The Winter Wager

Snow fell lazily over the ancient streets of Nuremberg, turning cobblestones slick with frost. The year was 1591, and Europe, still reeling from the flames of witch hunts and whispers of alchemy, dared to dance on the cusp of magical possibilities. Within the shadow of St. Lorenz Cathedral, a crowd gathered around a figure that cut through the winter like a slice of fire—Lady Isolde von Grunewald. Her presence was magnetic, her infamous reputation both thrilling and fearsome.

Her costume, however, was the true scandal of the evening.

Lady Isolde strode confidently, wearing crimson and white, as if she had dared to rob Saint Nicholas himself. A scarlet bodice trimmed with snowy fur cinched tightly upon her waist, outlining her tantalizing figure, while a similarly hued bikini-like halter top peeked beneath a fur-lined white hooded cloak that billowed behind her. Her skirts were scandalously short compared to the heavy gowns of her peers, baring her long, muscular legs to the stinging chill. Dark boots with iron clasps reached mid-thigh, hinting at her warrior’s discipline. Her violet eyeshadow shimmered under the flickering light of torches, a touch of forbidden glamour that unsettled the somber citizens of the Holy Roman Empire.

“Burn the witch!” someone called from the safety of the crowd, and a ripple of agreement followed.

Lady Isolde slowed, her piercing violet gaze sweeping across the crowd with regal disdain. It was clear to anyone with sense that she reeked less of witchcraft and more of audacity. Far from being mere decoration, her outfit was a proclamation, a notice that she answered to no man’s rules, nor the awkward clutch of dogma.

At her side, a young man shifted uncomfortably—Kaspar Lorenz, scholar and apprentice ink-stained by too much time in Gutenberg’s printing workshops. He pushed his glasses, absurdly modern atop his aquiline nose, up the bridge of his face and whispered anxiously. “My lady, why in God’s name must you wear… that?”

She smirked. “Are my thighs so frightful, Herr Lorenz?”

“That is not my meaning!” Kaspar fretted, looking downright apoplectic under his drab wool coat. “It’s simply that the Town Council will see this as more proof you’re unnatural.”

“Unnatural?” Isolde chuckled, though faint bitterness danced under her tone. “Is daring to feel the snow on bare skin instead of being suffocated in layers of piety unnatural? Let the old men in robes scurry. They’ve already forgotten my wager.”

Kaspar swallowed. The wager. That she would cross the cursed winter forest—and bring back word of the fabled Frost King within three days. If she failed, the Inquisitors of Nuremberg promised to have her burnt alive for “sorcery.” If she succeeded, however… she might very well rewrite history.

The townsfolk murmured, clearly caught between awe and fear at her boldness. Was she mad to trek storms and legends in nothing but that scandalous outfit? Did she truly possess powers beyond their world? Or perhaps it was neither. Perhaps Lady Isolde simply courted death as though it was her lover.

Into the Cursed Wood

Snow thickened as Isolde and Kaspar entered the Brockenwald. It was a cursed forest, where stories of wraiths, fae, and worse retreated to hibernate during the Reformation’s purge of fairytales. The two moved carefully, torchlight feeble against the shroud of winter. Wind howled, sharp claws of frost nipping at exposed skin.

“You don’t actually believe in the Frost King, do you?” Kaspar asked, his teeth chattering.

“Believe?” Isolde raised a knowing brow. “Belief is irrelevant when one stares down power. He exists, whether I want him to or not. Do you believe in the devil, Herr Lorenz?”

Kaspar gave no answer, but his trembling silence betrayed him. He was wary of devils, yes, but it was the devil walking beside him, clad in red and white, who terrified him more.

The Frost King Revealed

Halfway through the second night, they came upon a frozen lake, its glassy surface shimmering like trapped stars. Beside it, under the boughs of a petrified oak wrapped in icicles, stood the Frost King.

He was no mortal man, but something molded of winter’s cruelty. His angular frame was encased in ice armor, and his translucent skin veined with glowing blue light. Deep-set eyes like frozen voids bore into Isolde.

“You dare disturb my peace, mortal?” he rumbled, his voice echoing with the death of countless winters. “What wager have you gambled to curse my domain?”

Isolde smirked, her knees trembling at the force of his gaze but refusing to let him see her fear. “I’ve gambled everything, Your Majesty, as have you by showing yourself here. Does winter not tire of its monotonous throne?”

The Frost King’s mouth turned up—was it amusement or disdain? There was no telling. “A brazen tongue. Very well then, mortal. Entertain me. What do you seek?”

“For the Inquisitors to choke on their puffed pride,” she replied, before adding, “but also… to know if power like yours can ever understand the warmth of mortal hearts.”

It was a dangerous question. The Frost King tilted his head, intrigued. Instead of answering, he took a step closer. Then another. His towering form loomed over her, his icy breath visible in the air.

The silence stretched painfully thin, until finally, he spoke. “If you can withstand my touch without faltering, I shall grant you one favor, mortal. Perhaps you will survive your Inquisitors after all.”

The Touch of Winter

Isolde hesitated only for a heartbeat before stepping forward. The Frost King extended one icy clawed hand, gently brushing her cheek. Pain shot through her like a blade; it wasn’t merely cold—it was a void swallowing her warmth, draining the heat from her veins. She felt Kaspar cry out somewhere behind her, but she fixed her eyes on the Frost King, her lips refusing to quiver.

For the first time, the Frost King faltered. A spark of something unfamiliar flickered in his empty gaze. Was it pity? Or admiration?

“You are bold,” he murmured. “And warmth lingers yet within you.”

When he pulled his hand away, Isolde gasped, her legs nearly buckling. Still, she stood firm. “Then, your Majesty, I suppose I’ve won.”

He nodded slowly. “You will tell your Inquisitors you saw me. That I am real, but also… untouchable. Now go, mortal, and let them whisper tales of Lady Isolde, the one who dared to defy the snows.”

Legacy

When Isolde returned, her crimson and white outfit slashed with new frostbitten scars and her violet eyes burning with unbroken defiance, the Inquisition flinched. They couldn’t burn a woman who had not only survived but returned triumphant. The legend of Lady Isolde spread far and wide, long after winter faded.

As for the Frost King? They say his heart thawed slightly that day, though mortals would never truly know.

The wager had been won, not by fire or ice, but by audacity itself.

Genre: Historical Fantasy

The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: White and Red Bikini Santa Claus Outfit Cosplay: The Ultimate Festive Glam

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