First Place: The Small Magic of Midwinter

The Small Magic of Midwinter

by Storm Lomax

First Place

A pink-tinged moon hangs high, and the castle grounds are silent as Princess Esmarie scrambles through her window like a stuck cat. Growling, she tugs her dress free from where it’s snagged on a rogue nail. With the rip of fabric, it releases her. Esmarie doesn’t even have time to curse before she drops to the ground with all the grace of a sack of flour. Thankfully, the castle grounds are full of pillow-soft grass over a thick layer of well-watered soil. Esmarie rolls to the side, groaning and slightly damp, but uninjured.

“Deep breaths,” she whispers to herself, still lying on the wet grass. “You made it.”

Esmarie stands, dusting the soil from her winter cloak. A thick, warm dress clings to her form, high in the neck with sleeves down to her gloved hands. Oh, how she’d love to have a more practical outfit—something befitting a rogue princess travelling rough—but her parents would never allow it. Esmarie nearly scoffs out loud at the thought, renewed vigour in her veins. Well, an impractical dress certainly isn’t going to stop her, even if it does pinch uncomfortably under her arms. Although…

Esmarie glances back at the castle, hands tight around the strap of her bag. If she were to turn back, now would be the best time. No one even knows she’s left, after all. It would be so easy just to clamber back up that wall and climb into bed.

No.

Esmarie straightens, turning away from her home. She knows what awaits her when she wakes up tomorrow morning, and it is not something she can let happen. No. Absolutely not.

Jaw clenched, Esmarie doesn’t spare one more glance at the castle. She scurries across the gardens and finds the hole in the outer walls, hidden by a bush. It was a much easier hole to fit through when she was young, but she makes it through nonetheless. There, it’s done, she thinks. I’m out. Just one step closer to freedom.

Esmarie sets off into the forest, hands only slightly shaking.

“Calm down,” she tells herself. “This is the right thing to do.”

This was a mistake.

For one thing, Esmarie doesn’t realise until the bundle of twigs and branches is piled in front of her that she has absolutely no idea how to make a fire.

She’s settled into a clear patch in the forest, back against a tree. It looked rather cosy and inviting when she stumbled across it, almost like a camping spot from one of the storybooks her grandmother used to read her. Esmarie had been delighted at the time and immediately set about gathering wood for a fire. Daybreak wouldn’t be for a few more hours yet, especially this deep into winter, and Esmarie had been starting to feel the cold creep in despite her garb.

Now she kneels in front of her pile of wood and thinks she might actually be the biggest fool in the realm. The fireplace in her chambers had always been lit before she woke in the mornings. She curses herself for never paying attention to how it was actually done.

“Think,” she groans, rubbing her temples. “Oh!”

Esmarie may not know how to start a fire, but she does know magic. Her parents absolutely forbid combat or defence magic—for her safety, of course—but Esmarie developed a deep-seated love for magic regardless. With her grandmother’s help, she collected over a hundred spells.

Esmarie wracks her brain, searching for a spell that could help. The spell for perfectly toasting bread comes to the fore of her mind, and a spark of cautious optimism catches in her chest. She places her hand atop the pie of wood, shivering at the coolness of it. She calls on her deep well of magic and feels her palm warm. Yes, this should work nicely. She’s used it many times before and it always leaves the most beautiful, golden toast you’ve ever seen.

After several seconds, Esmarie pulls away hopefully and almost immediately makes a choked noise of devastation—the wood is lightly marked where she touched it, but otherwise exactly the same. Why did she think a stick would be even slightly like bread? Perhaps her next trick should be to throw herself off a cliff and see how many rocks she hits on the way down.

Esmarie throws her head back to wail in anguish, but it turns into a blood-curdling scream instead. Lurking behind a tree in front of her is a man.

