The Glassblower's Heat Melts the Frost Sprite

The forge in the mountain village of Brimstone Hollow never truly slept. Even at midnight, when the wind howled down from the glaciers like a jealous lover, Garrick’s workshop glowed with stubborn, ruddy life. The burly glassblower kept the fires roaring long after the other craftsmen had banked their coals and gone to bed. Heat poured off him in waves; it was said he’d been born with a furnace in his chest and had simply decided to put it to good use.

Tonight the air tasted of snow and molten silica. Garrick stood at his bench in nothing but heavy leather trousers and a thick leather apron, broad back gleaming with sweat, thick arms corded from years of shaping glass. His short dark beard was dusted with ash, and his chest—bare, barrel-wide, and permanently warm—rose and fell in slow rhythm as he turned a fresh gather of molten glass on the pipe.

A soft, crystalline giggle floated through the rafters.

Garrick didn’t even look up. “You’re late, little icicle. Usually you frost my swans before I finish the necks.”

From the shadows near the ceiling, a lithe figure dropped in a swirl of glittering powder. Lira landed lightly on the edge of the workbench, crystalline hair chiming like wind chimes. Her skin was the vivid blue of a glacier under moonlight, traced with delicate white frost patterns that shifted when she moved. Tiny, pert breasts were barely covered by what looked like woven snowflakes, and her hips flared into smooth, icy thighs that ended in dainty bare feet. Every inch of her radiated cold so intense it made the nearby tools sweat.

She tilted her head, violet eyes sparkling with mischief. “I got distracted frosting the blacksmith’s anvil into a very rude shape. Thought you’d appreciate the artistic delay.”

Garrick snorted, the sound warm and rough. He gave the glass a final perfect spin, shaping the delicate curve of a winter hare. “Last time you ‘appreciated’ my work, I woke up to an entire shelf of glass foxes with frosted cocks. Customers thought it was a new line.”

Lira’s laugh was bright and bell-like. She hopped down, bare feet leaving delicate rimes of ice on the stone floor that hissed and vanished the moment they touched the heat radiating from the forge. “They bought them anyway. Everyone wants a little frost on their pricks, Garrick. Even you.”

She trailed one icy fingertip down the center of his bare chest. The touch left a beautiful, branching frost pattern across his heated skin, like ferns frozen mid-bloom. Garrick’s breath hitched, but he refused to shiver. Instead he set the pipe aside, caught her slim wrist, and pulled her closer to the open mouth of the glory hole. The roaring heat billowed over her.

Lira gasped. A visible plume of steam rose from her shoulders. Her crystalline hair tinkled wildly as her body fought the sudden warmth.