FROST
Chapter 102: Plan B: Survive

Chapter 102: Plan B: Survive

Seravine took one last look at Estes—who was now nursing a mildly bruised ego and an aggressively vibrating wrist—as he cradled Caspian’s sword like a golden trophy in some mock victory parade.

"Try not to miss me too much!" Seravine called sweetly over her shoulder. Estes responded with a single, pointed gesture that was definitely not in any ancient Elven etiquette manual.

The entrance behind them creaked shut with the ancient groan of bark and magic, sealing them in with the ominous finality of someone slamming a particularly emotional diary.

Now alone, Seravine and Caspian stood before the entrance of the "underground sanctum"—or as Estes so majestically put it, The Arboreal Sanctum of Whispered Flames and Eternal Penance, which frankly sounded like a discount yoga retreat for cursed souls.

They began their descent in silence, the heavy kind of silence that smelled like old secrets and mild regret.

With each careful step, wisps of flame sparked to life—tiny, flickering orbs of golden fire that hovered a few feet ahead of them, bobbing slightly like judgmental jellyfish. They lit the way downward before vanishing once passed, as if embarrassed to be seen helping them.

The stairs themselves were something out of a fever dream. Woven entirely from the thick, spiraling roots of an ancient tree, they twisted downward in a slow, sloping spiral. The left side hugged the gnarled trunk, its bark warm and pulsing faintly with a heartbeat-like thrum. The occasional knot in the wood seemed to watch them like a nosy grandmother.

The right side, however, offered nothing but a sheer drop into pitch-black nothingness. Not fog. Not shadows. Just absence. Seravine peeked over the edge once—and immediately decided that she didn’t need answers in her life anymore. Ever.

"Do you think if I trip, I’ll fall forever?" she asked Caspian, hugging his arm a bit tighter.

"Only until something eats you," he replied, wonderfully deadpan.

"How comforting," she muttered. "Your bedside manner is as cold as your shoulder."

"It’s not a shoulder," Caspian murmured. "It’s a weapon."

Seravine blinked at him. "You’ve been waiting to say that line, haven’t you?"

He didn’t answer, which was confirmation enough.

The wisps continued to appear, now glowing brighter and occasionally letting out faint musical chimes—as if the tree itself had opinions about their conversations. Once, one wisp hovered a little too long around Seravine’s head and gently tried to tug at her hair. She swatted it away.

"I swear, this thing has a fetish."

"They’re ancient spirits, Seravine. Show some respect."

"I am. That was a respectful swat."

By the time they reached the bottom, the roots had thickened, curving into wide arches and pillars that created a vast underground chamber that looked like the inside of a cathedral carved by bark and moonlight. The flames now lined the base, forming a circular pattern like some old summoning ritual—or the world’s most dramatic mood lighting.

Seravine exhaled deeply. "Well, this is either the start of a mystical awakening... or a trap so obvious it’s insulting."

Caspian drew his sword and gave her a look. "In our lives, those are often the same thing."

"Fair." She stretched, letting his cloak billow dramatically behind her. "Shall we flirt with fate?"

"You’ve already flirted with everything else."

"That’s called charisma, Your Highness. You should try it sometime."

He rolled his eyes—and together, they stepped into the dark.

There were no walls.

No comforting architecture or ancient carvings. Just an endless cavern, the kind that gnawed at sound and bent light in strange, hungry ways. The only thing marking this place as built—or perhaps grown—was the sprawling rootwork that curled across the ceiling like the ribcage of something enormous and long-dead. The air smelled of damp earth, burnt offerings, and bad decisions.

It didn’t feel like a temple or a sanctum.

It felt like a den.

A den of something old. And patient. And extremely bitey.

Seravine glanced around warily. "I was expecting more stained glass windows and less... psychological threat of dismemberment."

Caspian said nothing. He stared ahead, eyes locked onto the yawning darkness that stretched beyond the wisps of light now swirling low, as if unwilling to illuminate further.

Because down there, somewhere in that black... was him.

Yami.

The demon who stole everything.

He hadn’t seduced the Queen—Caspian’s wife. No. He had violated her. Defiled her not with affection, but with force. Left her with wounds no magic could heal, and a silence so loud it echoed through the halls of the kingdom long after her voice had gone quiet.

From that nightmare, a child was born.

A boy Caspian never even got to hold.

The demon had taken the child the moment he drew breath—before the Queen could even whisper a name, before Caspian could so much as touch the infant’s hand. All he had was the knowledge of the child’s existence, a promise made in pain and defiance: that he would raise the child as his own. That he would love him—no matter what blood ran through his veins.

