A COURT OF FROZEN HEARTS

Understanding crashed over me in a wave.

My stomach twisted with horror.

"What am I going to eat?" My voice trembled. "Five days, Fox. How will I last five days?"

He stepped closer, sat beside me.

"You can drink from the streams. Running water is safe everywhere." His voice softened, soothing. "As for food…"

The Fox fell silent, looked away.

"I can't help with that," he said quietly. "At all."

He rubbed his face with his unburned hand.

"I can't find human food. It simply doesn't exist here."

Panic began rising, squeezing my throat.

"Listen to me," the Fox turned, gripped my shoulders carefully, trying not to cause pain with his burned hands. "Humans… you mortals are stronger than you think."

His voice became firm, convincing.

"A human can survive without food for quite a while! If there's water." He shook me lightly. "Five days is nothing. You'll be weak by the end, yes. Hungry. But you'll live."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely." He nodded decisively. "I've seen humans who've starved longer. Much longer. And survived. Your bodies… they know how to conserve resources when necessary."

The Fox gripped my shoulders tighter.

"The main thing is not to panic. Panic consumes strength faster than hunger." His amber eyes looked straight into mine. "You made it this far. Through the Wild Pack, the White Lady, the Siren glade, the Dead Hollow. All that shit."

He shook his head.

"Five days without food isn't what's going to stop you. Understand? Hunger won't kill you. Thirst won't kill you."

A heavy pause.

"Only he can kill you. Or your fear." His amber eyes didn't leave mine. "So don't fear hunger. Fear everything else."

I looked at him, feeling the panic slowly recede.

He was right. Humans really could survive without food longer than it seemed.

"Besides," he added more gently, "we're almost there. An hour's walk to the Borderlands. Maybe less."

He pointed to the shimmering glow between the trees.

"There you can rest. Regain your strength. Sleep peacefully." A smirk. "And tomorrow… tomorrow we'll figure something out."

Despite everything, I felt my lips twitch in something resembling a smile.

"Alright," I exhaled. "Let's keep going."

I adjusted the camera hanging on a strap across my shoulder. It was heavy, but it was the weight of hope. My last weapon.

Nodding, I moved forward.

Without the backpack I felt strangely light. And simultaneously—defenseless.

"Fox?" I called.

"Mm?"

"My name is Elise," I said quietly. "Elise Thorne."

He stopped abruptly. Spun around, stared at me with an expression like I'd lost my mind.

"You… what?" Something close to panic rang in his voice. "You just…"

"Told you my name." I stopped beside him. "My real name."

"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!" He grabbed my shoulders, shook me. "Do you understand what you've done?! True names have power! Authority!"

His amber eyes blazed with fear.

"Now I can…" He broke off, released me, stepped back.

Silence.

He looked at me as if I were a bomb with the timer running.

"Why?" he whispered. "Why did you do that?"

I stepped closer, ignoring his fear.

"Because I trust you," I said simply. "Because you risked your life to save me. Because you're the only one in this world who hasn't betrayed me."

The Fox stepped back again, shaking his head.

"You don't understand. I'm fae. We don't… we don't know how to handle this. Trust."

"You'll learn," I smiled at him. "You have time."

"Elise," he said carefully, as if tasting the name.

"You can shorten it to Lise. Friends usually do."

"Friends," he repeated quietly, and surprise sounded in his voice. "We're… friends?"

"Aren't we?"

The Fox stood there, processing what he'd heard. Emotions shifted across his face—fear, surprise, something warm and unfamiliar.

"Three hundred years," he finally whispered. "Three hundred years, and no one… no one has trusted me with their name just like that. Without deals. Without coercion."

He looked into my eyes.

"Thank you, Elise," he said softly, and there wasn't a drop of mockery in his voice. "For your trust."

I nodded, and we continued forward.

The light ahead grew brighter, and with each step warmth of anticipation spread through my chest. Soon. Very soon I'd be safe. I could rest. Sleep peacefully, without nightmares, without his touch.

The forest around us lightened, the air became cleaner. Even the heaviness in my muscles receded—as if the very approach to the Borderlands was giving me strength.

"Just a little more," the Fox said quietly, and relief sounded in his voice. "Can you feel it? The air is changing."

I nodded, quickening my pace. Yes, I could feel it. Something ancient and powerful was pulling me forward, promising peace, protection, healing.

We were rounding a large moss-covered boulder when the ground beneath me gave way.

Not gradually—instantly, in one movement, like a trapdoor flying open under my feet.

