The wind howled like a pack of banshees on holiday, and snowflakes the size of saucers whirled through the air, slapping the face of anyone foolish enough to be outside. Which is precisely why it was so odd that a young man—rather large, rather lost, and rather underdressed—was trudging through the storm as if he'd taken a wrong turn on his way to a tavern.
He was, by all accounts, quite the sight. Roughly twenty years of age, built like someone who wrestled bears for breakfast, with black hair tousled by the wind and eyes a shade of green that made emeralds feel inferior. He was 1.8 metres tall (a detail only important because it made the axe slung over his back seem particularly unreasonable—it was half his size, if not more).
He had no idea who he was.
No name, no birthday, no clue why he owned such a violent-looking tool or why his instincts whispered sweet nothings about how to swing it properly. All he knew was that it was his. That, and he was very, very cold.
He staggered through the endless white for what felt like hours—might have been minutes, might have been years, really, time was a fuzzy concept when one's nose was threatening to freeze off—and then, quite reasonably, he collapsed face-first into a snowdrift with the kind of drama only amnesia and hypothermia can bring.
Luckily, fate (which has a curious fondness for memory-challenged young men with heroic jawlines) was watching.
"John!" shouted a woman's voice over the storm. "There's a man! A big one!"
Claire, a woman in her thirties with warm brown eyes and a no-nonsense attitude, spotted him through the flurries from the front window of her stone cottage. She was wrapped in her thickest purple robe, which made her look vaguely like a friendly grape, and she didn't hesitate for a moment. With the help of her husband—John, a hunter by trade who had more weapons than was strictly necessary for a man who claimed to hunt rabbits—they dragged the unconscious stranger back to their home on the edge of the sleepy town of Frosthollow.
Frosthollow (which was part of the northern kingdom of Glaciem), was the sort of place where one's breath hung in the air all year round and where helping strangers in blizzards wasn't only considered polite—it was practically a law. The cold could be deadly, and folks in Frosthollow believed that kindness was the best defense against both frostbite and bad luck.
Which is why, despite the size of the stranger's axe—and the unnerving way his hand had twitched when John tried to take it—Claire and John had taken him in. They'd pried the weapon from his grasp (carefully) and tucked it under the floorboards (just in case), laid him by the fire, and brewed a potion that smelled suspiciously of mushrooms and peppermint.
"He's heavy," John had said, massaging his shoulder. "What do you reckon he is? A barbarian?"
"He's half-frozen, that's what he is," Claire replied. "Let him wake up first before you start calling him names."
The fire crackled, the wind howled outside, and the axe beneath the floor let out the faintest hum.
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The first thing the young man noticed was the warmth.
It seeped into his bones like sunshine after a long winter, chasing away the icy ache that had wrapped around his limbs. He was lying on a fur rug by a cheerful fire, its flames dancing in the hearth as if welcoming him back to the world of the living. The smell of burning pine mixed with something even more magical: food.
"Oh! He's awake!" came a voice—kind, brisk, and unmistakably relieved.
He blinked blearily and turned his head, only to find himself face-to-face with a woman wearing a robe so purple it might've once belonged to royalty or a particularly fashionable wizard. She had soft brown hair tied back into a bun that had declared mutiny and was winning, and eyes that looked like they'd seen their fair share of trouble and told it off with a spoon.
"I'm Claire," she said, kneeling beside him with a bowl in her hand. "This is soup. You're going to eat it. No arguments."
She wasn't the sort one argued with, really. Not unless one fancied being bonked over the head with a ladle.
Behind her stood a man built like an oak tree, arms folded, wearing a wolfskin vest and the suspicious expression of someone who'd rather be stabbing dinner than chatting with strangers. Still, his eyes softened when he saw the young man struggling to sit up.
"I'm John," he said gruffly. "Husband. Hunter. Axe enthusiast."
The young man looked at them both. He opened his mouth to speak—but realized he wasn't entirely sure what to say.
"Th-thank you," he managed hoarsely.