Esmarie shrieks and throws a piece of firewood at him. She imbues it with a spell of accuracy—admittedly, one that’s only accurate for throwing socks into hampers. Esmarie’s magic is far stronger than the usefulness of the spell and, midway through the air, the branch turns into a single, dainty sock. The stranger plucks it out of the air before it can hit him or the ground. They both stare at it.

“Hm,” the man grunts, stepping out of the shadows, wielding the sock. “Thank you, but it looks too small for me.”

Esmarie sucks in a breath, chest constricting.

Him.

Prince Kyren is the third son of King Sybal, ruler of a neighbouring realm. White-blonde hair, eyes like chips of ice, and a frame that makes him look more like a snow bear stuffed into clothes than a man. Stupidly handsome, because of course he is, despite his permanent frown and inability to understand a joke.

He’s also the one Esmarie is being forced to marry.

“You,” Esmarie grinds out. “Why are you here? What do you want? Come to drag me back to the castle, have you? Well, if you think you can strongarm me, you have another thing coming.”

Kyren regards her thoughtfully.

“Is that why you’re all the way out here?” he asks. “You fled?”

Oops. Esmarie presses her lips together. She might have said too much.

“...No…” she says slowly.

Kyren cocks an amused brow. Funny that someone like him can smile with his eyebrows and not his mouth.

“I think you’re lying.” He waves the sock in the air.

“Why are you here?” she parries, crossing her arms. She refuses to dignify the sock with even a passing glance.

“Same as you,” Kyren says with a shrug. “Fleeing the marriage.”

Esmarie drops her arms to her side, regarding him warily. He meets her eyes, unblinking.

“I do wonder where you’re planning to go, though,” he continues, leaning against the tree. He nods to her satchel. “You didn’t take much with you.”

“Well, I’m coming back,” Esmarie says, flouncing down to sit beside her failed fire. She draws her knees up, fighting off a shiver. “I just need to reach the Tower before it disappears.”

“Ah.” Kyren crosses the clearing to sit on the opposite side of the firewood. “The Tower.”

The Tower appears each winter for only one night and grants anyone who can reach it a wish. Esmarie glances up through the tree canopy, spying the round white moon in the sky. Its edges are tinged with pink, like the delicate petals of a summer flower. Once the moon turns fully pink, the tower will appear. Already, the white of the moon grows smaller. Esmarie sighs.

“I have only a few days to reach it,” she says, wrapping her arms around her knees. “And then I can wish for this marriage to… go away.”

Kyren is quiet. Esmarie glances up at him.

“Where were you planning to go?” she asks, nodding pointedly at his satchel. “You also don’t have much.”

“I was planning on catching a boat back to my realm,” Kyren says, scratching the back of his neck. “My uncle lives on the border, and I was hoping to petition him.”

“You believe that will work?”

“If anyone can persuade my father of anything, it’s my uncle.” Kyren pauses. “But… your plan sounds better.”

Kyren pulls a few unfamiliar items from his satchel. Esmarie watches him curiously as he strikes them off one another, sparks flying. A few of them land on the twigs buried beneath the firewood, and Esmarie’s eyes widen as the first flames catch. So that’s how you create fire!

“I’ll come with you,” Kyren says, tucking the items back into his satchel. “Make sure you get to the Tower.”

Slightly presumptuous of him.

“What makes you think I want you to come with me?” Esmarie says. “You’re the one I’m trying to get away from.”

“Well, that’s rude, for one thing.” Kyren throws a pebble at Esmarie—it bounces harmlessly off her shoulder, although she has half a mind to cry out just out of principle.

“I don’t mean you specifically—” she starts.

“I know,” he cuts her off, and she realises he’s joking. How unexpected. Although it’s rather hard to tell when someone who doesn’t smile makes a joke. “But I can get you to the Tower safely. You don’t want to die of exposure before you make your wish, do you?”

“Well, no, obviously,” Esmarie says, nibbling her lip.

She eyes the flames, now growing into something resembling a proper campfire. She shuffles closer, the warmth an immediate relief.

