A COURT OF FROZEN HEARTS

Chapter 3

I didn't sleep all night.

I lay in the darkness with eyes wide open, feeling the patterns on my cheek pulse in time with my heartbeat. The cold wouldn't let go—it sat deep in my bones, making me shiver even under two blankets. And when I closed my eyes, I saw his face. Ice-blue eyes, predatory smile, heard the voice promising a hunt.

Chloe slept in the next bed, snuffling into her pillow. I envied her—her sleep, her normal, ordinary life without fae, without cursed trees, without survival games.

By morning I'd made my decision.

As soon as dawn broke through the window, I jumped out of bed and began feverishly gathering my things. I stuffed clothes into my backpack without looking, without sorting. Grabbed my camera, phone charger, makeup bag.

"What… what's happening?" Chloe mumbled, propping herself up on her elbow.

I darted to her bed, grabbed her shoulders.

"Pack. Right now. We're leaving."

"Elise, it's six in the morning…"

"I don't care!" My voice came out hysterical, but I didn't care. "Pack your things. Right now. We don't have time."

Something in my tone sobered Chloe. She saw the panic in my eyes and nodded.

"Okay. Okay, I'm packing."

We tore around the room like madwomen, shoving things into bags. I didn't even change—stayed in my pajama pants and hoodie. Pulled on sneakers over bare feet, grabbed my jacket.

"Elise, maybe we could at least have breakfast?" Chloe tried.

"In the car! We need to go!"

I ran out of the room, Chloe hurrying after me. We descended the stairs, trying not to make noise. I didn't want to explain to Mrs. McGill why we were fleeing like thieves.

But the old woman was already waiting downstairs.

She stood by the front door in an old robe, gray hair braided. In her hands she held something, pressing it to her chest.

"Girls," she said quietly.

"Mrs. McGill, we… we need to leave urgently," I began, but she raised her hand.

The old woman was silent for several seconds, looking into my eyes. Then she slowly descended to the door and opened it.

"Go."

We rushed out onto the porch. The morning air was cold and damp, smelling of peat and mist. Chloe ran to the car, opened the trunk, began stuffing in bags.

I got in the car and had already closed the door when I heard knuckles rapping on the glass.

Mrs. McGill stood by the passenger window. In her hands she held a book.

I lowered the window.

"Take this," the old woman extended the book through the window. "It might help."

I took the book with both hands. It was heavy, bound in worn leather that smelled of old paper and dust. The gold lettering on the cover was almost worn away, but I could make out:

Tales and Legends of the People of the Hills

"What is this?" I whispered.

"Everything you need to know about Them," Mrs. McGill answered. "Their weaknesses. Their rules. Ways to survive in their world."

Her hand landed on mine, squeezed.

"Read carefully, girl. Every word could save your life."

"Thank you."

The old woman smiled sadly and stepped back from the car.

"Go. And remember—in their world, nothing is what it seems. Trust your instincts, not your eyes."

Chloe started the engine, and the car lurched forward. I turned around—Mrs. McGill stood on the threshold of her cottage, a small and fragile figure against the stone walls. She raised her hand in a farewell gesture.

And for some reason I felt I was seeing her for the last time.

***

The first half hour we drove in silence. Chloe gripped the wheel with whitened fingers, casting short glances at me. I stared out the window at the passing landscape, pressing the book to my chest.

Finally Chloe couldn't take it:

"Elise, what the hell is going on? Why did we run like thieves? And what's that book?"

"I'll explain later."

"No, not later! Now!" Chloe hit the wheel. "You dragged me out of bed at six in the morning, made me pack in five minutes, and we're racing somewhere, I don't even know where!"

I stayed silent.

"Elise!"

"Fine," I sighed. "Just don't yell."

"I promise."

I took the book Mrs. McGill had given me and opened to a random page, showed Chloe an illustration—an engraving depicting tall, graceful beings with sharp facial features.

"Fae," I said quietly. "They're real. And one of them… is hunting me."

Chloe was silent for several seconds. Then she laughed—nervously, hysterically.

"You're joking, right?"

"No."

"Elise, this is insane! Fae? Seriously?"

"I know how it sounds…"

"Like the ravings of a lunatic!" Chloe shook her head. "Look, I get it, yesterday you were stressed, that weird old woman with her tales, fog in the forest…"

"They're not tales."

"They're legends for tourists!" Chloe pulled over to the shoulder and turned to me. "Elise, look at yourself. You didn't sleep all night, you have dark circles under your eyes, you're shaking. Maybe you really caught a cold and have a fever? Delirium?"

I ran my hand over my cheek—where this morning I'd seen patterns of frost. Now they weren't visible, but the skin remained cold, as if I'd really touched ice.

"It's not a cold, Chloe. And not delirium."

My friend looked at me with a long gaze.

"Let's say," she said slowly, "let's say something strange is happening to you. But fae? Elise, you're an atheist! You don't even believe in God, and now suddenly mythical creatures!"

