The door to the sitting room groaned softly as Isabelle pushed it open, the sound breaking the stillness of the morning. Lord Olberon rose from his seat with practiced ease, a warm smile lighting his face. “Miss Isabelle! I was beginning to think you’d reconsidered our tour this morning,” he said with a playful note in his voice.
However, his good-natured jest quickly gave way to concern as he noticed the unsettled expression on her face. The change in her demeanor sobered him, and he took a step closer. “What is it? Is something wrong?” he asked, his tone now threaded with genuine worry.
Isabelle hesitated, smoothing her hands along the fabric of her dress. “I just…” she began, her voice wavering slightly. “Well, I ran into Dorian in the hall, and…”
Olberon’s expression darkened immediately at the mention of the name. “Oh?” he interrupted, his brow furrowing. “Did he do something to make you uncomfortable?”
She quickly shook her head, though the tension in her voice remained. “Not exactly,” she replied, searching for the right words. “But something about him… it just rubbed me the wrong way.”
The tension in Olberon’s frame eased, and a visible wave of relief passed over him. “Ah, pay no mind to Dorian,” he said, his tone softening. “He’s not exactly renowned for his charm or his skill at small talk. He’s been with the house longer than I can remember, and truthfully, I could count on one hand the number of people who haven’t felt a little uneasy after speaking with him.”
Isabelle managed a faint smile, reassured by his words, though a lingering unease still gnawed at her.
Olberon gestured toward a tall, ornate door at the back of the sitting room, its intricate carvings catching the light. “Come,” he said with a nod, his voice now lighter. “Let’s step outside and take in the morning. I imagine you’ve accumulated quite a few questions by now.”
Without waiting for her reply, he opened the door and led her through, revealing a series of grand, arching passageways lined with elegant doors and windows. They stepped through one final set of double doors, their gilded handles cool beneath her fingertips, and out into the garden.
The sight before her stole her breath, a sprawling expanse of frost-dusted hedgerows and crystalline trees shimmering in the morning light. The air carried a crisp chill, invigorating and clean, as though the world itself had been refreshed overnight. Isabelle’s unease began to ebb away, replaced by a growing curiosity about the strangeness of the estate.
______
The grounds of the estate looked as though they should be bitterly cold, frosted lawns glittering like powdered diamonds, the pale light casting long, icy shadows. Yet, there was an odd warmth in the air, a gentle heat that kept the chill from biting too deeply, leaving only the faintest flush on Isabelle’s cheeks. She and Olberon strolled along a gravel path that crunched softly underfoot, the sound punctuating the stillness of the crystalline landscape. Their conversation began with polite small talk, but the surreal beauty surrounding them demanded deeper thoughts.
“I trust the room was to your liking?” Olberon asked with a smile, his tone light and conversational.
“Oh, yes, it was absolutely lovely,” Isabelle replied earnestly, but she hesitated, searching for the right words. “But…” she began, her voice trailing off as she glanced around the frozen expanse. “Looking out from the windows earlier and now walking down here…” Her brow furrowed as she tried to articulate her thoughts, finally giving up with a sigh. “Where did the city go? I mean, we entered through a door by the river, surrounded by London, and now we’re… here.” She gestured to the frosted wonderland, her confusion evident. “It’s… confusing, is all.”
Olberon paused mid-step and turned to face her, his expression softening. “Yes, I can imagine it would be,” he said, his tone tinged with understanding. “For someone in your position, stepping through one door and out another into a place like this must seem utterly unfathomable.” He sighed, glancing down the path as though searching for the right words. “Virgil was always better at explaining these things than I am,” he admitted. “But to put it plainly: magic.”
Isabelle blinked, startled. “Magic?” she repeated, the word sounding foreign on her lips, like a child attempting an unfamiliar phrase.
“Yes,” Olberon replied with a faint smile, gesturing first to her, then to himself. “There are many kinds of magic—both mortal,” he said, inclining his head toward her, “and… otherwise.”