"Here," Claire handed him the bowl. The soup was thick, steaming, and contained hearty chunks of something rooty, something meaty, and a suspicious number of tiny red mushrooms.
"You're lucky we found you when we did," she continued, plopping herself onto a nearby cushion with the grace of a snow hare in boots. "You were a frozen statue out there. What in all the magical winds were you doing in a storm like that?"
The young man stared into his soup as if it might hold the answer.
"I… don't know," he said quietly. "I don't remember anything. Nothing at all. My first memory is… the snow. The wind. I was just there."
Claire and John exchanged a glance. It was the sort of glance couples use when one of them has found a stray dog and the other knows they're going to end up keeping it.
"No name?" Claire asked gently.
He shook his head. "Nothing."
"No family? Friends? Purpose? Dramatic quest?"
"Not even a birthday," he said with a weak smile.
"Well," said John, clearing his throat and straightening up. "We should take him to see Mayor Thistlewick. He's got the registry—knows everyone in Frosthollow and probably half the kingdom of Glaciem. If you're from around here, he'll know. And if you're not—well, the city's wards will've noticed when you crossed the border."
"Magic," Claire said with a nod. "Very nosy, very helpful. The kingdom's enchantments keep track of who comes and goes. Bit inconvenient for villains, very handy for the rest of us."
John grunted. "Stops bandits sneaking in. Or worse."
The young man finished his soup and looked up, his green eyes flickering in the firelight.
"What if no one knows me?" he asked, softly. "What if I'm not in any book or registry or… spell?"
Claire leaned forward and patted his hand.
"Then we'll make you a new story," she said firmly. "With soup, socks, and maybe—if you're lucky—a haircut."
"And no more axes until we know you won't swing it at the cat," John added, jerking his thumb at the floorboards where the enormous weapon had been stashed away.
The young man chuckled despite himself.
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Wrapped in a thick wool coat, boots that didn't quite fit, and a scarf Claire had aggressively insisted on wrapping around his neck at least five times, the young man stepped out into the world.
Or at least, the small but rather lively corner of the world known as Frosthollow.
Snow crunched beneath his borrowed boots as he followed John down the narrow, cobbled street. The morning sun, pale and curious, peeked over the snow-covered rooftops, turning every icicle into a shard of crystal. Frosthollow might've been tucked away in the northern edges of the kingdom of Glaciem, but it was by no means sleepy.
In fact, it was absolutely bustling.
The first thing the young man noticed was the smell: roasted chestnuts, fresh bread, and a faint hint of whatever potion someone had spilled on the road last week (possibly something involving garlic and questionable mushrooms). The second thing he noticed was the noise. Children shrieked and giggled as they flung enchanted snowballs at one another—some of which politely dodged mid-air to avoid hitting passersby.
There were mammoths—actual woolly, tusked giants stomping gently through the town square, pulling carts piled high with firewood. A trio of bears the size of carriages lounged near the stables, wearing leather harnesses and expressions of deep philosophical contemplation. A pack of horses with braided manes and frost-proof armor trotted past, led by a young woman with blue fire swirling around her fingertips.
And then there were the people—hunters in fur-lined leathers, chatting about tracks and traps; mages with shimmering cloaks and floating familiars that looked like feathery snowballs with eyes; merchants haggling over rune-carved trinkets; and blacksmiths hammering out weapons with steam rising from enchanted forges.
It was the kind of place one might find in the pages of a storybook.
"Frosthollow," John said, glancing sideways at him, "not much to look at from the outside, but she's got charm. And teeth."
As they passed the marketplace, several townsfolk waved or called out to John.
"Oi! John! You've gone soft on us? No deer today?"
"Did you finally retire and become a babysitter?"
"You looking after strays now?" said a dwarf with a beard so long it was tucked into his belt.
John chuckled, his eyes crinkling. "He's not a stray. Just… lost. Found him nearly frozen outside the forest edge."
"Aye," said the dwarf, eyeing the young man curiously. "That storm last night was no joke. Lucky lad."