Ugh. The stupid snow bear man is right.

“Fine,” Esmarie says, her tone clipped. “You can come with me.”

Kyren only nods, but under the trick of the firelight, it almost looks like he smiles.

Evernight village is a small settlement on the northern edge of Esmarie’s realm, far from most other civilisations. Esmarie has visited herself only once—her grandmother took her when she was young, and Esmarie was fascinated by the unassuming village. By all accounts, it differs very little from the other towns and villages of Esmarie’s realm, except for one thing—it is always night and it is always winter.

Was it a curse? Esmarie had asked her grandmother when they first arrived, the sky like black velvet overhead.

Oh, no, her grandmother had chuckled. Not a curse, child. A blessing.

As Esmarie and Kyren walk through the village gates, she understands what her grandmother meant. Glowing moss lines the curved pathways, setting a soft green pattern across the village. Lanterns with coloured glass hang on ropes tied between the buildings, a beautiful mess of rainbow lights. The sky is a blanket of deepest black, but the light of the moon and stars bathes the village in soft silver. Evernight is a place that glows.

A pair of oversized wolves pull a slightly-too-full mushroom cart past Esmarie and Kyren, the farmer following closely behind. Esmarie keeps walking but stops short when she realises Kyren is no longer next to her.

“Ky?” she says, using the shortened version of their names they’d agreed on beforehand, in case they’re recognised.

Kyren watches the wolves. They come to a stop as the farmer pulls two large chunks of dried meat from his bag. He feeds the wolves, laughing as they gobble it down happily before proceeding on again.

“Curious,” Kyren mumbles, watching them go. He walks back up to Esmarie.

“The wolves?” Esmarie eyes them, shrugging. “They’re silverfur, bred for eternal nights. They don’t miss the sun, don’t worry.”

Kyren’s shoulders sag slightly as he nods—was he worried for them?

“And the mushrooms?” he asks, starting to walk again. “There seemed plentiful food for a cursed village.”

“Not cursed,” Esmarie replies. “The mushrooms are worth more than gold in this realm.”

Kyren gives a look like he doesn’t believe her. Esmarie sighs.

“You’ve heard of our wine?” She phrases it like a question, but it isn’t. Everyone in the country knows of mooncap wine. Darkest red, exceedingly expensive, and absolutely delicious. Even as she mentions it, Kyren licks his lips.

“I have,” he confirms.

“Well, that’s the reason.” Esmarie jabs a thumb over her shoulder at the retreating mushroom cart. “Evernight has the perfect conditions to grow mooncap mushrooms, which are meant to be akin to nectar. Once properly processed, of course. It’s quite fascinating, the process involves…”

Kyren stays quiet as Esmarie trails off, a sudden thought that squeezes her insides.

“I…” I’m talking too much, aren’t I? The words bubble at the back of her throat. But pride takes over, and she turns her nose up. “You aren’t a man of many words, are you?”

Kyren looks sidelong at her. The moonlight almost makes his pale skin glow.

“I prefer listening,” he says. After a moment, “You were telling me about the wine process?”

Esmarie quickly smothers the relief blooming in her chest. Instead, she looks away and continues to talk, and Kyren continues to listen.

Nestled amongst two large, snow-dusted trees sits a spellshop. A bell above the door rings sweetly as Esmarie and Kyren step inside. Yellowed scrolls line the shelves, loosely bound in anything from ribbons to twigs. Esmarie’s heart soars at the sight of them.

“Oh,” she breathes, hurrying over to the first shelf. “There’s so many!”

Kyren follows her, peering at the labels. Makes a bird's feathers shiny, one reads. Another says, Raises the temperature of your tea by one degree.

“These don’t seem useful,” Kyren remarks.

“To you, perhaps,” Esmarie replies, sniffing.

He points at one of the scrolls.

“You think it’s useful to make the shortest person in the room sneeze?” he asks.

Well, no. But she’s not going to admit that.