As they walked on, Olberon’s pace slowed, his gaze catching on a rosebush at the edge of the path. Its delicate blooms, encased in frost, seemed frozen in time, their petals shimmering with an iridescent glow under the pale sunlight. He stopped, his hand extended toward the bush, and turned to Isabelle.
“Would you humor me, Miss Isabelle?” he asked softly, his voice carrying the kind of gentle authority that was impossible to refuse.
She hesitated, instinctively wary, but the curiosity blooming within her overpowered her caution. She stepped closer, the frost beneath her boots crunching softly, the cold biting through the soles. Olberon plucked a small shard of ice from a branch, holding it up between his fingers as though appraising it.
“Fae magic,” he began, his voice low and steady, “is not unlike this ice. Beautiful, fragile-seeming, but enduring in ways mortals rarely comprehend. Within it are secrets upon secrets, each layer more intricate than the last.”
He placed the shard in Isabelle’s palm. It was cold, startlingly so, yet oddly soothing. “Now,” he murmured, his breath hanging in the air like a ghost, “watch closely.”
Isabelle stared at the shard as Olberon raised his free hand above hers, murmuring a word in a language that felt like the sound of snowfall on distant hills, soft and melodic. The shard began to glow faintly, its edges softening, the rigid lines of ice melting into fluid motion. It twisted and stretched as though it had taken on a life of its own.
Before Isabelle’s astonished eyes, the shard transformed into a tiny bird, its wings translucent and delicately veined like the petals of a frost flower. The creature flitted upward, hovering above her hand for a heartbeat before darting into the air, leaving a shimmering trail of frost in its wake.
Olberon turned to her, his expression calm but with a spark of amusement in his eyes. “You see, mortal magic shapes the world—it bends it, forces it to conform. Fae magic, on the other hand?” He gestured to the garden around them. “It listens. It whispers to the world and asks it what it wishes to become.”
He waved a hand toward the hedges and frozen blooms, and as if in response, frost spread outward in delicate, lace-like patterns, threading itself across leaves and branches like a masterwork embroidery.
“This garden,” he continued, his tone layered with meaning, “much like you, Miss Isabelle, is more alive than it appears. What seems frozen, stagnant, or dormant is often simply waiting for the right moment to awaken. And that,” he said, his voice softening into a near-whisper, “is the essence of our craft—coaxing the extraordinary from the ordinary without ever disturbing its natural beauty.”
Isabelle stood silent, her breath caught in the air as she watched the garden around her begin to shimmer with quiet, otherworldly life.
Isabelle nodded, her breath finally steadying as she paused to gather her thoughts. “But where do I fit into all of this? I mean, not that I doubt what you’ve shown me,” she gestured to the frost-laden garden, still shimmering with ethereal life. “But I’m just… me. There’s nothing magical about me. I work in accounting, not the occult.”
Olberon chuckled softly, his laugh warm and rich. “My dear, there is clearly something unique about you, or you wouldn’t have been able to walk through the door to this place in the first place. The Threshold does not allow just anyone through, I assure you. And Virgil,” he added with a knowing smile, “is rarely wrong about a Sleeper’s awakening. By the looks of it, he timed yours perfectly.”
“Sleeper?” Isabelle asked, her brow furrowing.
Olberon nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Yes. Let me explain.” He gestured for them to continue down the path as he spoke, his words carrying the cadence of a practiced storyteller.
He explained that the world, as most people knew it, was only a shadow of its true self. Those who went about their lives blissfully unaware of magic and the extraordinary were called Sleepers. Those who had glimpsed the truth—seen the edges of the magical world but chosen to turn away or ignore it—were Dreamers. And finally, those who embraced the awakening, stepping willingly into the mysteries and challenges of magic, were known as Witnesses.