I had a moment—maybe less—to understand it was a trap.

Then I was falling.

IMPACT.

***

Pain exploded through my entire body—from the back of my skull to my tailbone. My spine felt like it had split. My ribs compressed. Air tore from my lungs in one sharp exhale.

Something heavy struck my chest, then slid to the side.

The camera.

The strap had torn during the fall.

I lay there, gasping for air, but my lungs wouldn't obey.

Couldn't inhale.

Couldn't breathe.

Panic hit sharper than pain.

My mouth opened and closed like a fish on dry land. No air. Only burning in my chest, vacuum, emptiness.

I was suffocating.

My hands clawed at the earth, fingers digging into dirt, nails breaking.

Breathe. BREATHE, ELISE!

Finally—a convulsive, wheezing breath. Air rushed into my lungs, burning, scraping my throat.

Another breath. Another. Coughing—agonizing, shaking my whole body.

I rolled onto my side, curled up, clutching my ribs. Each breath echoed with pain.

Tears flowed on their own—from pain, from shock, from fear.

"Elise!"

The Fox's cry from above—desperate, frightened.

I raised my head, squinting through pain and tears.

Above the pit, about four meters above me, hung a net.

Large, crude, woven from thick ropes. It swayed, and inside it the Fox thrashed.

He was tangled—arms pressed to his body, legs twisted together. The net tightened with each movement, cutting into skin, into clothing.

"Are you alright?!" he shouted, jerking. "ELISE!"

"Alive," I croaked, slowly sitting up.

Pain pierced my back, and I hissed through my teeth, freezing.

Slowly. Very slowly.

I looked around.

The pit was deep—four meters, maybe five. The walls were earthen, loose, crumbling. Roots protruded like gnarled fingers. The bottom was covered with soft earth, leaves, branches—deliberately, so the victim wouldn't be killed by the fall.

A hunting pit.

A classic trap.

The smell hit my nose—damp earth, rotting leaves, something else, sickeningly sweet. Decomposition. Urine. Fear.

I wasn't the first to fall here.

My stomach twisted. I clamped my hand over my mouth, suppressing the urge to vomit.

A strange sound came from above—swish-swish-swish.

I looked up.

The Fox was spinning in the net like a madman. His body flickered—brighter, then dimmer. The air around the net sparkled, crackled.

Teleportation.

He was trying to teleport.

But nothing happened.

The net held him as if glued in place.

"What the…" The Fox froze, staring at the ropes in horror. "NO. No, no, no!"

He tried again. The flickering grew brighter, the air vibrated.

But he remained in the net.

"IT'S MAGIC!" he roared, and his voice broke into a howl. "IT'S MAGICAL! ELISE!"

He jerked, trying to tear the ropes with his hands. His fingers scraped against the rough hemp, but it wouldn't tear, wouldn't stretch.

Strong as chains.

"Fox!" I shouted from below. "What's happening?!"

"A trap!" he snarled, continuing to struggle. "A magical trap! It's blocking my magic! I can't teleport! Can't use my power!"

The panic in his voice was so obvious, so human, that my own fear doubled.

If he was afraid…

I tried to stand. My legs buckled—the pain in my back, in my ribs too strong.

I fell back to my knees, hissing.

And then from the distance came sounds.

Footsteps.

Heavy, multiple footsteps, approaching through the forest.

Cracking branches. Crunching leaves.

And voices.

"What'd we catch, eh? What'd we catch?"

The voice was low, guttural, like stones grinding in a throat.

"Let's see, let's see!"

A second voice—equally rough, but higher in tone.

The steps approached.

I pressed against the wall of the pit.

My heart pounded—frantically, deafeningly. Blood pulsed in my ears.

My breathing hitched. Short, ragged.

Shadows fell across the edge of the pit.

And then faces appeared.

Three faces.

I forgot how to breathe.

Trolls.

They were… monstrous.

Enormous heads leaned over the edge of the pit, blocking out the sky. Gray-green skin, bumpy, covered with warts the size of fists. Moss grew directly from their skin—on foreheads, on cheeks, hung in clumps from chins.

Flat faces, as if someone had hit them with a frying pan. Wide noses, nostrils gaping black holes. Small eyes, deep-set, glowing with dull yellow light, like animals'.

And their mouths…

God, their mouths.

Wide, stretched in smiles. Full of teeth—crooked, sharp, jutting in all directions. Some teeth were broken, rotten, black. Others—white, like predator fangs.

The smell hit my face—powerful, suffocating.

