The Cold Shoulder

The date progressed. Morana managed to mimic human conversation with a sixty percent success rate. She nodded at the right times. She didn't mention the whispering voices of the dead that lived in the wind. She even laughed—a rusty, quiet sound—when Elias described a mishap involving a wedding cake and a stray cat.

For a moment, in the golden light of the bistro, Morana forgot that she was a monster.

Then, the window exploded.

It wasn't a rock. It was a body. A creature of blue, translucent flesh and jagged bone crashed through the glass, spraying shards over the nearby diners.

The patrons screamed. Tables flipped. The candlelight flickered wildly as the winter wind howled into the room.

The creature stood up. It was a Frost-Ghoul, a mindless scavenger formed from the residue of powerful cryomancy. It was seven feet tall, dripping with slush, its eyes glowing with a hungry, pale light.

It sniffed the air. It ignored the screaming villagers cowering under the tables. It turned its head slowly, locking its gaze on Morana.

Morana sighed. She placed her half-eaten pastry gently on the table.

* Of course,* she thought bitterly. *It followed my magical signature. I can't even have dinner without my own power haunting me.*

"What is that?" Elias whispered. He was pale, pressing himself back against his chair, staring at the monstrosity.

"A nuisance," Morana said.

The Frost-Ghoul shrieked—a sound like metal tearing—and lunged. Not at Morana, but at the source of heat nearest to her.

It swiped a clawed hand toward Elias.

Morana didn't think. She didn't calculate. She stood up.

"No," she said.

She didn't shout. She simply projected her will. A wall of solid ice erupted from the floorboards between Elias and the Ghoul. The creature’s claws raked against the barrier, carving deep grooves but failing to break through.

The bistro fell silent, save for the wind. Everyone stared at Morana. The darkness of her dress seemed to deepen, swallowing the light. The air around her shimmered with snowflakes that materialized from nothing.

She looked down at Elias. He was staring up at her, eyes wide. He looked terrified.

This was it. The end of the charade. The end of the warmth.

"Stay here," Morana commanded. Her voice was no longer trying to be polite. It was the voice of the winter storm—imperious and cold.

She turned to the Ghoul. "Outside. Now."

She flicked her wrist. A blast of wind, precise and violent, slammed into the Ghoul’s chest, launching it back out through the broken window and into the snowy street.

Morana stepped through the shattered frame, her heels crunching on the glass, walking out into the night to finish what she had started.