The Winter King

The blizzard hit at 3:00 AM.

It wasn't a storm; it was a siege. The temperature in Arthur’s house plummeted to zero within minutes. Frost formed on the *inside* of the windows. The ink in his well froze solid.

Arthur sat wrapped in three blankets, shivering.

He could hear them outside. The Knights of the Winter King. They sounded like cracking ice. Heavy footsteps. The shattering of trees.

They were next door.

He heard glass breaking at Number 44. He heard Elara scream.

"Arthur!"

Her voice was faint, carried by the wind.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. *Don't look. Don't engage. You are the observer.*

But he couldn't stop translating. The words of the Codex burned in his mind.

* A kiss to crack the sky.*
* A breath to invert the tomb.*

"He wants to put me in a cage!" Elara screamed.

Arthur looked at his bookshelf. The lives of heroes, bound in leather. Odysseus. Beowulf. Gilgamesh. Men who acted. Men who made choices.

He looked at his own reflection in the darkened window. A gray man in a gray house, waiting to freeze.

"Screw the translation," Arthur said.

He stood up. The blankets fell away.

He didn't grab a sword. He didn't have one. He went to the garage and grabbed the bolt cutters.