Ember & Frost

In the ancient land of Velmir, there were two beings born not of flesh, but of elemental soul — the last remnants of a time when magic breathed through mountains and oceans alike.

One was Ember, daughter of the flame. She lived inside the volcano of Mount Caldris, where molten rivers whispered lullabies and ash fell like snow. She was wild, fierce, radiant — a woman forged of fire who could walk through infernos and command the sun to rise sooner, just to feel its warmth a moment longer.

The other was Frost, son of winter. He ruled the frozen plains of the north, where silence reigned eternal. His breath could stop a heartbeat. His tears became diamonds. He slept beneath glaciers and painted the skies with auroras when he dreamed. Where he walked, spring dared not follow.

They were never meant to meet.

But one year, the balance of Velmir cracked. The sun burned too long. Crops failed. Storms raged. The king’s seers foretold: “The Fire and the Ice must touch — or the world shall shatter.”

So a summons was sent to both the flame and the frost.

They met at the Edge of All Things, where the sky forgets its color and even stars hold their breath.

Ember arrived first, a comet in human form. She expected a rival. A challenge.

But Frost was not cruel. He was still. Quiet. Watching her not with fear, but awe.

“You are...” he whispered, “...so alive.”

“And you,” she replied, reaching out, “are so... alone.”

They did not speak of saving the world. Not at first. They talked of solitude. Of eternal silence. Of longing — Ember for things that lasted, Frost for things that burned out quickly but bright.

When their hands finally met, the ground beneath them cracked — not from destruction, but from rebirth. Flowers bloomed in frozen soil. Fireflies danced in snow. Warmth and cold existed side by side for the first time.

Velmir began to heal.

But balance, the old magic whispered, demands equal weight. Two forces that cancel must never remain entwined — or the world would depend on a love that cannot last.

The seers spoke again: “If fire and ice stay together, Velmir will become still — no seasons, no change, no life.”

Ember and Frost were told: choose each other, or choose the world.

They fled.

They wandered the hidden parts of Velmir, hoping to escape fate. They touched the sea together — it boiled and froze. They kissed beneath a thunderstorm — it stilled in awe. Children who glimpsed them grew up to write poems and paint murals of "the burning girl and the snow prince."

But even love cannot outrun time.

The magic began to unravel. The sun and moon no longer took turns. Rivers refused to freeze or flow. The land waited — not for death, but for decision.

So Ember and Frost made their final vow atop a lonely mountain, where they once watched the sunrise in silence.

“I would melt a thousand lifetimes,” Frost said, “just to hold your fire for one more.”

“And I,” she whispered, “would burn the sky, if only to see you shimmer in its light.”

Then, with no armies, no gods, no fanfare — they let go.

Ember returned to her mountain, burying her love in flame. Frost returned to his palace of ice, etching her name in every snowflake for eternity.

The world sighed and turned once more.

But on one day each year — the Day of Flame and Frost — the world still remembers. In Velmir, fire flickers in snow. Ice glimmers on candles. Lovers exchange two-colored ribbons: red for Ember, silver for Frost.

And in the hearts of those who’ve lost someone too soon, or who’ve loved across impossible distances, their story lives on.

Not as tragedy. Not as warning.

But as proof that some loves are so powerful, they change the world — even if only for a moment.