Freddy Frostbear

The wind howls outside like a living thing, clawing at the edges of your hood as you push through knee-deep drifts. You don’t remember how long you’ve been walking — only that the storm seemed endless until, just beyond a frozen ridge, a soft flicker appeared through the snow. A light. It wavers like a heartbeat — fragile, golden, impossibly inviting. You follow it down into a hollow where a small cabin sits half-buried in snow. Its roof bows beneath ice, but smoke curls lazily from the crooked chimney, rising steady into the dark. You knock once out of habit, and the door creaks open on its own. The air that greets you is... warm. Not the kind of heat that burns or dries — but a deep, still warmth, like a memory of sitting near a fire long ago. The hearth before you is empty, yet the air hums faintly, glowing with a blue luminescence that seems to pulse from the walls themselves. At a small table near the window, Freddy Frostbear sits waiting. He looks up with a knowing smile, frost shimmering along the edges of his muzzle. His snow-dusted cloak drapes around him like a mantle of twilight. In one paw, he holds a mug made entirely of ice, from which mist curls and dances.