FROST
Chapter 100: The Arrow, the Abs, and the Abyss

Chapter 100: The Arrow, the Abs, and the Abyss

"Watch your footing, Your Majesty," Seravine called out with theatrical caution, trailing behind Caspian as the two made their way through the eerie, half-decayed forest of the forsaken path.

The air was unnaturally dry, as if every molecule was professionally trained to suck the moisture from living skin, which—according to Seravine—was an unforgivable crime against beauty.

She had, with zero shame and full confidence, draped herself in Caspian’s royal cloak the moment they passed the dying tree line.

"It’s the air," she sniffed, clutching the thick, luxurious fabric around herself like a cold widow. "It’s making my skin feel like crumpled parchment. I am not entering any cursed realm looking like a molting lizard."

Caspian, on the other hand, trudged forward in the chill with nothing on but his boots, trousers, and his upper body’s sheer vengeance against the laws of attractiveness.

He was practically a myth in motion—chiselled like someone angered a divine sculptor with a challenge. His long, silky hair cascaded down his back in inky sheets, the only modesty he had left as it fluttered with each step.

And Seravine, poor demon, was not immune.

"If it wasn’t for your hair," she muttered under her breath, eyes fixed on the way his shoulder blades flexed with every cautious movement, "I would have knelt right here, confessed my sins, and offered you a child."

"What was that?" Caspian asked over his shoulder, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Nothing. Just admiring how noble you look in the face of hypothermia," she chirped innocently. "Really sets a mood."

"Right," he grunted, stepping over a suspicious patch of soil that looked like it once tried to eat someone.

"And besides," Seravine continued, pulling the cloak tighter around her and pretending not to enjoy the warmth of his scent, "you owe me for the dress stunt. I’ll be mentally scarred for life. That eyeliner was not waterproof."

Caspian snorted. "You’re the one who said ’get naked and he’ll give you the key.’"

"Yes, but I didn’t think you’d actually cry in moonlight and seduce a man with daddy issues!"

"I did what needed to be done."

"Heroic. Brave. So exposed." She sighed dramatically, then added under her breath, "Gods, even your spine has abs."

"Seravine, if you’re done ogling my vertebrae, perhaps keep an eye out for cursed traps, will you?"

"Fine, fine," she said, reluctantly dragging her eyes away from the living artwork before her. "But if anything jumps at us, you’re bait."

"Agreed," Caspian replied dryly, "they’ll clearly be more interested in your monologue about skin texture than my half-naked dignity."

"You’re welcome, Your Majesty," she grinned. "You’re lucky I’m so generous."

And with that, they disappeared deeper into the cursed land—him glowing like a tragic warrior-poet, her bundled like a gremlin fashion model in a stolen cloak, both bickering like an old married couple lost on a honeymoon in hell.

Suddenly, Seravine yelped and yanked a fistful of Caspian’s long hair with such force that he nearly toppled backward onto her, arms flailing like an overturned statue.

"Ow—what in the nine bleeding pits of damnation was that for?!" Caspian growled, clutching the strands she’d just tried to scalp him with. He spun around, his brow already creasing into the royal expression of someone seconds away from declaring war.

But Seravine didn’t respond.

Her gaze was sharp, locked onto the trees like she was reading a script written in fog. The atmosphere had changed in an instant—where the air once felt like dry parchment, it now thickened with mist, creeping through the trees like fingers crawling from a crypt. Even the brittle leaves crunched with unease beneath their boots.

Caspian’s irritation faded when he saw Seravine’s ears twitching—pointy little things that looked almost adorable, if they weren’t signaling an incoming death sentence. They squiggled with such intensity that they looked like they were trying to pick up FM radio.

"T-There’s something coming—" she began, her voice a whisper laced with urgency.

But she didn’t get to finish.

With reflexes born of battlefield instincts—or perhaps dodging women he promised he’d marry when he was younger—and possibly sheer trauma from past assassination attempts— Caspian lunged forward and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her sharply toward him just as something hissed through the fog with a deadly whistle.

An arrow.

It sliced through the air and impaled the half-dead tree directly behind where Seravine had been standing—clean, precise, and humming with a faint magical energy.

The tree groaned under the impact, the bark splitting like paper. Seravine’s eyes widened, and for once, her flirtation vanished entirely—for a complete 0.003 seconds.

