Whispers of Frost and Fire
I raised a trembling hand toward the scroll.
As my fingers hovered above it, the ice shell began to crack—not violently, but with the soft sound of melting glass. Crystalline shards drifted down like snowflakes, dissolving before they touched the floor. I didn’t even need to touch it. The scroll wanted to be seen.
Its casing gone, the parchment unrolled on its own with slow, deliberate grace, as if the paper itself was alive.
Lines of writing shimmered across the surface. Not ink—light. Silver and blue, the letters shifted and rearranged themselves until the language made sense. Old Moon Tongue. I hadn’t seen it written in over two decades, and even then only in fragments.
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