"Yes, I didn't believe," I admitted. "Until yesterday."

"Fine. What exactly are you running from?! From your dream?!"

"It wasn't a dream!"

"THEN WHAT?!" Chloe shouted, and desperation broke through in her voice. "Elise, I don't understand! Explain to me, PLEASE!"

We stared at each other. In her eyes I read worry, fear for me, confusion. She thought I was losing my mind.

Maybe I was.

"Chloe," I said more quietly, "I understand how this sounds. I understand you don't believe me. But I'm asking… just trust me. Let's leave here. As far away as possible. Okay?"

Chloe looked at me for a long time, then sighed.

"Fine. Let's go." She started the engine and pulled onto the road. "But you're going to tell me. Everything. Right now."

"Okay," I nodded, pressing the book to my chest.

***

We drove for several hours, stopping only at gas stations. Chloe periodically cast worried glances at me, but asked no more questions—apparently deciding I really had caught a cold and was delirious from fever.

And I read the book.

The pages were yellowed, covered in small, cramped text. Illustrations—black and white engravings depicting fae, forests, ancient stones. Some pages were marked with bookmarks, others scribbled with pencil notes in the margins.

"The People of the Hills, also known as the Good Folk, the Good Neighbors, the Elder Folk, live in a world parallel to ours. They are beautiful and cruel as nature itself. They know no pity or mercy, but are bound by ancient laws they cannot break…"

Further came a list—what repels fae, how to protect yourself, how to behave in their world.

Iron. Salt. Rowan. Running water. Consecrated ground.

Don't give your name. Don't eat their food. Don't accept gifts. Don't thank. Don't apologize.

I absorbed the information like a sponge, turning page after page.

And then I came across a chapter that made my heart stop:

"On the Hunt of the Unseelie Court"

I began reading aloud, almost in a whisper, and with each word the cold in my chest grew stronger.

"Once a century, the lords of the Unseelie Court choose a mortal for the Great Hunt. This is an ancient ritual, a game in which a human becomes prey and the fae become hunters. The rules are simple: for seven days and seven nights the mortal must survive in the fae world, avoiding all dangers. If they survive—they receive a reward and freedom. If not…"

Further came a description of what happens to those who lose. I flipped past that part—didn't want to know the details.

But the next page caught my attention:

"Only three cases are known when mortals won the Hunt. The first—in 1534, when a girl named Eileen used an iron knife to wound the Winter King himself and force him to back down. The second—in 1702, when a youth managed to cross a river seven times in a row, and the fae lost his trail…"

"What nonsense?" Chloe couldn't help rolling her eyes, hearing my mutterings.

I didn't answer, continuing to read to myself:

"…The third case occurred in 1847, but the circumstances of the victory remained unknown. The only thing the survivor said—that she found a way to outplay the king at his own game. But what way exactly, she took to her grave."

I flipped a few more pages and froze.

On the spread was an engraving—a portrait of a man with platinum hair and a crown of ice. Under the portrait was a caption:

"Caelan Morfraust, King of the Winter Court, Lord of Night Thorns. Age unknown (estimated over a thousand years). Character: cruel, sadistic, loves mind games. Weaknesses: unknown. Warning: do not enter negotiations, do not look in the eyes too long, do not…"

The list of warnings took up half the page.

"Wonderful," I muttered. "Just wonderful."

***

By noon we stopped at a large gas station off the highway. Chloe went to fill the car, and I went to the convenience store.

Inside smelled of coffee and fresh pastries. I grabbed a basket and began methodically gathering everything that might be useful.

First, food. Lots of food.

I remembered the rule from the book clearly: "Don't eat their food. Not a crumb, not a sip. Whoever tastes fae food remains in their world forever."

So I needed supplies. For seven days. Seven days I had to hold out without their food.

I began sweeping everything off the shelves:

Jerky—five packages. Beef, pork, some venison. Didn't matter, as long as it kept.

Nuts—almonds, cashews, peanuts. Caloric, nutritious, doesn't spoil.

Dried fruit—apricots, raisins, prunes. Energy in concentrated form.

Crackers—three large boxes. Dry, bland, but filling.

Energy bars—ten of them. In case there's absolutely no time to eat properly.

Canned goods—stew, pâté, fish. Heavy, but reliable.

Chocolate—dark, no additives. For maintaining strength and morale.

I hauled food to the register in three trips, loading it into two large bags. The attendant watched me with curiosity.

"Going hiking?"

"Something like that," I muttered.

Then water. Water was the hardest part.

I took six liter-and-a-half bottles of ordinary mineral water. That's twelve liters—about two liters a day for a week. Not enough. Very little. But I physically couldn't carry more.

And then I remembered another rule: "Running water protects against fae. They cannot cross it without losing strength."

So any water wasn't just drinking water, it was also a weapon.

I added three more smaller bottles to the basket—liter bottles I could carry with me.

Next—protection.