But Yami took that choice from him. From them both.

And now, in this vast chamber of root and flame—a place that felt less like a sanctum and more like the hollowed-out ribcage of some ancient beast—Caspian walked with fire in his bones. He could feel it pulsing beneath the bark, hear it whispering through the walls that weren’t there.

He was done mourning promises unkept.

Now he would deliver one.

He would find the boy.

And Yami... Yami would learn what it means to awaken a father’s wrath.

Seravine’s eyes flicked toward Caspian’s arm the moment she felt it tense beneath her touch. His bare skin, smooth but scarred with the weight of battles past, tightened beneath her fingers. The muscles along his bicep coiled like a loaded trap—silent, deliberate, yet trembling with something unspoken.

He wore no armor now. Just the indigo, weather-worn cloak slung over his shoulders, barely shielding him from the chill of the underground air. The rest above was bare, save for the belt at his waist and the blade at his side. The cold didn’t seem to touch him, but Seravine noticed everything.

Her gaze slowly rose to his face.

And there it was.

Emotion. Raw and volatile, flickering just beneath the surface of his cool, blank expression. His jaw was clenched, his cheekbone twitching a little, but it was his eyes that betrayed him. They simmered—not with rage, but with a heavy, suffocating grief. A storm of memories, of promises broken and pain buried too deep to name.

And Seravine could smell it.

It hit her like incense laced with ash and old blood. Grief had a scent—she’d told him earlier—and in Caspian’s case, it smelled like a dying fire that refused to go out.

She gasped, softly, involuntarily.

Caspian turned to her at once, hearing the sound, though his features remained unmoved. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He remembered what she once told—that she could smell emotion, taste the air of sorrow, and see memories like flickering images in her mind.

So he let her be.

And Seravine said nothing either.

She simply looked away, shame crawling up her spine like vines wrapping around her heart. She felt suddenly small, clinging to Caspian’s arm like some helpless leech. She didn’t deserve to be this close. Not when he carried the weight of so much loss. Not when his silence echoed louder than screams.

But she had no choice.

By the next turning of the season—mere weeks from now—she would be dead if she didn’t finish her mission. The curse placed on her by King Asmaros, the ancient Elven monarch with the pettiness of a spurned god and the wrath to match, was beginning to tighten. Her skin burned at night. Her dreams were invaded by whispers, threats, and the slowly encroaching sense of rot.

All because she’d stolen his crown.

Not for power.

Not for vengeance.

She’d stolen the crown to sell it for coin—so she could buy food. So the demon children at the orphanage she built with her own hands wouldn’t starve. They were unwanted, like her. Forgotten by bloodlines and bloodlust alike. And every night they clung to her, calling her "Mama" with mouths that had known more hunger than lullabies.

She wasn’t even a real succubi. Just a cursed half-blood born on the wrong side of the realms, forced to wear a lie like perfume just to survive. She had no choice either.

No royalty would ever lay their eyes on a lowborn demoness with horns, fangs, and a seasonal tail that only manifested when her emotions overwhelmed her. She could swear on every god and goddess she had tried the right way—tried to win hearts with grace, charm, laughter—but they never looked past the demon in her. Some men tried to buy her. Others tried to kill her on sight.

But Caspian was different.

Even as a king, even with every right to scorn her, he never truly insulted her. He joked with her, teased her, played along with her sarcasm and bravado. She could smell it in his voice, taste it in his silences—nothing cruel ever lingered beneath his words. The Lunar King, feared by many, revered by more, had a soul that glimmered with something rare: kindness.

And that made him dangerous...

Because she had begun to hope.

Caspian was her last chance. Her final breath clung to the hem of his cloak. Because if she failed this mission, if she didn’t retrieve what the Elven King demanded, then the curse would claim her.

Her body would crumble to ash.

Her soul would be devoured by the roots of the sacred tree—trapped beneath its bark, wailing through the centuries, feeding its ancient thirst.

And if she died, who would feed the forty-six mouths back home?

Who would cradle them when the nightmares came?

They would die without her. She knew it. The world didn’t care about demon orphans.

So she said nothing.

She kept her grip on Caspian’s arm, even when her pride begged her to let go.

She walked forward in silence, the cold stone beneath her feet echoing every heartbeat like a countdown.

"I’m so sorry, My Queen..." She mumbled.

Then suddenly, the world began to ripple... At least for Caspian.

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