Chapter 20 Danica
Danica
The air here is so frigid, my nipples could probably cut through reinforced steel. They're staging a full-scale rebellion against the cold, turning into icicles beneath my multiple layers of clothing.
I yank my fur-lined hood tighter around my face, trying to create some kind of barrier between my delicate skin and the elements that are clearly trying to murder me.
The landscape stretches out in every direction, an endless expanse of white that makes the Arctic Circle look like a tropical paradise. Everywhere I look, it's just snow, ice, and more fucking snow—like we've stumbled into the world's largest freezer.
I'm bundled up tighter than a burrito thanks to Rhyland's little pre-quest REI adventure (because apparently "hey, it might be chilly" translates to "buy every piece of winter gear known to man").
I've got so many layers on, I'm pretty sure I could survive a nuclear winter—but even that's not enough to keep the chill from seeping into my very soul.
I feel like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man's more fashionable cousin, waddling through the knee-deep snow in my expensive yeti suit. If I fall over, I'm pretty sure I'll just roll away like a puffy tumbleweed, never to be seen again.
Rhyland and Erik trudge ahead through snow deep enough to swallow a small car, their boots crunching through the frozen crust with each step.
I have no clue where precisely in Zephyria we landed, but judging by the way my nose hairs are turning into icicles, I'm guessing we're somewhere in the "holy-shit-that's-cold" region of the realm.
The altitude isn't helping either—each breath feels like I'm trying to suck air through a frozen coffee stirrer. Between the bone-crushing cold and the oxygen-deprived atmosphere, my lungs are probably plotting their resignation as we speak.
Rhyland's recent field trip to Cloud City left him with a mental map of the place—well, if you consider "there's a big pointy thing and a light bridge" a map.
Armed with his vague descriptions and Seraphina's geographical Cliffs Notes, I tried to piece together a destination in my mind before opening the portal.
Before our arctic adventure, Lucian pulled his version of responsible adulting—shoving property papers in my face and insisting I sign the deed to his mansion, with vampires unable to cross the threshold without the owner's permission (hello, most obvious vampire rule that we somehow forgot about until now).
It was pretty clever of him—like adding another lock to an already fortress-level security system.
With Emily and Sable turning the place into Fort Knox with their witchy protection spells, this deed transfer was just another middle finger to any uninvited guests.
And by guests—specifically, one designer-wearing psychopath who thinks a "restraining order" is just a suggestion.
Nothing says "stay out " like magical wards and good old-fashioned property law.
The snowflakes swirling around us are so thick that they're practically a white-out curtain, obscuring anything more than a few inches from my face.
The wind howls like a pack of rabid wolves, tugging at my clothes with icy claws.
Visibility is a joke—I can barely make out my gloved hands, let alone any mystical landmarks.
Just as I'm about to start questioning my life choices, a familiar warmth blooms in my chest. My power unfurls like a miniature sun, chasing away the chill from the inside out. The sudden reprieve makes me sigh in relief—even my magic has had enough of this frozen hellscape.
Rhyland materializes at my side, his strong arms snaking around my waist. He pulls me close, anchoring me against the relentless gusts that threaten to send me tumbling ass over teakettle into the nearest snowbank.
Here's hoping we don't wander off the edge of a cloud or something equally embarrassing. Nothing ruins a heroic quest like plummeting through the sky because you couldn't see where you were going.
After hours of walking in this frigid mess, mountainous silhouette looms out of nowhere, rising from the swirling snow like a giant.
It's hard to gauge just how big this thing is, because its peak vanishes somewhere in the cotton-candy mess of clouds above.
I'm guessing it's not your average skyscraper.
"There!" Rhyland's voice barely registers over the howling wind, but I catch enough to follow his pointing finger. "The Elemental Spire!"
Oh, good. I'm glad we're headed toward the ominous tower that could double as a supervillain's summer home. I was starting to worry this little adventure might be too easy.
Rhyland, ever attuned to my emotional state (or maybe just sensing my sarcasm), tries to reassure me. "It's okay. I've been in there before."