Salt. Three large packages of table salt. *"Salt repels fae and breaks their enchantments."*

Matches. Two boxes. Fire is always good.

And finally—the souvenir rack.

A small iron horseshoe on a string. *"Iron burns them like acid."*

An amulet in the form of a Celtic cross—also metal, cold to the touch.

A bunch of dried herbs in transparent packaging—lavender, rowan, thistle. *"Rowan protects against charms and illusions."*

I swept all of this into the basket.

"Interesting selection," came a voice behind me.

I turned around. The attendant—a man about fifty with a gray beard and penetrating eyes—was looking at my pile of purchases.

"Tourist?"

"Yes," I nodded.

"Heading to the mountains?"

"Possibly."

He looked at me more closely, and his face became serious.

"Don't go into the Old Forest. Especially if there's fog."

Frost ran down my spine.

"How do you…"

"Shadow," he nodded in my direction, though he was looking not at me but as if through me. "I feel it. Old magic. Cold."

He leaned closer, lowering his voice:

"You need protection stronger than these toys."

The attendant reached under the counter and pulled out a small leather pouch.

"Take this. Iron nails, consecrated at an old church. And this," he set down a small vial of water. "Holy water from Saint Brigid's well. It's stronger than ordinary. Even a drop can drive Them away."

I stared at him, not understanding.

"Why are you…"

"Because I've seen people like you. Marked. Doomed." His eyes became sad. "My sister was one of them. Forty years ago. She didn't come back."

He looked at my purchases—at the pile of food, at the water, at the salt.

"Smart girl. Preparing not to eat their food. Right." He nodded. "But that's not enough. Take this too."

He pulled several packages of freeze-dried food from under the counter—the kind people take on long hikes.

"Light but filling. Three of these packages will replace a full meal. And they don't take much space."

He also handed me several packets of powdered isotonic drink.

"Mix with water—you'll get a drink with electrolytes. Will sustain your strength better than plain water."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing," he shook his head. "This isn't for sale. This is a gift."

I remembered the rule: *"Don't accept gifts. Every gift creates a debt."*

"I can't just take this."

The attendant smirked:

"Smart girl. Already know the rules." He thought. "Then let's trade. Give me something in return. Something that has value to you."

I rummaged in my pocket and pulled out a photograph—one I always carried with me. Me with my parents, I'm about ten, we're at the sea. One of the few happy family photos I had left.

"This," I held it out to him.

He took the photograph, looked at it, and nodded.

"Fair exchange. Your memory for my protection."

I took the pouch, the vial, the freeze-dried food and powders, put everything in bags with the rest.

"Good luck, girl," the attendant said as I paid. "And remember—they lie. Always. Even when they tell the truth. Don't believe anything you see or hear in their world."

I nodded and dragged the heavy bags to the exit.

***

When I returned to the car, Chloe was already waiting, leaning against the hood. Seeing two huge bags packed with food, water bottles, canned goods and other purchases, her eyes widened.

"Elise… did you rob the store?"

I struggled to load the bags into the trunk.

"Got food supplies."

"Supplies?" Chloe peered into one of the bags. "This is supplies for a month! Jerky, canned goods, crackers… Elise, are we going to a deserted island?"

"Maybe," I muttered, settling into the passenger seat.

Chloe got behind the wheel, shaking her head. Then she saw the rest of the purchases on the back seat—the horseshoe, amulets, herbs, pouch of nails, vial of holy water.

"Seriously?" Skepticism sounded in her voice. "Elise, we're running from your dream, and you bought out the whole store—from canned goods to amulets?"

"These aren't souvenirs," I answered tiredly. "This is survival."

"From what? From mythical fae?"

"Yes."

Chloe started the engine and smirked:

"Didn't know you were so impressionable. One night with a scary dream, and you're already preparing for the apocalypse."

I said nothing, pressing the book to my chest. It was written clearly: seven days without their food, without their water, without their gifts. Seven days, relying only on what I brought from the human world.

"Think what you want," I said finally. "But when it gets dark… you'll see for yourself."

Chloe snorted:

"Yeah. I'll see you have a picnic in the middle of your nightmare."

But I noticed how her gaze lingered on my face—on the pallor of my skin, on the dark circles under my eyes, on how I was trembling despite the warm jacket.

And I knew that somewhere deep inside she was also beginning to doubt.

***

By evening we reached a small town on the border of Scotland and England. Chloe rented a room at a roadside motel—cheap, with peeling walls and creaky beds.

"We'll spend the night here," she said, tossing her bag on the bed. "And in the morning we'll decide what to do next."

I nodded, but was already thinking about something else.

While Chloe went to shower, I pulled all the purchases from the trunk and dumped them on my bed. The pile of food, bottles, amulets and other junk took up half the mattress.

Now I had to decide what to take with me.

I pulled out my hiking backpack—the very one I took on photo expeditions. Sturdy, roomy, with many pockets.

I began methodically packing.

Food:

– Jerky—three packages (light and caloric)

– Nuts—two large packages