“Now,” Olberon continued, his tone gentle but resolute, “there is always a choice for those who awaken. You can, if you wish, move forward and engage with the magics of the world. Or,” he said, gesturing with a subtle hand, “you can return to your life, letting this place and all its strangeness become nothing more than a fleeting, peculiar memory. There is no shame in either choice. Everyone’s heart is their own, and we will respect whatever path you choose.”
Isabelle blinked, taken aback. “So that’s it?” she asked, a touch of incredulity creeping into her voice. “You show me all of this,” she gestured again, this time more emphatically, to the estate and its frozen splendor, “and then it’s just, ‘In or out’? How would that even work?” The enormity of the decision loomed over her, and she felt the stirrings of panic in her chest.
Olberon stopped and turned to her, his expression soft with understanding. “You see,” he said with a self-deprecating sigh, “I told you Virgil was better at this than I am.” He paused, letting the moment settle before continuing. “You do not need to decide right now, nor even today. You are welcome to return home and take all the time you need to think on it. While you remain my guest here, you are free to ask anything that troubles you. No question will be taken poorly, nor any concern dismissed.”
His reassurance was calming, his presence grounding despite the surreal world around them. Isabelle nodded slowly, her mind swirling with questions and uncertainties.
The pair resumed their stroll through the frost-laden garden, the crunch of gravel underfoot filling the comfortable silence. Isabelle’s mind raced with questions, each more pressing than the last, but she decided to start small.
“So,” she began hesitantly, “are ghosts real? Or are they just some story to scare kids?”
Olberon chuckled, a low, warm sound that echoed softly. “Oh, ghosts are quite real, though not always as frightening as the tales would have you believe. Some linger out of love, others out of duty, and a few because they are too stubborn to let go. Though,” he added with a glint in his eye, “I wouldn’t recommend seeking one out.”
Isabelle raised a brow. “Noted. And fairies? I mean, I suppose I have my answer, considering…” she gestured vaguely to him and the ethereal garden surrounding them.
He smirked. “You stand in the lands of the Fae, Miss Isabelle. Fairies, as you call us, are as real as the frost beneath your feet. But we are not the delicate, winged sprites of your childhood stories. We are older, stranger, and often more dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” she echoed, slowing her pace.
“Not all of us, of course,” Olberon reassured her, his tone light. “But the Fae are bound by rules and bargains. It’s not in our nature to lie outright, but words can be… malleable. There’s a reason mortals are warned to tread carefully in our world.”
“And where exactly are we now?” she asked, changing the subject as a shiver—not from the cold—ran down her spine.
Olberon gestured to the expanse of frosted lawns and silvery trees. “You are in the lands of the Winter Court, one of the four Seasonal Courts of the Fae. More specifically,” he added with a touch of modesty, “you are within my domain, for I am the Lord of Winter.”
Isabelle blinked at him. “You’re joking.”
“I assure you, I am not,” he replied, his smile both playful and sincere. “This realm, this garden, and everything within it is under my stewardship—for now.”
“For now?” she pressed.
He nodded. “The Seasonal Courts are named for Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. Each Court holds dominion for a time, shaping the Dream until their garden blooms fully. When it does, the next Court takes over, and the cycle begins anew. A balance, if you will.”
“So… Winter is in charge until this garden ‘blooms,’ and then… Spring takes over?”
“Precisely,” Olberon replied, his expression softening. “Each Court leaves its mark on the Dream. Winter, for instance, brings a time of rest, reflection, and—occasionally—discord. It is not merely cold; it is clarity, the stillness before new beginnings.”
Isabelle looked around, taking in the glittering frost that clung to every branch and leaf. “It’s beautiful… but also eerie. Like it’s alive, but only just.”
“A keen observation,” Olberon said approvingly. “This garden reflects the heart of the Winter Court. It is alive, yet waiting, poised for its next transformation. And so, too, are you, Miss Isabelle but this is the estate grounds: the true heart of the Winter Court lies within the Glacial Garden only once the flowers with it bloom will Winter truly be over”
She gave him a sidelong glance, unsure whether to take that as a compliment or a warning. “That’s… a lot to take in.”
