FROST-Chapter 130: Periwinkle’s Lullaby

Earlier that day in the Guardian Chamber, the eleven Guardians sat once again in their designated seats, summoned by East for an urgent congregation.

"Are you saying you’ll send the apprentices out there just to prove your point?!" Zephyr was the first to speak, his voice sharp and cutting through the quiet tension. It wasn’t just a question—it was a direct criticism, laced with disbelief and rising frustration.

East remained standing near the edge of the elongated crystal table, its surface pulsing faintly with ethereal light. Cloud stood beside him, arms folded, expression unreadable. The two exchanged a knowing glance. They had expected this reaction—if not from Zephyr, then from several others in the room. After all, it was no small thing they were proposing.

But in the midst of voices on the brink of dissent, only one remained still: Sun.

Seated at the far end of the chamber, Sun appeared barely present. He stared blankly ahead, not at the discussion, nor the table, but somewhere far beyond it all. The faint golden glow that usually radiated from him—the aura of summer, light, and life—was now dim, flickering at the edges like a candle burning out. His skin, once vibrant with bronze warmth, looked pale and drawn, almost translucent beneath the crystalline lighting. Fine lines etched themselves beneath his eyes, shadows pooling like bruises.

His golden hair, once thick and sunlit, now clung to his forehead in damp, lifeless strands. In places, it had already started to pale at the roots, an unnatural silver spreading like frost over fields of wheat. His shoulders sagged, as though he bore the weight of a dying season, and perhaps he did.

The recent effort of forcefully casting a continental summer over the frost-covered countries had drained him nearly to collapse. Instant heatwaves, solar stabilization, region-by-region temperature distribution—it had been a desperate, brute-force response to the world’s sudden imbalance. And now, the once-dazzling Guardian of Summer looked like he was wilting under his own sun.

Still, he said nothing. Didn’t protest. Didn’t agree. He just... stared.

East’s eyes flicked briefly to him before returning to the others, voice calm but firm.

"I’m not proving a point," he said. "I’m preparing them for the world that’s already begun to move against them. Whether we like it or not, they will face it—with or without our permission."

Zephyr sighed, the tension in his shoulders visible even beneath his silver-lined mantle. "No—my point is, the apprentices are still too young in terms of magic and mana mastery. If you send them out this early, they’ll just die out there. All the apprentices are important, yes, but if we lose the Four Seasons apprentices..." he paused, fixing East with a hard look, "you’re not just risking lives—you’re risking the balance of the entire human realm."

East remained composed, nodding slowly. "I understand your concern, brother. I do. But you’ve seen the simulation reports." His tone was calm, but there was an edge of conviction beneath it. "They may still be green when it comes to casting spells, but their mana threads... they’ve far exceeded what even we anticipated. Every one of those children is touched by something ancient. Something not even the gods can identify."

Cloud’s eyes flicked toward him with a faint grimace, but said nothing.

East continued, "If there’s any hope of triggering that potential—of awakening what lies dormant in them—it won’t happen inside the walls of a classroom. They need real battle. Real stakes."

"And what if it doesn’t awaken in time?" Coast’s voice, usually quiet and warm, carried weight this time. His palms were braced against the table, fingers curled. "What if all it does is get them killed, East? I’ve never questioned your decisions before. But on this... I have to side with Zephyr. It’s too dangerous. Let them grow. Let them live."

The room fell into uneasy silence. Several of the Guardians exchanged glances, and though their mouths stayed shut, the conflict in their eyes spoke louder than any words.

Then came a loud, theatrical cough.

Fall leaned forward in his seat with a shrug, legs crossed in casual defiance of the heavy mood. "Well, if you’d ask me," he began, smoothing down the lapel of his bronze cloak, "I think the Human Realm is the best place for something like this."

A chorus of disbelieving stares locked onto him. Even East blinked.

"I mean," Fall continued, undeterred, "we’re all aware there are already stray dark forces lingering down there. Unstable magic, wild spirits, corrupted pockets of the earth’s ley lines... all of it stirred up since Frost’s staff shattered. The human realm is soaking in it. Why not send them there? It’s less dangerous than hell, you know."

"Wow," Zephyr muttered, pressing his fingers into his temples. "Less dangerous than hell. That’s your bar now?"

Fall raised both brows. "I’m just saying, if you’re going to throw children into the fire, maybe don’t start with actual demons."

"And what if Sandman’s minions are already in the area?" Zephyr snapped, eyes narrowed. "What would you do then?"

Fall grinned without hesitation. "Save them, obviously. We have our own jobs, but we can still help them while we’re on it, right?" He turned to East with a relaxed gesture. "But hey—you do you. That was just a suggestion."

The silence that followed was not merely contemplative—it was weighty, thick with the burden of impending consequence. For a fleeting moment, East felt all of it pressing down on him. And that was when the decision was made. Even the Lunar King, silent until then, gave his solemn agreement.

Now, East stood alone atop a distant cliff, wind tugging at his cloak, watching the plan unfold—but not with the participants they had expected.

Of the four cloaked figures that had appeared earlier, only two remained, suspended in midair as if standing upon invisible ground. The other two had vanished—along with West, Sebastian, and several apprentices—drawn away into some unknown clash. Ezekiel remained, holding the line with the rest of the group, now face-to-face with what was left of their opposition.