Rot. Carrion. Unwashed bodies. Something sour and metallic—blood.

I covered my nose and mouth with my hand, but the smell seeped through, crawled into my throat, into my lungs.

My stomach twisted. I vomited—right onto the floor of the pit, sharply, convulsively.

The trolls laughed—hollowly, like stones falling into a well.

"Oh, oh!" the first one, the biggest, giggled. "The human's puking! Doesn't like our smell!"

He leaned lower, and his breath enveloped me—hot, wet, fetid.

I vomited again.

"Why ya puking, eh?" The troll scratched his belly with thick fingers tipped with black claws. "We're pretty! Right, Gnar?"

The second troll—thinner, with long arms—nodded, grinning.

"Pretty-pretty. We're the prettiest in the forest."

The third troll was silent. He was larger than the others, broader. Smarter eyes. He looked at me not with dull curiosity, but appraisingly.

The leader.

"Human," he growled. Deep, authoritative voice. "Young. Tender."

He licked his lips with his tongue—thick, gray, covered with some kind of bumps.

"How much is she?" Gnar asked, staring down stupidly. "One piece?"

"One piece," the leader confirmed. "Small. Not enough for two."

He scratched his chin, smearing dirt.

"She'll be mine. I'm the leader. I get the best piece."

Gnar and the first troll rumbled with discontent.

"Not fair, Grok!" the first one whined. "You took the human last time too!"

"I'm the leader. I'm strong. I get the best food." Grok bared his teeth, showing yellow fangs. "Want to argue, Brund?"

Brund—the first troll—quickly shook his head.

"No-no! Don't want to! You're strong, Grok!"

"That's right, keep quiet."

Grok turned to me, smiling wider.

"You hear that, human? You're mine. I'm gonna eat you."

He licked his lips again, and saliva—thick, gray-green—dripped from his lip, fell into the pit, landed near my foot.

It hissed. Smoked.

Acid.

Their saliva was acidic.

Horror squeezed my throat so I couldn't breathe.

"Wait, Grok!" Gnar pointed up at the net. "There's another one! The red one!"

The trolls craned their heads up.

The Fox hung in the net, frozen. His amber eyes burned with fury and fear.

"Oh!" Brund clapped his hands like a child. "A faeling! Bony, but he'll do!"

"Faelings aren't tasty," Gnar grumbled. "Bitter. Stringy."

"But lots of blood," Brund countered. "And the bones crunch nicely."

Grok squinted, looking at the Fox.

"The red one…" He scratched his forehead, thinking—slowly, heavily. "I've seen him somewhere."

"Seen-seen," Gnar nodded. "He's a pest. Fox-trickster. Lots don't like him."

"Ahhh." Grok nodded with satisfaction. "Then we gotta kill him. Turn him in for a reward. To someone."

He pointed at Brund.

"You climb for the red one."

"What about me?" Gnar asked.

"You drag the net down." Grok waved his paw. "Then cut him. Head separate. I'll take the head to sell."

Brund and Gnar lumbered toward the tree where the rope from the net was tied.

Grok remained by the pit, looking at me.

Our eyes met.

In his yellow eyes there was no pity, no anger. Only hunger. Simple, animal hunger.

"Don't be afraid, human," he growled, and his voice was almost… tender? "I'll be quick. Bite your head off first. You won't feel anything."

He bared his teeth, showing them all.

"Then the legs. They're the tastiest. Crunchy. Tender."

Tears flowed on their own. Hot, salty.

I didn't want to die.

Not like this. Not here.

Not in this stinking pit, devoured by a troll.

And suddenly in the distance came footfalls.

Many hooves.

Fast, approaching.

Grok spun around, snarling.

"Who's that?!"

"Don't know!" Brund shouted, also turning.

Gnar looked around fearfully.

"Hunters! Someone's hunters!"

"What Court?!" Grok roared.

"Don't know!"

The hoofbeats grew louder. Trees shook. The ground trembled beneath hooves.

"RUN!" Grok bellowed.

"What about the catch?!" Brund pointed at the pit.

"LEAVE IT! RUN!"

The trolls turned and bolted—heavily, clumsily, breaking branches, sinking into the earth.

Within seconds they'd disappeared into the forest.

The thunder of hooves was deafening.

I closed my eyes, covered my ears with my hands.

Don't want to hear. Don't want to know.

And suddenly above the pit came shouts.

"THERE! THE TROLLS ARE RUNNING!"

"AFTER THEM!"

The clang of metal. The whistle of arrows.

