The snowy mountains, bathed in the moonlight appeared to be sculpted of frozen starlight-cold and ethereal. Soren gazed at the blank pages in front of him another day slipping by with no sign of inspiration and creativity. With a soft sigh, he began to collect the scattered paper on the floor and tossed them in the wastepaper bin. Weary and bleary-eyed, he collapsed on his bed, perhaps in the quiet of dreamland a breakthrough will find him. In the dead silence of the night, the window reflected something shimmery passing by.
Soren, a famous poet was on the journey to write his new book. A thought relentlessly haunted him; his poetry had lost the soul somewhere on his road to fame and he wanted his new work to reclaim the original glory. He moved into seclusion, the hidden town of Vidal nestled deep in the valley surrounded by snowy capped mountains and the dense green woods. People often spoke of its magic claiming that it has housed spirits for centuries. Yet, Soren felt disappointed that it's enchantments were not sufficient to spark his creativity. Nearly a fortnight had passed and not a verse had been penned down.
Silence of night, and dreams out of sight,
The land of grey, where neither is right.
A shimmering cold, a flicker of light,
A play of words, hidden from sight.
The small street had lingering snow dust in the air, as if the magic itself had decided to lend a hand to this traveller of the mundane world.
The dappling light stepped in from the window glass, gently waking him up, his eyelashes fluttered and his eyes opened. Chestnut brown, the warmest eyes the light had ever come across in this town. His brown hair rested on his forehead further highlighting the warm appearance, a soft yawn and a quick stretch. The light curiously peered at him as he stood up from the bed coming closer to the window, opening it to breath fresh air. A young man in his late-twenties. The light acquiesced, the snow's decision and together they chose him to experience magic.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
He followed through his newfound routine—getting up, preparing breakfast, and sitting back at his work desk until exhaustion set in. But somehow, today, the soft, clean sunlight charmed him enough to pull him out of the house. He strolled through the town, his eyes relishing the gorgeous sights around him. In the crowd of townspeople, he stood out, like a sunflower in a field of snowdrops. The people here were pale, with blonde hair or the lightest shades of brown, their eyes a constant hue of blues or greys. Their expressions were neutral, even the laughter of the children dainty and pure, unlike the warm, amber-filled laughter he was used to.
A blanket of serenity filled the space, seeping into him gently, but gradually. He felt at ease, though not a single petal was familiar to him. Closing his eyes, something was unraveling inside him. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but he knew something was knocking on his soul’s door—something he would soon come to understand. Suddenly, a running teenager bumped into him, the frost cream in his hand splattering across Soren’s face. The boy looked up at him, eyes wide with apology, and offered him a handkerchief. But Soren was struck by the sudden chill—perhaps it would be the chill that reached him first, before the magic could. The boy, unperturbed, boldly stepped forward, shaking his head at this star-struck adult, and softly wiped the cream from his face with the cloth.
As the day wore on, Soren’s mind swirled with new impressions, each one deeper than the last. The boy, still by his side, led him through the town like an experienced guide, pointing out the quirks of every building, the hidden paths lined with forgotten stories, and the hum of life that seemed to exist just beneath the surface. Each corner revealed more of the town’s charm and Soren felt like he truly belonged. By the time they stopped for lunch at the boy’s house, Soren was already lost in the town’s spell. The house, simple yet cozy, smelled of freshly baked bread and pinewood—a smell that seemed to wrap around him like a warm blanket. As he sat down to eat, the gentle hum of conversation, the clinking of utensils, and the soft rustle of the wind outside seemed to echo the quiet, unassuming magic that thrummed through the town. Here, even the warmth had a cool stillness to it, as though the warmth was meant to be felt but not owned. It was a balance, Soren realized—harmony, the hallmark of Vidal. This time when Soren waked back to his house, he really felt going home like he belonged there.