"Elves," East muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. "They aren’t supposed to be in the Human Realm. Their connection was severed long ago... ever since their king, the Demon Asmaros, fell."

The name lingered in the air like a warning, but what followed was even more dangerous.

A sudden shift in the atmosphere sliced through the tension like a blade—something fast, precise, and suffocatingly close. Before East could fully register it, a violent force cracked behind him, the air splitting with a sharp snap. Instinct took over. He moved—just barely.

A heartbeat too slow, and it would’ve been fatal.

Where East had stood moments before, a mass of thorned vines exploded from the ground like blooming spears, slamming into the frozen earth with such force that shards of ice and soil fractured upward. His cloak, trailing behind, wasn’t spared—it was impaled, pinned like a specimen under glass.

Landing lightly several feet away, East’s eyes narrowed. His senses extended outward, probing the scene with urgency, his breath misting in the cold.

Then he saw it: a flicker beside the rooted vines, like warped glass twisting in space. Mana folded unnaturally around it—dense, complex, contorted to veil its origin. Whoever—or whatever—it was, had deliberately masked their essence.

But East knew.

His lips barely moved, his voice a whisper wrapped in tension. "Why don’t you show yourself... Peri?"

The warping space shuddered violently. Like paint running in reverse, it peeled itself back layer by layer, twisting with resistance, until the illusion finally broke.

The figure that emerged was as jarring as it was stunning. A woman, tall and lithe—a different image she showed to Silvermist—stood amidst the snow with the eerie grace of a blooming poison.

Her dress shimmered in muted hues of rose and dusk, flowing like petals made of silk and shadow. Her hair cascaded in twin rivers of violet and blue, curling like tendrils of periwinkle vines, glinting with an unnatural sheen beneath the fading sky. Her skin glowed faintly, the color of soft moonlight passing through a prism—ethereal, almost too perfect.

She smiled, but it wasn’t kind. It was sharp, knowing, and blooming with mischief like a flower concealing venom in its core.

"Still as perceptive as ever, big brother," she said, her voice light and sweet, but lined with thorns.

East’s jaw tensed. He had hoped not to see her again—at least not like this.

He straightened, spine rigid, eyes never leaving her. Every nerve was drawn tight, senses sharpened to anticipate whatever stunt Periwinkle might try next.

"Are you the one who let those elves into the Human Realm?" East asked coldly.

Periwinkle blinked, the picture of feigned innocence. "Elves? What elves?" she echoed, then leaned slightly to peer theatrically behind East toward the two figures still hovering midair.

Her eyes lit up with exaggerated recognition. "Ahh! Them?" She clapped her hands, grinning like a child caught mid-prank. "No, no. I wouldn’t dare. I don’t even like elves. They smell like stallions. Well—most of them, to be fair."

East’s gaze hardened. "Hmm. And yet, somehow, you’re here. How convenient."

"Isn’t it?" Periwinkle giggled, one hand fluttering to her chest in mock delight. "I was just passing through and happened to spot you from afar. Truly fortunate timing."

She took a slow, deliberate step forward, her heels barely making a sound on the snow. "But the air here reeks of something sour... dark magic, maybe. At first, I thought you came to investigate. But then—" her gaze slid toward the cluster of apprentices in the distance, "—I noticed your little entourage."

She tilted her head, smile sharpening. "So... what’s this, then? A school trip? A live-combat lesson? Or are you finally testing if the world can survive your teaching methods?"

Her tone was playful, but beneath it lay precision—each word delivered like a knife, subtle yet intentional. She wasn’t just speaking; she was probing, watching for fractures in his composure.

Then her eyes narrowed, grin widening like a crack splitting glass.

"Or are you here to see if there’s still anything left of your precious Winter Guardian?"

The words struck with the force of a slap. East’s eyes widened, breath catching. "What did you say?"

Periwinkle tilted her head, delight dancing in her eyes. "Oh? So you did recognize my mana, even after I distorted it beyond recognition." A low, mocking laugh slipped past her lips. "And yet, you couldn’t sense his?"

With an elegant shrug, she placed a hand on the thorned vines still rooted in the snow. At her touch, the thorns quivered—then slowly began to retreat, curling back into the cracked earth like serpents slinking into their burrows.

East’s throat tightened as he watched her turn, her expression unreadable. She gave him a careless smile.

"Well then," she said lightly, "I’ll be off to report to my master—"

"Wait!" East called out sharply, taking a hesitant step forward. "What do you know about what happened to Frost?! Where is he?!"

Periwinkle paused, but didn’t turn. East didn’t dare rush her—any sudden movement and she might vanish without a word.

She turned her head just enough for him to catch the smirk curling at the corner of her mouth.

"Hmm? Don’t ask me," she sang, "ask his apprentice—if she can speak of it at all. Their bond as master and apprentice is already fraying... unraveling by the hour."

She faced him fully again, eyes gleaming with twisted glee. "None of you will see your precious Winter Guardian again. And if that happens..." She swept her gaze across the snow-dusted horizon. "Bye-bye, humans."

"Wait—!" East stepped forward, but it was too late.

Periwinkle’s form dissolved into a flurry of delicate, periwinkle-hued petals, caught in the wind—leaving only the bitter chill of her words behind.

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