Icebound Novels & Stories

The world was dying in shades of crystalline blue. The rising sun should have brought warmth, but as Elara stood in the center of the ruined rink, the heat of the morning felt like a distant memory. The "Ice Core" wasn’t just a name; it was a physical transition. Where the Berserker had been a sun-bright rage of fire and blood, this new power was a silent, crushing vacuum. It sucked the energy out of the air, the moisture from the breath of her mates, and the life from the very ground beneath her.

The sun was already dipping low, painting the ice with streaks of orange. Then I saw River. He stood by the fence, shirtless. In the snow. Steam rose off his skin. I stepped closer, confused. “River?” He didn’t turn. Suddenly, his body shifted—spine stretching, arms twisting. His back hunched. Bones cracked. Fur sprouted along his arms. His face lengthened, mouth opening in a soundless growl. His eyes—those same silver eyes shone through the half-transformed shape. I couldn’t breathe. My feet locked in place.

Elena’s fingers were numb from gripping the rag so tightly. She’d been scrubbing the same stubborn spot on the window for ten full minutes, pressing harder with every pass, but the frost refused to give. Regular ice would have softened under the warmth of her breath and the weak morning light seeping through the glass. This wasn’t regular ice. This was Maya’s ice—Silver Wolf ice—thin, glittering, and unnaturally stubborn. It clung to the pane like it had roots buried deep in the glass, a silent, shimmering accusation that something ancient and forbidden had woken up in this tiny room last night.

I woke up the next day feeling cold. Marco poured a bucket of cold water on me. "Aren't you supposed to be awake by now?" He asked. I lifted my body and tried to stand up. "What do you want?" I asked and he held my wrist and pressed it. I winced in pain before he released it. "You have a package to deliver for me." He eyed me. "Why can't he send it to DHL?" I asked myself. "What package?" I asked and i got a slap in the face.

The seventh-grade Breakthrough Pill was a little tricky to crat, but Severin was familiar with it because he had just recently prepared a batch. Seeing as Severin had agreed, Oskar set down his teacup gently and rose from his seat. "Come with me to the Treasure Pavilion." With a pause for effect, he glanced at Severin and said, "As it happens, there is an Icicle Flame in the Treasure Pavilion." "Icicle Flame?" Severin was momentarily taken aback. The Icicle Flame ranked 18 on the Spiritual Fire list, and it originated from Northsea's depths. Known for the paradoxical extreme cold and extreme heat.

“Purewater! Come now, don’t you want to sell me purewater, I want everything.” He said to her and she frowned before she walked slowly to his store, business was slow that day and she had not even sold much since morning and the cold sachet water was no longer cold. “It is not cold ooo.” She said to him.

The midnight ice was a flat, dark mirror. By midnight, the cooling units beneath the Madison Square Garden concrete had dialed down to their lowest operational threshold, dropping the ambient temperature of the third subterranean level to a bitter, dry fourteen degrees. The thin layer of frost that settled over the red and blue lines gave the sheet a ghostly, unblemished sheen.

He had no inkling that a new Alpha had taken over the territory. And Brandon intended to take over much more than just the ice delivery. Ever the silent guardian, Brandon grabbed a fresh glass and poured chilled water over the ice cubes. He kicked off his shoes as he approached the bed, coming up behind Lyon with a single ice cube held between his fingers. "Mm. Thank you," Lyon purred, still staring at the city lights as Brandon reached around him to offer the glass. He sipped with his usual elegance at first, then drank with a visible greed until the glass was empty. "God. That is extraordinary."

Huge wooden tubs filled with freezing well water lined the stone walls, their surfaces skimmed over with thin layers of ice. Elena dropped the heavy pile of linen onto the granite floor. Her breath formed thick, ragged clouds in the darkness. She knelt beside the first wooden tub, her bare hands plunging into the freezing water to break the ice. The cold was so intense it felt like a thousand needles driving directly into her bone marrow. She grabbed a thick vanguard cloak, scrubbing the heavy fabric against a ridged wooden board with mindless, rhythmic desperation.

Their eyes were closed and a peculiar feeling of devastation began to run, like a thousand streams, into his chest, at the thought that they might be dead. “No!” he shouted as he fell to his knees. The woman’s lime green eyes cracked open and the thin layer of ice around her face cracked, but then froze again. He exhaled in relief and reached out to wipe away the tiny crystals already accruing on her lashes. “God, you’re cold,” he exclaimed, bringing his hands over her frigid cheeks.