The young man managed a polite smile, still overwhelmed by the magic and motion of it all. He felt like a snowflake trying to understand a blizzard.
"Frosthollow's like that," John said as they moved on. "Cold weather, warm hearts. Everyone knows everyone here—unless you're from somewhere else. And even then, it won't take long before someone's offering you pie and asking about your aunt's bunions."
They turned onto a quieter path that led toward a large, round building made of polished stone and thick wood, with stained glass windows that shimmered faintly with enchantment. A sign above the arched door read: Mayor Thistlewick's Office in neatly swirling script that blinked in and out of existence depending on the angle.
John knocked twice—firm, businesslike.
The young man swallowed, suddenly nervous.
What if there was no record? What if he wasn't even from this kingdom?
But before he could dwell on it too long, the door creaked open with a puff of warm air and the scent of ink, paper, and a surprising amount of lemon drops.
Inside, the answer to his identity might be waiting.
Or, at the very least, someone with a very large book and an even larger opinion.
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The mayor of Frosthollow was not a man one could easily ignore.
He stood at least two heads taller than the already impressively built John, with shoulders so wide they had their own climate. His beard—braided and tucked neatly into a golden clasp—could have been used as a rope in an emergency, and his eyes, sharp and surprisingly twinkly, sat beneath thick brows that looked like snowy ledges.
This was Mayor Brann Thistlewick—a barbarian by birth, a scholar by choice, and, according to local rumor, capable of quoting ancient elven poetry while wrestling a frost troll.
He studied the young man with a furrowed brow and a thick pair of enchanted spectacles that looked wildly out of place on his rugged face.
"No records," Brann muttered, leafing through a great leather-bound tome with runes glowing faintly along the edges. "No magic tag, no registry stamp, no birthmark of the kingdom… not even a scribble in the miscellaneous footnotes section, and believe me—we're very thorough about footnotes."
The young man sat stiffly in a chair that creaked under his weight. Or perhaps under his aura of mystery.
"So what does that mean?" he asked, voice calm but uncertain.
"It means, lad," Brann said, shutting the book with a noise like a bear slapping a tree, "you don't belong to Glaciem. Not officially. But!"—he held up a meaty finger—"we've a lot of empty space and not enough young folks. And you, my mystery icicle, appear strong, healthy, and—judging by how you handled soup earlier—reasonably well-mannered."
The young man blinked. "I'm… allowed to stay?"
"If you like," Brann said. "We're not savages. Well—" he chuckled—"not all of us."
John, who'd been leaning silently against the wall, finally spoke. "He can stay with us, if he wants. At least till he finds his feet. Or his memory."
There was something in John's voice then—something softer than usual. Claire had said once that John rarely talked about his little brother, lost to the blizzards nearly a decade ago. But now, looking at the young man beside him, there was a glimmer of something in John's eyes. Not quite hope. Not quite grief. Something in between.
The young man noticed it too.
"I… owe you my life," he said quietly. "I wouldn't be here without you or Claire. So…" He paused, his emerald eyes steady. "Would you name me?"
John looked startled. "Name you?"
"I don't remember mine. Feels wrong to walk around without one. I trust you."
There was a pause, deep and heavy like the snow on the rooftops.
Then John gave a rare, thoughtful smile. "You remind me of my brother. He always talked about being a great warrior. Said if he ever became one, he'd call himself 'Kael.' Said it sounded like something out of a bard's tale."
The young man tried the name in his mind.
Kael.
It felt… right. Like the sound of steel and wind. Like the storm he'd emerged from.
"Then I'll be Kael," he said firmly. "Kael of Frosthollow."
Brann clapped his hands so hard that dust fell from the ceiling. "Brilliant! Welcome to Frosthollow, Kael. Mind the mammoths, avoid the goatberry ale, and don't ever challenge the dwarf twins to arm wrestling unless you fancy a broken elbow."
Kael stood up, a little straighter, a little more sure.
For the first time since he'd woken in the snow, he felt like he wasn't lost.