The Future of King Frost
King Frost's ambush.
The procession, finally grasping the situation, prepared as one for battle—only to whip their heads around by pure reflex at the overwhelming presence pressing in from behind them.
And there, on the spot, they froze solid.
An archmage.
Actually chanting, no less.
The result was a blizzard so fierce that opening one's eyes for even a moment became difficult.
Crackle— Boom—!
"Whoa, what the hell is with this sudden wind? Wait—what's wrong with that thing?"
"...Huh? Did she freeze King Frost to death?"
"What? Isn't that a winter fairy?"
The outcome: King Frost had frozen to death.
And not in the usual way, dissolving into snow upon dying.
It had simply frozen solid as a whole and crashed to the ground.
...Wasn't that basically just a block of ice with the name "fairy" slapped on it?
Karem tossed the sudden claim back at Mary—that the so-called leader of the winter fairies had frozen to death—but Mary herself, the one who had just pronounced the death sentence, looked equally bewildered.
Yet the words rang out through the stillness all the same.
Abrupt, but the incident was resolved.
Every gaze locked onto the carriage.
She had frozen an ice creature—a winter fairy—to death?
The problem had been put down with such absurd simplicity that the people who had been thrashing about in panic now simply stood there looking foolish.
The culprit herself looked thoroughly refreshed. With a lighter touch than before, she swept back the hair the magic's aftermath had left in disarray.
"Why are you all standing around like that? It's late. Why are you gawking instead of getting a move on?"
Catherine declared this to the procession still hesitating amid the blizzard, left her staff floating in the air, and turned back toward the carriage.
Karem followed her at once, trailing after Mary—only for Catherine to suddenly reverse course just as she was about to climb inside, forcing him to sidestep out of the way.
"Whoa. Did you forget something?"
"Yes. That King Frost I froze to death."
Karem turned his head, following the tip of the staff Catherine pointed with.
Under the twilight filtering down through the gloomy sky, the frozen corpse of King Frost shimmered like a great crimson ice confection.
The next morning.
Seen again under a bright sky, King Frost drew an involuntary gasp of admiration.
Roughly a little smaller than an ogre—about the size of heavy machinery or a three-story building—the frozen corpse of King Frost stood before the Mage's Tower and looked, at a glance, like a mascot.
A snowman with limbs, wearing a pointed hat stacked under a crown.
Though, as noted, it was only slightly smaller than an ogre.
"Aaaaaagh! What the—?!"
Flump— thump—!
A mage stepping out of the tower, mid-yawn, caught sight of King Frost and leaped straight into the air.
Honestly, Karem understood completely.
Until yesterday the only thing in front of the tower had been the majestic snow rampart Mary had built; anyone would jump at the sudden appearance of an ogre-sized (cute) ice statue.
Of course, the fact that the mages startled in a different spectacular fashion every single time they came outside was pretty funny on its own.
Man, though—looking at it like this, it's actually quite the sight.
Not that Winterhome lacked things worth looking at.
Unlike the buildings of the outer, inner, and main keeps, Winterhome's fortress proper had a distinctly ornate character.
Tall columns and spires of near-white gray stone, the intricate skybridges linking them every which way, and the walls that radiated outward—looking again, it almost resembled an ancient tree carved from rock.
The Greenhouse refused to lose on sheer splendor, either.
The product of Duke Alfred Felwinter of Iceland's first and last absolute blowout of money contained every climate zone and every season within its walls.
And ever since Flora's arrival, the plants' vitality and abundance had only grown day by day; you could see it clearly even from outside.
Warehouses, barracks, training grounds, the slaughterhouse, the stables—each building of gray and black stone, tailored to its purpose, only made the main keep and the Greenhouse stand out more.
Anyway, you get sick of looking at the same things eventually.
It was only natural.
Even the most delicious food you love will grow tiresome if you eat it every single meal without fail—or even just once a day.
The human tongue is designed to fatigue under constant stimulation; that is precisely why bland bread and rice form the staples of most diets.