Well, that's comforting. I feel so much better knowing Rhyland has already braved the mysterious spire of doom. It's not like anything could have changed since his last visit, right? It's just an ancient, magical tower in a realm of literal gods and monsters. What could go wrong?
Erik, deciding that this conversation is beneath his tactical expertise, trudges ahead through the snow like a man on a mission.
His silver head bowed against the wind, he forges up the hill with the determination of a soldier charging into battle—or a vampire who's really, really done with this arctic bullshit.
The structure grows larger with each slogging step, its peak vanishing into the swirling white abyss above. It's like Jack's beanstalk on steroids—a vertical monstrosity that probably has a killer view of the entire realm. You know, assuming you can reach the top without becoming a human popsicle.
Rhyland forges ahead with the determination of a man on a mission, his hand never leaving the small of my back as he guides me through the knee-deep snow. I can practically feel the waves of protective energy rolling off him, his inner caveman on high alert in this alien environment.
Guess we're off to see the wizard—or in this case, climb the magic spire and hope we don't die of frostbite before we reach the top.
By the time we finally reach the base of this architectural monstrosity, I feel like I've aged a decade.
Every muscle in my body is screaming in protest, and I'm pretty sure my lungs are filing a formal complaint with the union.
Erik's perfect posture has started to crack, his silver hair crusted with ice as he glowers at the endless snowfall like it personally offended his sensibilities—his expression replaced by one of pure, unadulterated "done-with-this-shit. "
The entrance looms before us—a set of doors that would make Paul Bunyan feel inadequate.
They stretch so high I have to crane my neck back just to see where they end.
Their surface is carved with glowing runes that pulse with ancient power.
The glyphs dance across the metal like ethereal fireflies, casting an otherworldly glow across the snow.
In all his Viking wisdom, Rhyland approaches the doors with his usual subtle diplomacy, which means he tries to muscle them open. When that fails, he switches to Plan B: pounding on them hard enough to wake the dead. The sound is like thunder, making me wince.
Real smooth, babe. Nothing says "we come in peace," quite like trying to break down the front door of a sacred temple.
The ancient doors finally surrender with a groan that echoes through the frigid air, as if the building sighs in resignation.
We scramble inside like frozen refugees, and my jaw nearly hits the floor.
The interior stretches upward into what seems like infinity, and the ceiling is so far above us that it disappears into shadows.
I push back my snow-crusted hood, sending a mini avalanche of ice crystals cascading around my shoulders as I spin in a slow circle.
The space around us could swallow entire city blocks whole—it makes Grand Central Station look like a cozy closet in comparison.
Gigantic pillars, each thick enough to wrap a bus around, soar upward into the gloom, their surfaces etched with glowing runes that cast ethereal light across the polished stone floor.
My neck starts to ache from craning back to take it all in.
Whoever built this place had a severe edifice complex.
Though I've got to admit, they nailed the "awe-inspiring architecture" aesthetic.
It's like someone took every description of a magical citadel, cranked it up to eleven, and then decided that it still wasn't impressive enough.
"You've returned."
The voice booms through the vast chamber, making us whirl around like startled cats.
Standing there, looking like he just stepped out of a mythological bodybuilding competition, is a mountain of a man.
His bronze skin gleams in the ethereal light, and those acid-green eyes seem to strip away every secret I've ever had.
"Heimdall." Rhyland's voice carries a mix of recognition and wariness. "Yes. Where is everyone?"
I try not to gawk at the giant before us, but it's hard when the guy is pushing eight feet tall and wearing armor that looks forged from pure sunlight. The golden metal ripples with intricate designs that pulse with their own inner glow, making him look like a walking constellation.
"Gone." Heimdall's response drops like a stone in a still pond.
Well, isn't that just wonderfully cryptic? These immortal types need to work on their communication skills. Would it kill them to elaborate once in a while?
My heart does a pathetic little flutter at the realization I won't be having any daddy-daughter time today.
Not that I should be surprised—apparently, the God of Light is too busy polishing his halo to spare five minutes for his chosen savior.
Sure, he'll chat up my man all day long, but his own flesh and blood?
Nah, that's not worth his precious immortal time.