A roar—trollish, full of pain and fury.

Battle.

A battle had begun right above my head.

I heard everything—the clash of swords, snarling, screams, hoofbeats, the crunch of breaking bones.

But I saw nothing. Only the walls of the pit and the sky overhead.

From above came a dull thud—something heavy fell to the ground.

Then another.

A roar, gradually fading.

Silence.

Long. Pressing.

Only heavy breathing. Someone's. Many someones'.

Then a voice:

"Check the traps. The trolls were hunting. Someone might have fallen in."

The voice was male. Deep. Authoritative.

But not his voice.

Not Morphrost.

I slowly raised my head, still pressed against the wall.

Footsteps approached the pit.

Stopped at the edge.

Silence.

Then a face appeared over the pit.

A man.

Fae.

But not from the Winter Court.

He was… beautiful. But differently.

Not with Morphrost's cold perfection. Warm.

Golden skin, as if sun-kissed. Dark chestnut hair with copper highlights, falling to his shoulders. Green eyes—the color of summer forest, bright, alive.

Regular features, but softer than Morphrost's. Full lips. Cheekbones not as sharp.

He wore armor—light, of leather and leaves, green and gold. On his chest—a symbol: a sun entwined with grapevines.

Summer Court.

He looked down at me, and in his green eyes rippled… compassion?

"Gods," he whispered. "A human."

He dropped to one knee at the edge of the pit, not taking his eyes off me.

"Are you hurt?"

I couldn't speak. Just stared at him.

He saw how I trembled. How tears streaked down my cheeks.

His face softened even more.

"I won't harm you," he said gently, raising his hands, showing empty palms. "I promise. We're not enemies."

He slowly extended his hand downward.

"My name is Oberon. I'm the King of the Summer Court." His voice was calm, lulling. "And you're safe. The trolls are dead. They won't hurt you anymore."

A pause.

"Let me pull you out."

I looked at his hand. Strong. Tanned. Extended toward me.

Then at his face. Warm. Kind.

Not cold, like Morphrost's. Not predatory.

Different.

Tears flowed harder—from relief, from exhaustion, from everything at once.

I slowly reached up, extending my free hand.

Our fingers connected.

His grip was firm, warm.

He pulled—easily, effortlessly, as if I weighed nothing.

I flew out of the pit, landed on the edge, on my knees.

Solid ground. Safe ground.

I collapsed forward onto my hands, gasping.

Oberon crouched beside me, not touching, giving space.

"You're safe," he repeated softly. "Breathe. Just breathe."

I breathed—raggedly, convulsively, through tears and sobs.

I looked around.

Riders stood around us. Five of them. On enormous horses—noble, with silver eyes and manes that flowed though there was no wind.

All in Summer Court armor. All armed. Swords, bows, spears.

On the ground lay the bodies of trolls. Three massive bodies, bloodied, with protruding arrows.

Dead.

But then I remembered.

"Fox!" I shouted, spinning around.

The net was gone.

It lay on the ground—empty, cut.

And the Fox was nowhere.

"The red fae?" Oberon asked, following my gaze. "Fled as soon as the battle started."

He grimaced with contempt.

"Tricksters are always like that. Cowardly creatures."

My heart sank.

Gone.

Just left.

Without a word. Without goodbye.

The Fox had left. Vanished.

Why? Was he afraid of the Summer Court?

Or had the net drained all his strength and he could barely stand?

But something inside whispered—he hadn't abandoned me.

He was somewhere nearby. Watching. Waiting for the right moment.

He had to be waiting.

Please, let him be waiting.

Oberon stood, extended his hand again.

"Come. You need help. Rest. Food."

I looked at his hand.

Then at his face.

A king. King of the Summer Court.

Not Morphrost. Not a hunter.

A savior.

I took his hand and let him lift me to my feet.

My legs buckled. The world swam at the edges. Adrenaline was evaporating, leaving only pain, exhaustion and strange numbness.

Oberon didn't release my hand. Firmly, but not painfully. His skin was warm—not hot, not cold. Just… warm. Alive.

So unlike Morphrost's icy touch.

"What's your name, brave girl?" he asked gently, looking into my eyes.

I swallowed with a dry throat.

"Ellie," I lied. "My name is Ellie."

Not true. A nickname, abbreviation, but not my real name.

Oberon tilted his head, studying my face. Something flickered in his green eyes—understanding? Approval?

"Ellie," he repeated, and the word sounded like music. "A lovely name."

He didn't insist. Didn't press.