“It depends on the situation,” Esmarie says.

Kyren waits for her to elaborate. She does not. Instead, she turns on her heel to stalk down the shop. Esmarie pointedly picks a spot furthest away from Kyren, but he either doesn’t get the hint or doesn’t care. He follows her.

“What spell are you looking for?” he asks.

Esmarie sighs dramatically to further emphasise the point that he is annoying her.

“Well, nothing specific,” she says, gesturing at the shelves. “I just like magic. All magic. Even the ones you think are useless.”

She delivers the last word with an appropriate amount of snark, enough to make her irritation clear, but Kyren seems unfazed.

“Really?” he asks sincerely.

Esmarie quirks an eyebrow at him and says emphatically, “Yes.”

Kyren cocks his head, giving the impression of a rather puzzled snow bear. It’s so ridiculously endearing, Esmarie finds her irritation melting away, which truly only serves to make her a new kind of irritated. How dare he strip her of her irritation?

“Well, look,” she says with a sigh, reaching up to tap his throat gently. She expects him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He only watches her, icy eyes on hers. Esmarie ignores the warmth of her face under such intense scrutiny and pours a little drop of magic into her fingertip as she touches him.

When she pulls away, nothing happens.

“Go on,” she says. “Talk.”

“Oh, talk,” Kyren says sarcastically. “I didn’t know I had to do that.”

For the first time, Esmarie watches as true expression crosses his face. And it’s horror.

“Why am I talking like this?” he says, sarcasm dripping, at absolute odds with the shock on his face. “I’m not doing that.”

Esmarie barks with laughter. Kyren’s face turns red.

“Magic that turns someone’s voice sarcastic, no matter what they say,” Esmarie says, grinning. “You like it?”

“Oh, I love it,” Kyren says, and they both burst out laughing.

“Don’t worry, it only lasts a few minutes,” she says, wiping her eyes.

“Noooo,” Kyren deadpans.

“I know, isn’t it terrible,” Esmarie sighs with a smirk.

Kyren rubs his chest as the magic wears off.

“Do you know any other spells?” he asks, blinking as his voice returns to normal.

“Oh, hundreds.” Esmarie shrugs. “I can create a field of your favourite flowers, I can make a candle flame turn any colour, I can even make you glow bright red with just a compliment.”

Kyren frowns.

“Was that last one real?”

Esmarie regards him with a flat look.

“I guess you’ll never find out.”

They choose a small, quiet inn for a few hours of sleep. The room is sparse but warm, with two separate cots placed against opposite walls. When Kyren climbs into his bed, it creaks dangerously under his weight, and he makes his blanket look like a napkin.

“Will you be warm enough like that?” Esmarie asks sceptically, climbing into her own cot.

“I’ve slept in worse conditions,” he replies, tucking an arm under his head as he stares at the ceiling. “In my realm, royalty and nobles must survive a winter alone once they are fifteen.”

Esmarie turns onto her side, intrigued. She’s heard of the harsh snowy conditions of Kyren’s realm but didn’t know of their rituals.

“My parents barely let me outside the castle walls, let alone survive a winter alone,” she says, not at all bitterly.

“That sounds much more comfortable.”

Esmarie scoffs.

“Too comfortable.” She pauses. “I know I told you it’s not you specifically I don’t want to marry, and I was being honest. If I’m married to anyone, then… I can’t leave.”

The truth hangs in the air, and Esmarie wants to snatch it back as soon as it leaves her mouth. She hasn’t told anyone this, knowing it would only land her in further trouble. Only her grandmother would have understood.

Gods, how Esmarie misses her.

Kyren inhales, and Esmarie braces herself—a princess stays in her realm, a princess knows her duty, a princess puts her realm above herself. There’s no need for these selfish thoughts, Esmarie, and why on earth would you want to leave anyway? Your duty is here.

“Where do you want to go?”

Esmarie blinks.

“Pardon?” she whispers.