In his previous life, Karem had once eaten nothing but namul bibimbap three times a day for six straight months, and only stopped because his parents badgered him into eating something else. If he had kept it up a full year, even he might have gotten sick of it.
Creak—
"Aaaaaaagh! You startled me!"
"Hm? King Frost? And the original form, no less? What on earth is it doing here..."
A fresh reaction the moment the door opened pulled his head around.
Olivier and Narke.
"Good morning, everyone."
"Ah. Karem. What in the world is this King Frost doing here? And how is it so perfectly preserved?"
"Well... I suppose you'd call it the product of Lady Atanitas's rage."
Olivier stroked his beard with the hand not holding his staff and lifted one eyebrow. A look of pure curiosity. A silent demand to explain.
"She actually chanted. Said she was going to smash it to pieces."
"What? She chanted?"
"Yes. First time I've ever seen Lady Atanitas recite an incantation."
Living in the Mage's Tower, one heard mages' spells as often as kitchen noise and the occasional explosion of a failed experiment.
Catherine was different.
In all the time he had known her, Karem had never once seen her chant.
Not once.
Most of the time a light gesture was enough to weave her magic; even when she faced the monster archmage at Afterglow Fortress, she never spoke a word of spellcraft.
For Catherine to chant meant she had unleashed her magic at full power. And Karem had no trouble understanding why.
Rage. She said it was the first thing she had touched since becoming a sage.
Which meant the first thing she had touched in centuries had been the Alraune custard salmon bread he had made.
And that salmon bread had fallen to the ground right in front of her.
Because of an outside force, no less.
Yeah... that would make anyone chant.
A first time held special meaning for anyone.
And Catherine, because of her curse, had not even been able to touch food.
Not for a span of years long enough that an ordinary person would have grown old, died, and been reborn.
If he himself were ever saddled with a curse like that?
Karem could barely imagine it.
It was too horrible.
"She actually lost her reason and chanted?"
"She lost her reason?"
"Of course she did. Would an archmage need to chant against the leftover scrap of some wild lesser fairy? The power was completely excessive."
Olivier frowned for a moment and looked up at King Frost.
"So why was Kitty so angry?"
"Because of King Frost, she dropped the salmon bread she was holding."
"Hm? Over something that small—wait. She was holding what?"
Ah. So that was the starting point. Only he and Mary, who had been with Catherine, would know that particular scene.
Karem explained to Olivier about the roasted Alraune, the Curse of Famine, and the muddy-water theory.
"Hah. The Curse of Famine... weakened though that vicious magic may be, she found a way to bypass it like that? The byproducts of Alraune are certainly highly toxic. Even if processing removes the poison, one wouldn't expect anyone to eat them."
"So we tested it. And it worked."
"Hmmmm. Perhaps I've been too fixated on the curse itself."
It seemed even someone who claimed to dislike his own influence still carried his master's mark. Olivier's reaction was much like Catherine's had been.
"Still—to lose her composure over something so trivial. No... given her goal, perhaps anger was only natural."
"Her goal?"
"Yes. The goal of lifting the curse."
Olivier watched Narke examining King Frost's body for a moment, then stopped stroking his beard and sat down beside the snowbank where Karem sat.
"She's never said it aloud, but how could she hide it from a master's eyes? If she had spoken it, though, more than a few people would have been disappointed."
"Disappointed?"
"Yes. From what you've seen, what was Kitty like? Did she enjoy cooking?"
"Yes. She's curious about dishes she's never seen, and she loves good food. Desserts especially. Not quite as much as Mary, but still."
"Hmm. Originally, Kitty had no great interest in cooking."
Karem nodded along, then stopped short.
Who had no interest in what?
"Mages are all much the same. Mental satisfaction far outweighs physical pleasure. And with talent like hers, that tendency was only stronger, never weaker."
"Hard to imagine."
"Isn't it just."
Olivier stroked his beard again and nodded.
"As you know, my disciple has a fierce pride. And a fair amount of possessiveness as well. After she became like this, she grew obsessed with cooking. She doesn't show it, but it's obvious."
"You called it the Curse of Famine—how did she end up cursed?"