Just nodded and carefully released my hand.

"Are you hurt, Ellie?"

I shook my head, though my whole body ached.

"Bruised. But… nothing serious."

He nodded, examining me carefully. His gaze lingered on my neck.

The marks.

The pattern of frost descending from throat to collarbones, beginning to wrap around shoulders in thin threads.

Oberon's face darkened.

"Morphrost's mark," he said quietly, and anger sounded in his voice. Real, genuine. "You're his prey. The Hunt."

He looked at me again, and compassion rippled in his eyes.

"How many nights?"

"Two," I whispered.

One of the riders—a woman with long golden hair braided in an elaborate plait—rode closer on her horse. Her eyes widened.

"Two nights?" she repeated with genuine amazement. "And you're still alive? Still on your feet?"

The other riders exchanged glances, whispered among themselves.

"Most don't survive past the first day," added a man with dark hair and a scar crossing his entire cheek.

"And those who do…" the woman began, but broke off, as if not wanting to continue.

"Are already broken," another rider finished for her, young, with sharp features. "Begging for death. Or driven mad."

The woman looked at me with something like respect.

"But you… you're still fighting."

Oberon raised his hand—an authoritative gesture, and all conversation instantly ceased.

"Enough." His voice was firm, commanding. "Ellie has endured enough for today."

He turned to me, and his face softened again.

"Are you hungry?"

I shook my head.

"No. I'm… I'm fine."

Oberon squinted, studying my face. Then smirked—gently, without mockery.

"You're lying." Simply. Statement of fact. "I can hear your stomach churning. See how pale you are."

He pointed to one of the riders.

"Elaria, give me provisions."

The woman dismounted, approached, extended a bundle wrapped in cloth and a flask.

Oberon took them, turned to me.

"Here." He held out the flask. "Water. Pure, from a spring in my lands."

I stared at the flask, not taking it.

Fae water.

Could be enchanted. Could bind me, tie me to this world forever.

Oberon noticed my hesitation. His lips twitched in a smile.

"Afraid to drink?" He nodded with understanding. "Wise to be afraid. Smart girl."

He opened the flask, took several large gulps. Then wiped his lips with the back of his hand and extended it to me again.

"See? I drink it myself. It's not poisoned. Not enchanted." A pause. "Though of course, you don't have to believe me."

I didn't take the flask.

He shrugged, unoffended, and put it away.

"As you wish."

Then he held out the bundle.

"Then maybe food?"

I looked at the cloth but didn't reach for it.

"What's in it?"

"Bread. Cheese. Dried meat." He began unwrapping it. "Food from my Court. Delicious. Nourishing."

Fae food.

No. Absolutely not.

I shook my head, stepping back.

"No. I… I can't. Won't."

Oberon stopped, looking at me carefully. Then slowly nodded.

"You know the rules." Approvingly. "Don't eat our food. Don't drink our water."

He wrapped the bundle back up, put it away.

"Wise girl. Rare among mortals. Most are so hungry they grab everything offered."

He took a step closer, and I instinctively stepped back.

He stopped, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

"Don't be afraid. I won't harm you." His voice was soft, soothing. "On the contrary. I want to help."

"Why?" The question burst out on its own. "Why would you help me?"

Oberon tilted his head, as if considering the answer.

"Because I hate Morphrost," he said simply. "He's my enemy. Enemy of my Court. Enemy of everything I value."

Real hatred flashed in his green eyes.

"The Winter and Summer Courts are eternal opponents. Ice against fire. Death against life." A pause. "And anything that harms him brings me pleasure."

He looked at me appraisingly.

"You're his prey. You're resisting him. Running. That's… impressive."

A step closer.

"And I want to help you survive. Make it to the seventh day. Pass through the gates home."

He extended his hand.

"Let me help. I'll take you there."

I looked at his hand, then at his face.

He looked sincere. Eyes warm, open. Smile soft, friendly.

But he was fae.

And fae lie. Manipulate. Use.

But I had no choice.

Walking to the Borderlands on foot—another hour, maybe more. Alone. Without food. Without water. Weak and injured. In the darkening forest.

Or ride with them. On horses. In minutes.

I slowly nodded.

"Alright. I… I'll accept your help."

Oberon smiled—broadly, pleased.

He easily swung into the saddle. Then leaned down, extending his hand.

"Come. I'll lift you up."

I approached, took his hand. He pulled—strongly, confidently—and I flew upward like a feather.

But he didn't seat me behind him.

His arms caught me, turned me and seated me IN FRONT of him.