“Where do you want to go?” Kyren repeats.

In the low light, she sees the shape of him as he turns to look at her. The moonlight catches his eyes in the gloom.

“I…” Esmarie swallows. She clutches her blanket to her chest. “I want to go everywhere.” She breathes in and exhales everything at once. “Every home in Evernight has a lamp filled with what they call Breakfast Greens, which is a kind of glowing lichen that lives and dies in twenty-four hours. That means when the lichen starts to dim, its lifecycle is over, and a ‘day’ is over. They use this as a clock for when they should eat their breakfast, having no sunrise to tell them. When my grandmother brought me here and I saw the way they had their breakfast, I can’t explain it in any way… other than I need to know how everyone has their breakfast. Do the people in warm places drink tea, or is it too hot for them perhaps? And then I wonder how these people have their other meals, and how they get to work, and what do they do for work? And I have no real need for that kind of knowledge, I suppose, so I can’t give you any sane, rational reason for wanting to know other than I’m so utterly curious about it all.”

Esmarie finally inhales, having run out of breath. She still has more to say, more questions she wants to voice, but she fears she’s already talked enough. How completely mad she must seem. Her cheeks warm in the darkness.

“Curiosity is an admirable trait,” Kyren says. “You shouldn’t hide it. Once our engagement is over, you are welcome to see how the people of my realm have their breakfast.”

Oh.

Something in his words stings, even though he sounds sincere and, truly, Esmarie would love to travel to Kyren’s realm.

Once our engagement is over.

Is that what’s nettling her? She wants the engagement to be over. Esmarie nibbles at her lower lip. He’s been a useful companion, true. She likely would have frozen to death in that forest, embarrassing as that would have been, if he hadn’t appeared. And it has been nice to talk freely to someone.

I prefer listening, he’d said. Esmarie smiles despite herself. He’s good at it.

“Thank you,” she whispers, realising she’s gone too long without replying.

“You’re welcome,” Kyren replies, and then, “I don’t know much magic, but my uncle did teach me one thing. You’ll like it.”

Kyren lifts up his arm and snaps his fingers. Soft pink petals appear from above them, gently cascading down like confetti. Esmarie’s eyes widen.

“How beautiful!” she breathes. “What spell is it?”

“Secret.”

She turns to prop herself up onto her elbows, looking at him sharply.

“I demand to know,” she barks, using her most authoritative voice. It even stopped two cats fighting once, and she’s proud of that.

But it doesn’t work on Kyren. He only smiles coyly, which is the most he’s smiled so far. It must be some kind of magic smile because it sets off an explosion of flower confetti in Esmarie’s stomach.

“You’re infuriating!” she huffs, turning away to face the wall and pulling her covers over. “I will find out.”

Kyren doesn’t respond, which suits her just fine. He can be as mysterious and handsome as he likes, she just won’t look at him.

But when Esmarie closes her eyes, trying to find sleep, all she can see is his smile.

They leave the cosy glow of Evernight behind and trek towards the snowy mountains, a half-pink moon overhead. Snow-capped trees fall away to rocky caverns, and the ground begins to tilt noticeably up. Esmarie huffs out clouds of warm breath, pace slowing. Kyren walks behind her, annoyingly unfazed by the incline and only stopping when she stops.

What had been flakes of delicate snow drifting around them is now something sharper—the snow bites at the exposed skin of their faces, icy fingers snaking between the creases of their clothes to find a way in. Esmarie pulls her cloak tighter around herself, burying the bottom half of her face in the collar. Her boots trudge against the thickening snow underfoot.

“Esmarie,” Kyren’s voice cuts through the wind behind her. “We should take shelter and wait for the weather to pass.”

Esmarie looks up at the sky. Stars scatter across the darkness like crushed diamonds, more than she could ever count. The moon sits nestled amongst them, larger than Esmarie has seen it before. Only the centre is still white, pink spreading around it like watercolour. She’s running out of time.

