It is when the green lustre of the rolling hills begins to give way for muddy slush that Zitao clears his throat and says, “We can still turn back.” 

And he is not wrong. There is a long way yet to the City of the Winter Court. It would be easy to blame the weather or a change of heart, Yixing thinks, as trees boasting glorious green crowns morph into bare branches dusted in snow. His heart twinges. 

Still, somewhere in the Winter Court resides the Ice Monarch, and it is for him that they have come this far. The choice to turn back has long passed – since the moment Yixing rose to his feet amidst heated council debate and declared, “I will go.”

“No,” Yixing murmurs. “I made a promise.”

And he will keep it.

🏔️

Spring and Winter have always been wary of each other, but as part of a court recognised for its exceptional healers, Yixing could not stand idly by while the council debated a fellow man’s cry for help.

Even if said man is the notorious Ice Monarch. 

But as the Ice Monarch’s personal guard escorts them from the citygates to the palace resting atop a mountain range, Yixing can only stare at the grandeur of the Winter Court. The snow encasing the city may be knee-deep, but the city itself is sprawling and warm like any day back home. The rich soil, pampered by the bright sun, boasts a colourful palette of fruits, vegetables, and blooms. 

The few stories Yixing remembers being told as a child about the Winter Court were but that – hearsay and rumours; stories meant to caution him of the unknown. They pale in comparison to reality. 

But as quickly as it gave way to lush vegetation, gloom trickled back. trees, patches of snow, an eerie stillness unlike the vibrant city below.

A lonely silhouette stands before them, backdropped by the magnificent palace. 

He stands at the foot of a staircase leading to a massive oak door, a thick white azure-lined cloak hanging off his shoulders, tiny blue crystals decorating the silver circlet on his head. And his eyes… the prettiest sapphires. 

His face is polite; a mask carved from the mountains. 

He waits for them to emerge from their carriage, and then, with a flick of his hand, motions the escorts to haul their luggage away. 

“Welcome,” the Ice Monarch says, softly, “to the Winter Court. I trust your journey was easy?”

Zitao bows, and Yixing, with a moment’s delay, swiftly follows. 

“Your Majesty,” Yixing says. “Yes, thank you. I am Yixing, and this –” he gestures, “– is Zitao, my assistant.”

“Thank you for coming,” the Ice Monarch says. While shorter than Yixing himself, he cuts a remarkable figure. “I am Minseok. Please, as my guests, I insist that you call me by name.” His gaze, calm and assessing, yet somehow glassy, shifts between them. “Lunch will be served at one. Rest up. The servants will be at your disposal.”

His words summon two women, pale and lithe, gliding to his side. They smile prettily at them as the Ice Monarch – Minseok – turns on his heels and disappears through the oak door. The abrupt dismissal bemuses Yixing, but he behaves himself.

One of the women says, “If the master and his companion would come with us…”

🏔️

Minseok does not show up at lunch.

His right-hand man, however, does.

Junmyeon, a handsome if solemn-faced man, arrives slightly delayed. He sits by Yixing’s side; the chair at the end of the table remains empty. 

He tells them all he knows about Minseok’s ailment.

No one is certain when it started, but the general belief is that a trip outside the city gates a month ago caused it. Unfortunately, when asked about it, Minseok will always default to one of two answers: “Nothing unusual happened,” or “I do not remember.” 

The first symptoms of an ailment were loss of appetite and bouts of insomnia. Then came hours spent staring out of windows, blank gazes when asked simple questions, and temporary amnesia. The latest, and most worrying, are the wilting gardens and emerging snowfalls.

“No reports of pain? Nausea?” Yixing asks, mystified. This does not sound like any illness he has heard of. 

Junmyeon shakes his head. “None. And if he were in pain, he would not tell me. He does not speak for days. He…” Junmyeon’s grief makes Yixing wish, not for the first time, that his core magic extended beyond plants that weep and wounds that bleed. “He is a ghost haunting the palace halls. I fear… we might be losing him.”

Junmyeon worries at his lower lip, his eyes dropping to his still-empty plate. “He did not request your presence. I did. I forged his handwriting. I had to; none of our healers have your court’s inherent gift.”

Carefully, Yixing says, “Has something happened that could have affected his psychological well-being?”

“No,” Junmyeon says with unquestionable certainty. “I am privy to everything he does. He is my friend. He would have told me.”

So Yixing promises a physical exam at the soonest convenience.

For the remainder of lunch, Yixing’s gaze strays to the empty chair, his chest tight with a foreboding sense of dread.

🏔️

For all that Yixing considers himself one of Spring Court’s best healers, the tests give him nothing. Early-stage malnutrition, yes, but no other traces of illness. 

Yixing’s magic has never failed him before – and despite Junmyeon’s concerns, Minseok appears sound of mind, if at times distracted and strangely detached.

“Were the tests sufficient?” Minseok asks, watching Yixing pace the length of his bedroom. 

“You are in no pain?”

“I am fine.”

“All right.” Yixing will not push him. “Is there anything else I should know?”

Minseok looks towards the windows. The view is dazzling from this height, of that there can be no doubt: A weeping willow in the foreground with branches leaning into the window frame, and snow-capped mountains backdropped by stars flickering to life in the evening sky. 

His gaze, however, has glazed over, and his answer is a monotone, “No.”

Yixing releases a breath. He must stay optimistic. Something is certainly wrong. Such a drastic behavioural change does not happen without reason. 

“All right,” he says. “Starting tomorrow, you will adhere to a new diet to boost your immunity. I also recommend daily walks.” Exercise is good for the mind, at least, not to mention Minseok’s general health. “I will continue to monitor any changes.”