“Understandably so,” he said with a nod. “But questions are a good start. Keep asking them, and in time, the answers will guide you.”
Isabelle considered that for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Fine. Next question—are dragons real?”
Olberon laughed, a rich, unguarded sound. “Ah, now dragons” he began before a voice interrupted him.
_____
“Indulging in storytelling again are we Olberon” a smooth and resonant voice chimed in from off the path hidden by a cluster of rose bushes. Olberon’s face soured slightly at the interruption “You know it’s quite rude to interrupt the answers to an earnest question Thaddius” Olberon replied as the man emerged from the frost-laden bushes, stepping into view, his figure striking and otherworldly against the crystalline backdrop.
His tailored suit, dark and impeccably crafted, was a sharp contrast to the pale, wintry surroundings, exuding both wealth and a quiet authority. Long, dark hair fell in loose waves past his shoulders, framing a face both handsome and haunting—chiselled cheekbones and a strong jaw softened by an aura of enigmatic calm. His top hat sat perfectly atop his head, lending an old-world charm to his otherwise imposing presence.
What captured Isabelle’s attention most were his eyes—piercing and steady, like shards of emerald, betraying nothing yet seeming to see everything. A faint curl played at the corner of his lips, less a smile and more a calculated expression of amusement. The subtle movement of his gloved hands, brushing the frost from his coat, carried a deliberate elegance, as though every gesture was made with intent.
He appeared to belong to the frozen garden and yet stood apart from it, as if the dark shadows of the rose bush itself deferred to him. The faint crunch of frost beneath his polished boots marked each step as he approached, as his commanding figure emerged from the wintry stillness.
“I do apologize, my Lord,” Thaddius began, his tone dripping with mock formality. “I did not realize you were treating with the newly awakened.” The lie was obvious, his polished manners doing little to conceal the sharp edge in his voice. Turning to Isabelle, he inclined his head and took her hand with a practiced air of gallantry. “A pleasure, Miss.”
Olberon, clearly unamused, waved him away with an exasperated sigh. “Don’t play coy, Thaddius. You know damn well who she is and what’s happened over the past night. Don’t try to tell me otherwise—word travels fast in this house. Even the cooks know by now.”
Thaddius placed a hand over his heart, feigning innocence. “You wound me, sire. I was merely maintaining decorum for the young lady’s benefit. I wouldn’t want her to assume that every intrigue within your walls becomes breakfast gossip.” A smirk played at the corner of his lips, faint but deliberate, before his expression softened as he turned back to Isabelle. “Miss Isabelle, is it?” His voice was smooth, rich, and measured, as he bowed lower this time. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”
Before she could respond, Thaddius straightened, his tone shifting to something sharper, more businesslike. “As delightful as this morning’s meeting is, I’m afraid I must speak with Olberon on a matter of utmost urgency.”
Isabelle, still processing the strange interplay between the two men, felt a sudden connection spark in her mind. A fragment of one of her dreams surfaced unbidden, and before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out: “Still concerned about the garden?”
The reaction was immediate. Thaddius’s mask of charm faltered, a flicker of something dark flashing in his eyes—anger, perhaps, or suspicion. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral, the playful undertones gone. “Yes,” he said, his gaze fixed on her. “How would you know of that?”
Olberon stepped forward quickly, intercepting the brewing tension. “Thaddius, you know how the newly awakened are. Their magic is unpredictable, their senses scattered. She likely plucked the thought from the ether without realizing it.” His tone was firm, a clear signal that the matter should not escalate.
Sensing the weight of the moment, Olberon turned to Isabelle with an apologetic smile. “Miss Isabelle, I must ask for your understanding. Why don’t you return to the house? I’ll find you as soon as this business is concluded. I’m sorry to cut our walk short.”
Though reluctant, Isabelle nodded, feeling the tension still lingering in the air “Of course, no harm no foul”. She turned towards the manor, happy to escape the situation behind her.