But when she turns to look up the mountain, snow stings her eyes. Her legs feel like they’re made of rock, muscles grinding against bone, and her lungs burn with the cold air.

“Fine,” she relents. “But not for long.”

Kyren nods and holds out a gloved hand. Esmarie is too weary to hesitate—she takes it and lets him lead her to a cave tucked into the side of the mountain. As soon as she steps inside, away from the wind and snow, her shoulders sag in relief. Esmarie sinks to her knees, breathing hard.

Kyren disappears briefly before returning with a small stack of slightly damp firewood. He piles it in the middle of the cave before pulling out the tools Esmarie saw before.

“Wait,” she says. “Show me. I want to know how you did it.”

Kyren looks at her.

“Please?” she adds, and he gives a small nod.

“Let me start a fire myself first,” he tells her. “So we can get warm. We’ll practice together after.”

By the time the cave is alight with a healthy fire, the feeling starts to come back to Esmarie’s fingers and cheeks. And it hurts. Esmarie groans, skin burning with new warmth. She lays her gloves next to the fire and rubs her hands against her face.

“Here.” Kyren holds out a small vial of something creamy. “Your skin is snow-burnt. This’ll help.”

Esmarie tries to take it, but the vial slips between her half-numb fingers. It clatters to the rocky ground. Before she can pick it up, Kyren does it for her. He scoops out a fingerful of cream and says, “May I?”

“I suppose,” Esmarie sighs, shuffling to sit closer.

They sit cross-legged opposite each other next to the fire. Kyren reaches out to smooth some of the cream across Esmarie’s cheek. She was expecting him to do it rougher, clumsier perhaps, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. Even if she can feel the callouses on his fingers.

He smears the cream over the apple of her cheek and down towards her jaw. The relief is immediate, the burn quietening to a dull ache. Esmarie looks up at Kyren as he smooths the cream into her skin. His brow is furrowed in concentration, flames flickering in the icy blue of his eyes. He has a scar she never noticed before under his left eye and on the corner of his jaw, where the beginnings of stubble surround puckered flesh. What would it feel like if she reached up and touched it?

The thought is so jarring, it jerks her back to the present with a start. Kyren pulls back, startled.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, alarmed.

“N-No,” Esmarie stammers out. Why is she stammering? He’s no one. He’s nothing. Worse, he’s a shackle around her ankle she needs to chew her way out of.

She’s about to turn away, to flounce over to her corner of the cave and jam her fingers in her ears and think la-la-la-la as loud as she mentally can because the way her thoughts are going right now is bad, and she just needs to ignore it as much as possible.

But this close, she sees the slash of red skin on his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and instead of doing the flouncing and ignoring she planned, instead she says, “You’re snow-burnt.”

“Oh. That’s okay,” Kyren says.

He scoops out another fingerful of cream and, in the complete opposite of his gentleness with Esmarie, he slaps the cream between his palms and rubs both hands ferociously over his face.

“Kyren,” she says sharply. “What are you doing?”

He pauses.

“The cream,” he says slowly, as if she may be stupid.

“Yes, obviously, but why are you doing it like… that?” She gestures at his face wildly, appalled.

“What other way is there to do it?” he asks.

“You absolute oaf,” Esmarie huffs. “Give me that.”

She snatches the cream from him and delicately scoops out enough to cover the pad of her index finger.

“Come here,” she barks.

Kyren shuffles closer.

“I honestly think you might be insane,” she says, although the edges of her voice have been sanded down.

She softly dabs the cream against the worst burnt part of his cheekbone, where the skin glows crimson against the rest of his pale face. If it hurts, Kyren gives no indication. Esmarie tries to pretend she doesn’t notice his gaze on her, keeping her own eyes focused on the work.

She smooths the cream over one cheek before moving onto the other. His features look even sharper in the firelight, and Esmarie’s eyes dart involuntarily down to his lips. Without thinking, she takes some cream onto her thumb and rubs it over his bottom lip.