She staggered, peering at the arrowhead embedded in the wood. Her lips parted, and her voice trembled as recognition set in.

"M-Mist Elf arrows..." she stammered.

Caspian’s eyes narrowed as he glanced between the arrow and the surrounding haze. "Friendly bunch, are they?"

"They don’t miss," Seravine replied, breath quickening. "And they don’t warn. If we’re still breathing, it’s because they want us to run."

"Well then," Caspian muttered, already grabbing her hand, "I’d say it’s rude not to accept the invitation."

"Wait—this cloak is long, don’t let me trip—!"

"Then let go of my hair and run, you clingy fashion demon!"

And with that, the mist behind them twisted once more—and another arrow sliced through the fog, whistling past like a ghost with a grudge. It missed them by mere inches, but the force was enough to make Seravine screech.

"Oh my gods! Your Highness, you were once a King!" she yelped, ducking and nearly losing a shoe in the process. "Do something regal and terrifying!"

"I—I can’t just unleash magic here!" Caspian shouted back, yanking her by the wrist again as another arrow narrowly missed her shoulder.

The force of the pull made her stumble into him, and somewhere behind them, her borrowed cloak was sacrificed—pinned to a tree by a perfectly aimed arrow, flapping like a white flag of surrender.

"W-Why not?!" she demanded, breathless, as she threw herself behind a dying trunk with him, panting like a hunted animal.

Caspian pressed his back to the bark, peering out with narrowed eyes. "Because my mana is royalty, woman!"

"Okay?? And that means??" she flailed her arms.

"It means if I use it recklessly, I could rip a hole in the natural balance of this realm," he hissed. "We’re in demon territory. One blast of magic and I won’t just hit the Mist Elves—I’ll incinerate every poor cursed shrub, fungus, mildly evil squirrel in a mile radius, and that would cause me problems and perhaps a war."

Seravine blinked. "So you’re saying it would be impressive?"

"I’m saying it would cause a diplomatic nightmare, you sparkle-brained flirt!"

Another arrow thunked into the tree just above their heads.

Seravine squealed again, flattening herself to Caspian’s side like a sticker. "Okay okay okay, maybe now’s not the time for you to glow and sparkle like a death god."

"Exactly."

"But, like, later though?"

Caspian looked at her, entirely deadpan. "If we survive."

Seravine gave a small grin. "I knew you cared."

"I care about not being turned into a pincushion, you menace," he snapped, then peeked from behind the tree again. "We need to move. Zigzag. Minimal screaming. And if you trip again, I’m leaving you."

"You love my screaming."

"Not in this context!"

"Rude."

Another arrow came, and they ducked in unison.

"Okay!" Seravine gasped, clutching Caspian’s arm like it was the last piece of bread in a famine. "Let’s zig. Or zag. Or—whatever, just don’t let me die before I get to touch your abs again!"

"Nah!" Caspian barked back, dodging another arrow with the grace of an ex-royal turned reluctant action hero. "You’ll never get to do that again."

"Then do something!!" she shrieked, nearly tripping over her own feet.

Caspian exhaled sharply through his nose, like a man who had just been personally betrayed by the universe. With a muttered curse under his breath, he twisted his arm to the right and slammed his palm into the air.

A burst of arcane energy flared from his fingertips, materializing into a translucent violet shield etched with pulsing ancient sigils. It hovered in the air like an indignant pancake and caught three arrows with a sharp, sizzling crack.

"Wow!" Seravine gasped, her jaw going slack as she stared at the shield like it was a fireworks show hosted by shirtless angels. "That’s—okay, that’s hot. That’s really hot."

Caspian groaned and rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t vanish into his skull. "I knew it," he muttered, shaking his head. "One second of actual magic and suddenly you’re two seconds from swooning."

"Well, excuse me for appreciating aesthetics while we’re dying," Seravine huffed, ducking behind him again. "I’m only half-demon, not heartless."

Caspian didn’t respond. Another arrow clanged against the shield.

"I mean look at it," she whispered in reverence, placing a hand on his bicep like it was part of the spell. "The shield. The sigils. The glowy bits. And your muscles. It’s like... a hotcake of violence."

He turned his head toward her, face blank. "You need a therapist."

"I need you shirtless."

"Run."

"Right! Running!"