The first snow of the season fell in silence. Flakes drifted down like ash over Everbright, coating the thatched roofs and cobblestone streets in a thin, gray veil. No children's laughter rang from the market square, no warm light spilled from the tavern windows; the holiday spirit that usually swelled with the frost had been siphoned away, leaving the town as still as a held breath. In the dim backroom of the village archive, Evan traced a trembling finger over an ancient rune, the faint silver glimmer at his wrist catching the weak lantern light an echo of a heritage he had never fully understood.
He didn't hear the wind until it slammed the wooden door open with a crack that echoed off the stone walls. A swirl of icy air rushed in, scattering loose parchment like startled birds. In the middle of the chaos lay a single vellum envelope, its surface unblemished except for a delicate silver leaf pressed into the wax seal. The emblem stamped there was unfamiliar a stylized pine cone intertwined with a snowflake, the crest of the Season Keepers, a name whispered only in the oldest tavern tales.
Evan knelt, his breath forming a thin mist as he lifted the envelope. The wax cracked softly under his thumb, releasing a faint scent of pine and winter mint. Inside, a single sheet of parchment unfurled, the ink shimmering as if written with moonlight.
To the Keeper of Forgotten Things,
_The joy of Everbright wanes. The crystal of the Frost‑Spire can restore what has been taken, but it will awaken only for one who bears both human and fae blood. Meet us at the edge of the Whispering Woods at dawn, and we will guide you to the Spire before the midnight bell.
-Lira, Master of the Season Keepers.
Evan's heart thumped against his ribs. He had spent years cataloguing the relics of a world that no longer cared for the old magic, hoping that one day his knowledge might matter. Now, a secret guild wanted him wanted the very part of him he had tried to hide.
He slipped the invitation into his coat pocket, feeling the cold of the wax seep into his skin. Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the faint, mischievous chime of a winter sprite. Somewhere beyond the trees, a path waited, and the promise of a Christmas he had never known beckoned.