Change Secondary to Rosette

---

He's been to the prison only twice in his life so far: Once to state a name he someday came to regret, and the other for a punishment.

A gaoler's duty is to the Icewarden. The Icewarden works hard and bears much weight on his shoulders. No one dragon deserves the weight of the Shade, even if the dragon is a deity. And yet he bares it without any complaint with the help of his brood.

A gaoler's duty is to the Icewarden. The Shade is an ever-growing threat to the world of Sornieth, feasting upon magical energies as it hides in plain sight. The Shade is a well-known liar.

He's here for a punishment.

The prisons are many. The buildings are massive in scale, sheer grey walls of stone pocketed with holes large enough for a gaoler to comfortably climb through. The sheer grey walls are decorated with shimmering silver chains that hang in the air like a loose piece of thread, tingling slightly in the stiff winter breeze.

It'll only be a few days' travel deeper in that he'll be re-introduced to the prisons made of ice. The ice is made to freeze, and he can already see his breath freezing in the air. It doesn't bother him. He isn't cold, but something else chills him to the bone. He's here for a punishment.

The Icewarden bears much weight on his shoulders, and yet he's still firm. Some might even call him harsh. Even to his own brood, he isn't merciful, and calling himself his ancestor's brood would frankly be a stretch.

The grey walls of the prison made of stone morph into twisted ramshackle spires of ice. Spires transform into crooked manifestations of buildings, barracks, places he assumes to be the home of his own species. They're big enough for a gaoler to fit in. They're big enough for gaolers to climb out and stare at him with their eyes of the dead before they move on to do their work.

Days of travel pass. Barracks morph into prisons. These are where shade are kept.

He doesn't know if they are frozen like the other prisoners. He hopes he doesn't have to find out.

He's led into the Icewarden's prison. He's led down the hallways and to the stairs to climb. He passes by bars and doors through which (if he glances) he could see the figures of ice dragons frozen in place. Some of them are screaming. Some of them are glaring.

Some of them are staring.

He's being watched.

He isn't being watched. That's ridiculous. They are frozen, and they cannot see.

Eyes burn into the back of his neck. He can feel them.

The stairs are cold. He can feel his breath in the air. His breath is warm, and it is cold.

He's led to a door. His guide tells him to stop, walks up to the door, gives it a firm knock.

The doors are massive.


Somehow the world is colder.

His pearlcatcher guide tells him. She reads off the name from a tablet, her tail coiling her pearl tight against her feet.

Something breathes. It isn't him, and he knows this because it's far too cold to be anything living.


The doors open. He walks in alone.

The Icewarden bears much weight on his shoulders. He bears the weight of an astral force beyond a gaoler's comprehension. Perhaps it's even beyond the Icewarden's himself, but that doesn't change the fact that the Icewarden is cold. There's never been ice that's whiter than when the Icewarden breathes.

The Icewarden fixes his gaze upon the plague-born dragon. His eyes are glowing, expression indecipherable. His breath comes out in a fine mist, leaving fractals of snow drifting to the floor. The Icewarden is cold, and he is known to be cruel.

He has to be for what he does.

The gaoler is being watched. His blood screams 'enemy' yet his instincts utter 'father'. He doesn't know if it's the Icewarden he feels watching him or something else entirely. He doesn't know if it matters.


His mind flashes to the prison. The dragons that were screaming and frozen, surrounded by that cold, frozen in place. He wonders whether they see through that crystal haze. Whether they think or if it's some kind of blissful coma. He wonders if it is a mercy or an extension of torment.

The gaoler is here for a punishment.

When he goes, he refuses to scream.

The gaoler straightens his body, back straight, breath misting up as he stares his creator in the eye. And he says, as firmly as he can, that he doesn't.

The Icewarden frowns. Maybe he snarls. No, he frowns. The Father of Ice looks almost disappointed.


His voice is a rumble. He looks disappointed. He sounds disappointed. The room feels a few degrees colder. The plague-born dragon can't help but to shiver, feeling the cold thrumming through his fur, feeling as it kneads its numbing fingers into his skin and digs its claws slowly ever so deeper.

He's never felt cold before. He'll feel colder soon.

But of course he knows why he's here. He even knows the why to the why.

He tells him that he's there to be punished.

One simply doesn't refuse a deity. And at least this one has the good taste to call out a lie when he sees it.

So Candyrock tells him.

And it is cold.

---

Until it isn't.