"Well. Mages, large or small, always collect grudges."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. And with pride as vast as her talent, even grudges that didn't exist before get jealousy piled on double. Where or how she was cursed, even I don't know."
"She seems to yield to His Grace the Duke and the family, though."
"A lesson learned after she burned herself badly enough."
"A lesson."
Come to think of it, aside from Duke Alfred, his wife Elizabeth, and the previous Duke Richard, Karem had never seen Catherine attach honorifics or polite speech to anyone.
Not even to the four Felwinter siblings who were the Duke's children.
Even to Iona, an elder of a religion, she spoke only in casual speech.
Of course, that wasn't the only reason she got angry.
Olivier smiled inwardly with deep satisfaction. For an old man, stories like this were the perfect little puzzle to turn over in one's spare time.
This one and that one—both denser than a brick.
Hearing the reason for Catherine's fury made it obvious.
If he himself had been forced to drop something made by the person he secretly cherished, he too would have lost his temper and blasted it with full-power magic.
Of course, the fact that the "something" was not even a so-called token of love—just a snack with roasted Alraune in it—still left him breathless.
Even so, for someone under a curse, a confection specially made by a special person would have carried meaning every bit as special as a love token. So he could make allowances... allowances, my foot.
These denser-than-brick idiots and their glacial progress!
Olivier was so exasperated he actually started coughing.
"Khack! Cough-cough-hack. Khack!"
"Lord Olivier, do you have a cold as well?"
It's because of my hopeless disciple and the progress that simply will not move with you.
He could not say that aloud.
It would feel good, but it would spoil the fun.
And conveniently, a Great Sword Noble is coming to visit. The king's own younger brother, no less.
That meant Winterhome would throw a grand banquet. That would be the perfect chance to finally shove his cheeky disciple and the exasperating chef past the bottleneck that had been choking the air for so long.
His collaborator, Duchess Elizabeth, would agree at once when she heard.
"—it's a kind of corpse, so maybe? But when a Jack Frost dies it basically scatters into ice elements, and the same goes for King Frost. But if you think about the case in Fungusby—"
While Olivier reached that private conclusion, Narke's muttering as he fidgeted around the frozen King Frost snagged both men's attention.
"Narke. Has looking at that thing unblocked some stuck research of yours?"
"N-no, not that. I was just wondering if I could use this with my magic."
As a necromancer, Narke's magic meant necromancy, of course.
But even if that thing was called a fairy, it wasn't really a living creature, was it?
"Lord Olivier. Is what he's saying even possible?"
"Hmmmm."
"Even as a complete layman, it sounds impossible to me."
"No... it might actually be possible."
Olivier looked back and forth between Narke and the frozen King Frost with a gleam of interest.
"Go on, then. Lay out the theory you've been thinking."
"Y-yes! So normally it would be impossible, but right now the original form is still completely intact, see? Back in Fungusby in the summer—"
Just as the specialized knowledge no layman could possibly follow began to pour out—
"THAT'S IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT—!!!"
Jigmeser came charging in through the snow wall surrounding the Mage's Tower like a dwarf who had just been told the liquor ban was lifted.
"That! It may look like a statue at a glance, but it won't fool these eyes! Whatever trickery this is, that was definitely a King Frost!"
"N-no! You can't! Th-this is research material I claimed first...!"
"What? Claimed first? What is this shabby little ear-tip even babbling about! It's sitting right out here in front of the tower in plain sight!"
"And y-you're the one who shaved off every hair and beard you had—you don't seem entirely sane yourself...!"
Ah. A stereotype cliché he had never quite felt before, yet somehow deeply familiar.
While Karem watched with quiet delight, Olivier tapped the ground with his staff.
"Well now! In that case, there's only one person who can settle this!"
Karem agreed completely.
The owner of the thing in question was someone else entirely.
"Well, if it's for the banquet, I suppose it can't be helped."
"Th-then, Lady Atanitas... does that mean...?"
"Yes. King Frost goes to Jigmeser."
"N-nooo! My research...!!!"
Narke sank without a sound.