Fragment of the Cold Sky

The sword fell without a sound.

No thunder split the sky. No tremor shook the peak. One moment the mountain was empty but for wind and snow, and the next, something stood upright in the ice as though the world had grown a spine.

Eira found it at dawn.

She had climbed the northern face alone, as she always did when the air in the low villages grew too crowded with breath and rumor. The storm from the night before still clung to the ridge, dragging curtains of snow across the stone. She almost missed it—just another shard of pale blue among a thousand frozen shapes.

Then it caught the light.

Not reflected it—caught it.

The blade was half-buried in a cradle of fused ice, frost spiraling outward from it in perfect radial lines, like the memory of an explosion. The metal was not metal at all, but something translucent, layered like a glacier cut clean through. At its center, faint motes shimmered, slow and distant.

Stars.

Eira approached carefully. The air near it hummed, thin and sharp. Her eyelashes crackled with frost.

She wrapped her gloved hand around the hilt.

The cold did not bite. It pressed. It searched.

In an instant she was no longer on the mountain but standing beneath a sky unbroken by clouds, watching something tear free from it. A fragment of night, burning white-blue, screaming without sound as it fell toward a waiting world.

The vision vanished.

Eira staggered but did not release the blade.

The frost at her feet began to creep, spreading outward, sealing cracks in the stone, smoothing jagged edges. The mountain quieted. The restless wind that had howled for days gentled into a steady breath.

The sword was not warm, but it was no longer searching.

It had chosen.

She pulled.

The ice shattered in a ring, shards skittering across the peak. The blade came free as easily as lifting a candle from wax. Snow that touched it hardened instantly into clear crystal. The edge left a line in the air, faint and luminous, that lingered before fading.

Below, far below, the villages would soon feel the storm’s passing. The avalanche that had threatened the southern pass would never fall; the fractured cornices had fused smooth as glass.

Eira looked into the heart of the blade and saw the slow drift of distant lights.

“Not a weapon,” she murmured.

A promise.

She turned toward the descent, the Sword of Star-Ice resting weightless in her hand, and behind her the mountain stood taller, as if something within it had finally gone still.