Minseok nods easily. “I understand.”

For the first time, Yixing feels helpless.

🏔️

Yixing seeks help from those that came before him. 

The palace library is overflowing with books, but after hours of nagging the poor bookkeepers and sneezing due to dusty covers, Yixing concludes it simply does not hold a candle to home. 

🏔️

Zitao is feeding Minseok some blue concoction when Yixing arrives for the evening check-up. 

His eyes are tired and dry from the reading and (mostly) the dust, but he focuses on the attentive tilt of Minseok’s head as Zitao recalls the wildflowers growing in the valley at his parents’ home. 

Without the ailment’s grasp on Minseok, Yixing imagines Zitao’s tales might have earned crinkled eyes and a soft smile. 

Minseok has not smiled once since their arrival – or at all since the symptoms started, Junmyeon has divulged. 

“Yixing!” Zitao startles, but he looks pleased. “Junmyeon granted me access to the alchemist tower. They have plants I have never seen before!”

Yixing hums thoughtfully. “Some of which you mixed into that?”

“Oh.” Zitao looks at the blue concoction. “This? Juice.”

Yixing suppresses a smile and instead turns to Minseok, who meets his gaze easily. 

“Minseok,” Yixing says, offering a delayed bow that he hopes is deep enough to forgive his manners – although Minseok does not seem to realise. “How are you faring?”

“I am well,” Minseok says. 

“No changes, I take it.” Minseok stays mute, so Yixing opts for a different approach. “How have you been passing the time?”

Minseok’s eyes shift to the windows. “Hour after hour.”

Zitao approaches Yixing, lowering his voice to say, “I found him in this same position an hour ago.”

Yixing purses his lips. “Have you been outside?”

Minseok’s answer comes quietly, “No.”

“Would you care to join me for a stroll in the gardens? I hear they are beautiful.”

🏔️

The strolls become a daily occurrence. Some of them are spent in silence, others with sporadic conversation. Yixing leads, but Minseok, at least, seems to thaw. 

The weather, however, deteriorates. Snowfalls are nearly incessant now, and on their tenth day at the palace, it does not stop, nor does it melt. Minseok becomes distant once again, even with Yixing staying close. 

A thought occurs to him, then, and he returns to the library, but this time hurrying towards the section for ancient magic.

There, he finds the answer.

🏔️

He seeks out Junmyeon and, despairingly, he says, “I am not a cursebreaker.”

Junmyeon’s face goes through a volley of emotions ranging from joy to grief before ultimately landing on concern for what this means. “Try,” he urges. “The frost has touched the city. I can beseech the Autumn Court to lend me their best cursebreaker, but I beg you to stay. I do not know how fast the frost is spreading, but…”

The cursebreaker may not make it in time, is what Junmyeon cannot bear to say aloud.

🏔️

Their boots leave twin trails behind them. Snow weighs the branches down, but amidst the sombre air, there is beauty in the frosted scenery. 

When Minseok murmurs, “I do love it,” Yixing startles - his first words in two days. Yixing throws him a sidelong glance.

“The snow?”

“The calm. There is something appealing about it.”

It sounds so final, and Yixing cannot take it. He stops to pluck a frozen azalea blossom from across the hedgerows. Minseok steps close and watches as Yixing’s magic seeps into the flower to make it bloom once more, sprinkles of frost dropping from its petals. 

“There is calm to find in growth, as well,” he says, looking up to meet Minseok’s gaze.

Head tilted, Minseok brushes a finger down the azalea’s petals, soft skin grazing the back of Yixing’s hand. “It is beautiful.”

Yixing, however, thinks no more of the flower, nor does he think to ask for permission before he grabs Minseok’s hand, distraught at the chill of Minseok’s skin. Despite the shroud of winter, Minseok’s body has always been surprisingly warm, but that seems to be changing. 

“You must be freezing,” Yixing says, distantly aware of Minseok stealing the azalea from his grasp. He attempts to rub some warmth into Minseok’s hand, knowing it’s probably no use. 

“No,” Minseok murmurs, enraptured by the blossom. “I do not feel the cold.”

“What do you feel?” Yixing implores.

Minseok does not answer.

🏔️

Yixing finds Minseok wandering the halls late one night. A ghost, indeed, clad in white undergarments and a vacant expression on his face.

“Minseok,” he says. Pleads.

“I think,” Minseok says quietly, “if I go to sleep, I might not wake up.”

Yixing’s heart breaks. He crosses the distance between them to wrap his arms around Minseok and hold him tight, hoping against hope that, somehow, he can transfer his own warmth into Minseok’s body.

He is so cold.

🏔️

“I am cold,” Minseok whispers later, despite soothing teas and layers of blankets. Yixing, joined by Zitao and Junmyeon, can only watch helplessly as Minseok rubs at his chest in something resembling astonishment. “The cold is harming me. It has never done so before.”

“Hold on, please,” Yixing says, perching on Minseok’s bed with his hands within his own. “A cursebreaker will be here soon.”

“No,” Minseok says. “They won’t.” He looks to the frost-tinted windows and the snowstorm raging outside. “Stay, Yixing. You are warm.”

Junmyeon tries to coax more tea into Minseok. Zitao stands sombrely by the door, silent.

Yixing stares at the blooming azalea on the bedside table, throat dry.

🏔️

Yixing stays with Minseok through the next night, huddled in the same bed to try and stave off the cold.

🏔️

By morning light, the snowstorm has passed.

And there is a warm smile on Minseok’s face when Yixing wakes up.