Esmarie doesn’t realise how close they are, how much they’re leaning towards each other, until she finally looks up at his eyes and sees that they’re not icy blue—not at all. They’re the blue of a summer lake, not freezing but invitingly cool and deep enough to hold secrets you’d never find.

“Esmarie,” Kyren says, and pauses. His throat bobs. “This isn’t what you want.”

He draws back, just slightly, and Esmarie feels her heart drop out of her chest. She falls forward with a gasp, the thread between them broken.

“I…”

Ice crawls over her skin, despite the fire, and an unfamiliar pain lodges itself between her ribs. Embarrassed. Rejected.

“I…”

Esmarie looks at the mouth of the cave, snow streaming past, thick and heavy. She looks at her hands, fingertips still half-numb from the cold. She looks at the fire and thinks of her first miserable night, unable to even create a spark.

“I…”

There’s a reason for all of this pain and struggle, for her snow-burnt skin and numb limbs and screaming muscles. All of this is for her freedom. And it’s worth it, it has to be worth it, it has to be worth it. She can’t lose sight of that now. What was she thinking?

“You’re right,” Esmarie says, and the words feel like broken glass in her mouth.

She rises to standing, hiding the tremble in her legs, and wraps her cloak around herself. Kyren stares up at her, brow furrowed.

“Where are you going?” he asks, voice low.

“To do what I came here for,” she says, threading steel in her voice to fill in the cracks.

And before he can stop her, she runs out into the storm.

The snow is blistering, threatening to topple Esmarie over and swallow her whole. The wind has risen to a scream, pummelling her with snow that feels closer to ice, tearing at her skin. Esmarie bundles her face into the collar of her scarf, eyes squeezed into slits, and cloak billowing behind her.

She looks up, squinting through the storm, and sees even the sky is white and the stars have all but disappeared. But the moon… the moon is still here.

It’s nearly fully pink, stark against the white sky, with only a pinprick at its centre untouched. Esmarie stumbles in the snow and catches herself on a jutting rock. She blinks past the icy water in her eyes and looks around.

The moon is nearly fully pink.

And the Tower isn’t here.

Panic rises in her chest, threatening to pull her to the ground.

No, no no. It has to be here, it has to be. Please. Please be here.

The entire mountainside is coated in snow so thick, it reaches Esmarie’s knees. The sky and ground blur together in an infinite white, and Esmarie isn’t even sure which direction she’s going anymore. All she’s worked for, all this distance travelled and discomforts and pains and struggles, all for this nothingness.

She wishes she had never left. She wishes she had stayed home.

She wishes Kyren were still with her.

Tears freeze on her cheeks as she pulls her scarf down.

“Kyren!” she screams into the storm.

Is he even still out here? What if he left and went home? Could she blame him?

“Kyren!”

The howl of the wind circles her. But there, so faint she has to strain to hear, something else carries on the wind.

“Esmarie!”

He’s here. He’s still here. Esmarie could cry.

Her name whips past her, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. She spins desperately on the spot, trying to see him.

“Kyren!” she calls, but the storm snatches her voice as soon as it leaves her mouth.

This is fine, this is fine. She just needs to think. She knows hundreds of spells, and they can’t all be useless. Esmarie squeezes her eyes shut and thinks.

It comes to her in a rush. Her eyes snap open.

“Kyren!” she shouts, and pauses, steeling herself. “You’re really good at starting fires!”

The compliment carries on the wind, echoing away from her. She goes quiet. She waits.

There.

A faint red glow in the endless white. Esmarie snaps her head towards it, breath catching. He’s here—she can find him. He didn’t leave her.

Above her, pink light closes over the moon.

The Tower appears in a flurry of snow. It stretches above, disappearing into the white of the sky, built from ice so clear it could almost be glass but for the tinge of blue. The wind that screams around Esmarie seems to sing around the Tower, encircling it in fat flakes of snow that spin in a spiral upward.

