If she had known the year would end like this—shivering under three layers of wool and fur, trudging through the frozen slush of Belrea’s cobbled streets— Astrasol would have burned the calendar myself.

Winter is an insult. It creeps in like a thief, robbing the world of color, joy, and basic decency. And yet here she was - beauty, visionary, hybrid of impeccable lineage—reduced to a glorified errand girl in the frostbitten heart of Belrea.

The cold has made everything brittle: her patience, her breath, even the iron piping that hisses angrily under the walkways. The city’s steam vents struggle to maintain their warmth, the usual clouds of vapor now thin and sluggish. The great gears of the transit rails groan like dying beasts, as if even the proud machinery of Belrea has taken offense at the weather.

She should have stayed home. The fireplace in her sitting room had just reached the perfect crackle, its flames dancing golden across the brass fixtures of the hearth. Astrasol would have wrapped herself in a velvet shawl and poured a cup of chai laced with absinthe. The scent of cinnamon lingering in the air. It was a perfect setting.

But no.

The steward had stuttered its way into her chambers with a pitiful wheeze and informed her that we were out of red mercury tipped arrows. Astrasol supposed she could have simply ordered someone to get one another day. She could have, but then she remembered that the new steward —some simpering thing from Kireth with wide eyes and a stammer—had already bungled yesterday’s preparation. If she didn’t restock the mercury herself, she’d wake tomorrow to deal with the same issue and one less change to prepare for the upcoming hunt.

She summoned her boots with the wave of her hand —polished black with cogwheel buckles—and adjusted the silver clasp of her high-collared coat. It cinched tight around her waist, fashion and function in harmony. Not that anyone would see her under the layers of scarves and gloves. She resembled a well-dressed airship.

The streets outside were a graveyard of motion. Few dared to venture out into the chill. Steam carriages were frozen mid-route, their brass joints stiffened, and the occasional pedestrian slipped and cursed, arms flailing for balance. Belrea, the city of innovation, silenced by frost.

Astrasol decided to walk.

Each step was an act of war against the wind. It screamed through the alleyways, yanking at her coat, biting at her cheeks.

The market district was only six blocks from her estate, but each one felt like a trek through the Great Waste. Her breath fogged in front of her like dragon smoke. Snow clung to the edges of her winter goggles. Her gloved hand gripped a tiny heating rod—something she snagged from the academy on her last visit —but even its pulsing warmth did little against the monstrous cold.

By the time Astrasol reached the market square, she was livid.

The vendor stalls were half-shuttered, their awnings sagging under snow. A few desperate souls hawked their wares—bread turned stiff as stone, bolts of cloth so frozen they crackled when touched. The red mercury dealer, a woman with copper-tinted goggles and a crooked smile, waved when she saw Astrasol.

“Tough day for a stroll, eh, mistress?”

Astrasol didn’t dignify her with a reply. Instead, she handed her the coin and snatched the capsule tin from her frostbitten hands.

“No bag?” She asked, knowing full well the answer.

“Ran out this morning,” the vendor chirped. “Everyone’s stocking up before the storm worsens.”

Astrasol glared at her. “Do you think I care about everyone?”

She laughed, thinking it a jest.

It wasn’t.

Astrasol turned on her heel and began the walk back. The wind, ever sadistic, now drove at her back with renewed vigor. Snow had started to fall again—soft, deceptive flakes that veiled the treacherous ice beneath. Her boots skidded twice. The second time, Astrasol caught herself on the edge of a lamppost and barked a curse loud enough to startle a passing raven.

When she finally reached her doorstep, cheeks raw and nose redder than she'd ever allow in public, Astrasol was halfway to planning on commissioning a weather machine. A real one. One that could snatch the warmth of the Oban sun and siphon it directly into Belrea. Let the rest of Tendaji freeze—she'd warm my city with stolen heat and unapologetic brilliance.

Inside, Astrasol peeled off her outerwear with the melodrama of a woman freshly returned from war. Her steward stuttered a welcome.

“Never again,” She muttered, handing it the mercury tin. “Next time, send the intern. If she dies of frostbite, we’ll consider it natural selection.”

Then she collapsed back into her armchair, threw the velvet shawl over her lap, and cradled a fresh cup of chai between her numb fingers.

The fire crackled. The wind howled. And she smiled.

Let the world freeze.

Belrea—and she —would endure.