The Art of Not Freezing Hearts

The Blackwood Bistro smelled of roasted garlic, mulled wine, and the terrifying fragility of human social interaction.

Morana sat at the small, candlelit table in the corner, her back rigid against the wooden chair. She was wearing a dress of severe black velvet that absorbed the dim light, cut sharp at the collarbone. It was the least threatening garment she owned, mostly because it didn't have hidden pockets for ritual daggers.

Across from her sat Elias. He was wearing a beige sweater that looked soft enough to unravel if you stared at it too hard. He had flour on his left earlobe.

"So," Elias said, his smile crooked and warm. "I hear you’re new to the village. Do you like the snow?"

Morana stared at him. She didn't just *like* the snow. She *was* the snow. She was the entity that mothers in the neighboring counties used to frighten their children into eating their vegetables. She had frozen entire armies in their tracks because they stepped on her lawn.

"It is adequate," Morana said. Her voice was lower than the ambient chatter of the bistro, cool and crisp like a frozen lake. "It preserves things. Keeps the rot away."

Elias blinked, then chuckled. "That’s a practical way to look at it. I suppose it does keep the root cellar chilled."

He reached for the bread basket. Morana watched his hand. It was a baker’s hand—broad, calloused, scarred from hot pans. It radiated a heat she could feel from across the table.

She kept her hands folded in her lap. Her own skin was perpetually five degrees below freezing. If she touched him, he would flinch. They always flinched.

"I brought you something," Elias said. He reached into a paper bag by his feet and pulled out a small, flaky pastry. "It’s a cinnamon twist. I saved it from the morning batch. I thought... well, you look like someone who appreciates a bit of sugar."

Morana looked at the pastry. She analyzed it for poison, curses, or traps. Her diagnostic spell returned nothing but butter, cinnamon, and an alarming amount of genuine affection.

"Thank you," she said, stiffly accepting it.

Just then, a large man in a fur coat squeezed past their table. He was drunk, loud, and clumsy. His hip checked Elias’s chair, knocking the baker forward. The cider in Elias’s mug sloshed over the rim, scalding his hand.

"Watch it, dough-boy," the drunk grunted, not stopping.

The air in the corner of the bistro instantly dropped twenty degrees.

Morana’s eyes flashed a luminous, glacial blue. Her instincts, honed by centuries of ruthless territory defense, took over. In her mind, she had already calculated the trajectory. A simple snap of her fingers would flash-freeze the water in the drunk’s blood. He would turn into a statue, tip over, and shatter into a thousand rubies on the floorboards. It would be clean. It would be quiet.

She raised a finger.

"Ouch," Elias laughed nervously, shaking his wet hand. "That stings."

Morana froze. She looked at Elias. He wasn't angry; he was just wiping his hand with a napkin, smiling apologetically at *her* for the interruption.

* Normal,* Morana reminded herself. *You are a normal woman on a date. Normal women do not commit homicide over spilled cider.*

She slowly lowered her finger. The temperature in the bistro rose back to a comfortable warmth.

"Are you injured?" Morana asked, her voice tight.

"Just a bit of hot cider," Elias said. "I've burnt myself on ovens worse than this. Try the pastry, Morana. Please."

Morana looked at the drunk man, who was now laughing at the bar, completely unaware that he had come within a millisecond of becoming an ice sculpture. She turned back to Elias. She took a bite of the cinnamon twist.

It was warm. It tasted like safety.

"It is acceptable," she said.

Elias beamed. "I'm glad."