared in the sky, looming over the frozen city like a vengeful god. He sat on his throne of black ice, fingers steepled under his chin. He looked composed—too composed. Like a frozen lake that was hiding a monster beneath the surface.
His eyes—those terrifying frozen flakes—seemed to stare directly at me through the screen.
"Citizens of Yggdrasil," his voice boomed, echoing off the wooden buildings. "The city is under indefinite quarantine."
A collective, terrified groan went up from the slums. Families huddled closer together in doorways. A goblin near me whimpered, pulling a rag over his turnips.
"We are hunting a fugitive," Winter continued smoothly. "An individual carrying a vital national asset."
My stomach twisted. Vital national asset.
He didn't mean a jewel. He didn't mean a weapon. He meant me. He meant my uterus.
The screen changed. It showed a sketch—a crude stick figure of an Elf with messy hair, holding a spoon. Underneath, in bold red letters: WANTED: "BOB".
It should have been funny. A stick figure named Bob. But then Winter spoke again, and the humor died in my throat.
"The suspect radiates a unique thermal signature," Winter said, his voice dropping an octave. "Do not approach. Report any sightings of unusual warmth immediately. The individual belongs to the Crown."
Belongs to the Crown.
I shrank back into the shadows, a wave of humiliation washing over me hotter than the fertility magic. I wasn't a person to them anymore. I wasn't Ivy, the girl who liked croissants and hated waking up early. I was a walking stat block. I was livestock.
The broadcast ended. The square went dark, save for the blue moonlight filtering through the ice dome.
I stood up, my knees cracking. I needed to move. The cold was getting into my bones, and my "SSS+ Fertility" glow was reacting to the drop in temperature. It wasn't just a warmth in my belly anymore; it was pulsing. Like a beacon.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It was trying to sync with him. It wanted to be found.
"Traitor," I hissed at my own stomach, hitting it lightly. "Stop signaling him. He froze our favorite bakery."
I crept down the alley, keeping to the shadows. I spotted a clothesline hanging between two root-houses. I snatched a heavy, rough-spun cloak made of Wooly-Caterpillar Silk. It scratched my neck and smelled like wet dog, but it covered the kitchen uniform.
I pulled the hood deep over my face. Now for the smuggler.
I knew a guy who knew a guy. The delivery drivers who brought illegal Shadow-Spices into the kitchens usually hung out at a tavern called The Knotty Root. If anyone could get past a magical ice blockade, it was them.
I navigated the maze of the slums. The deeper I went, the quieter it got. The ice dome overhead blocked out the stars, casting the world in a suffocating, eternal twilight.
The Knotty Root was the only building with light spilling from under the door.
I pushed inside. The warmth hit me instantly—sweat, ale, and woodsmoke. It was packed with the "lesser" races of Yggdrasil: Goblins, Dwarves, Moss-folk.
I kept my head down, weaving through the crowd to the bar.
The bartender was a massive Rock Troll named Tiny. He was wiping a mug with a rag that looked suspiciously like a dead squirrel.
"What'll it be?" Tiny grunted, his voice like grinding stones.
"Information," I whispered, sliding a stolen silver fork across the counter.
Tiny picked it up. He bit it. It bent.
"Real silver," he muttered. "What do you need?"
"A way out. Past the ice wall."
Tiny paused. He leaned over the counter, his shadow engulfing me. "Nobody gets past the wall, little one. The King locked it with Absolute Zero mana. It's not just ice; it's a stasis field. You try to dig through it, your shovel freezes. You try to melt it, your fire dies."
"There has to be a way," I insisted, desperation creeping into my voice. "The smugglers. The Shadow-Spice runners. How do they get in?"
Tiny looked around, then lowered his voice. "The Old Sewers. beneath the roots. They bypass the dome."
"Show me."
"It's suicide," Tiny warned. "The sewers dump out at the Frozen Falls. You'd have to climb a vertical wall of ice to get out. One slip, and you're paste."
"I'm good at climbing," I lied. I got dizzy on a step-stool.
Tiny sighed and pointed a rocky finger toward the back. "Behind the kegs. Don't say I didn't warn you."
"Deal."
I grabbed the silver fork back (I needed money for the other side) and headed for the kegs.
I was halfway across the room when the tavern door slammed open with a force that shook the floorboards.
CRACK.
The music died. The chatter stopped.
Standing in the doorway was Grand Elder Thorne. He looked manic, his robes disheveled. In his hand, he clutched a piece of fabric—my discarded hair ribbon.
But it was what he held in his other hand that made my blood run cold. Leashes.
Attached to the leashes were three Frost-Wolves. Massive, white beasts with eyes like blue lasers and teeth made of transparent ice. They weren't panting; they were huffing clouds of liquid nitrogen.
"Sniff!" Thorne shrieked, waving the ribbon. "Find the signature! Find the Mother!"
The wolves lowered their heads. They inhaled deeply.
Then, all three heads snapped up. They turned slowly, mechanically, toward the bar.
Toward me.
Fear, sharp and primal, spiked in my chest. This wasn't a game of hide-and-seek anymore. These things would tear me apart to get to the "prize" inside.
"THERE!" Thorne pointed a bony finger at me. "THE CLOAKED ONE! SEIZE IT! GENTLY!"