It’s everything she wanted. A deep, rare magic, the power to wish her freedom into reality. Esmarie looks at it, the most beautiful magic she’s ever laid eyes on, and she turns away.

She fixes her eyes on the glow of red and trudges towards it.

“You’re a great listener!” she calls out. “And I love how patient you are!”

The glow grows brighter, the fuzzy edges solidifying. A red beacon in the storm.

“You’re so handsome it annoys me, and you’re honest and kind!” she continues, breathing hard with each step.

Kyren comes into focus, frost-bitten but glowing crimson. Esmarie’s heart soars at the sight of him, and all the energy leaves her legs at once. Her knees buckle.

Kyren catches her before she can fall, lifting her into his arms.

“You’re the most considerate person I’ve ever met, and I love your smile,” she keeps going, slinging her arms around his neck.

“I’m here,” Kyren says. “You found me. You don’t need to—”

“I do, I need to tell you,” Esmarie half-sobs, voice breaking. “I need you to know.”

Kyren looks down at her, eyes softening.

“I already know,” he says gently.

But it isn’t enough. Esmarie knows it will never be enough. She needs to tell him every morning and every night, she needs to show him.

She hooks her hands around the back of his head and pulls his face to hers. There’s no reason why she should be able to feel anything in the storm, her skin numbed from the cold, but when she presses her lips against his, she feels everything.

Kyren cradles her gently, not letting her slip between his fingers even as she melts into him. She pours every inch of what she feels into the kiss, hoping he feels it. Hoping he knows.

“I know,” he mumbles against her lips. “I know.”

Esmarie wakes up to the sun.

She blinks, face scrunched against the light. Pink petals flutter over her like confetti.

Kyren.

Esmarie shoots up to sitting with a gasp. Kyren sits next to her, long legs stretched out. They’re on the mountainside, snow all but melted. The Tower is gone.

“The storm…” she mumbles, looking around.

“It left with the Tower,” Kyren tells her. “I guess now we know what was causing it.”

Esmarie sucks in a breath, steadying her heart. The air is chilly but mild, nothing like the biting cold from before. She plucks a petal from her cloak and looks at it.

“You still won’t tell me what the spell is?” she asks, only half joking.

Kyren throws her a sidelong smile, part infuriating, part kissable.

“My uncle taught it to me. He learned it for his wedding.” Kyren pauses, seeming to choose his next words carefully. “It only works when you’re with the one you love.”

Kyren raises his fingers and snaps them. Fresh petals rain down softly.

Esmarie stares at him. She thinks of the petals he created in Evernight.

“All this time?” she whispers. “You loved me all this time?”

Kyren turns to her, his coy smile tinged with sadness.

“I wished for your freedom before the Tower left.” His throat bobs. “Our engagement is over.”

Esmarie takes a breath.

“Okay, good,” she says briskly, and stands, hands on hips. “This means you can give me a proper proposal, not some letter from your father to my father and then a quick announcement over breakfast before he starts talking about crop yields.”

Kyren stares up at her.

“We’ll have to wait for a while, though, I imagine,” Esmarie continues. “I do want to travel, after all, and then you can propose in a beautiful and romantic way, perhaps a year or two from now.” Esmarie nods to herself, smiling. “Yes, that sounds perfect.”

Kyren hasn’t moved. Esmarie looks down at him and sticks her hand out.

“Well?” she says. “Are you coming?”

When he smiles, Esmarie knows she will never, ever get tired of seeing it.

Winning pieces are published as received.

---

Fiction Potluck

October 2025

First Place Winner:

Storm Lomax

Storm Lomax is a fantasy author from Larbert, Scotland. Her work has been published in Metaworker Literary Magazine, Chamber Magazine, and narrated by Manawaker Podcast. Her short story was shortlisted for the SMHAF Writing Awards, and her debut novel, Wrath of the Never Queen, was published in 2024.