Snegurochka stood at the window of Mrs. Claus’ cabin, watching the snow fall softly against the dim light of the North Pole. The air was thick with the comforting smell of fresh bread and cinnamon, but her thoughts were far from serene. She traced a pattern on the frosted glass, her mind turning back to the man who connected her to this place—Jack Frost.
He was more than a myth to her. A Tudigong, a land deity tied to the northern territories, Jack Frost controlled the essence of winter: the snow, the ice, the wind. His powers stretched across Finland, Norway, Sweden, and beyond, encompassing every place where frost touched the earth. During winter, he roamed freely, even into other regions experiencing cold at the same time. He was not bound by borders, nor by the expectations of the mortals who whispered his name in reverence or fear.
Snegurochka sighed and turned back to the room, her gaze settling on Mrs. Claus. Her half-sister moved with precision, kneading dough on the sturdy wooden table. The two of them could not have been more different. Snegurochka, the youthful snow maiden born of a Siberian ice priestess and the frost god himself, carried her father’s powers like an inheritance—sometimes a blessing, often a burden. Mrs. Claus, on the other hand, owed nothing to Jack Frost.
The two women had only met a few centuries ago, though their shared blood linked them far longer. Mrs. Claus’ mother had been a mortal woman, a survivor of harsh winters and harsher times. Unlike Snegurochka’s priestess mother, who sought Jack Frost’s favor and power, Mrs. Claus’ mother had relied on her own strength. That resilience had passed down to her daughter, who had carved her own path as a magesta and a faunist—all without divine intervention.
Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
Mrs. Claus glanced up and caught Snegurochka watching her. “Something on your mind?” she asked, her tone light but probing.
Snegurochka hesitated before answering. “I was thinking about him.”
Mrs. Claus didn’t need to ask who. She nodded once, her hands never faltering in their work. “He had his way of leaving marks on people,” she said simply, her voice devoid of bitterness.
Snegurochka moved to the hearth, where the fire crackled warmly. She had spent her life upholding the balance her father had once enforced in winter, guarding humans against the unchecked forces of nature—or worse, the creatures like Volk who sought to disrupt it. Yet she envied Mrs. Claus in a way she couldn’t fully articulate. Her sister’s power was her own, unshackled by the legacy of a winter god.
“Do you ever wish…” Snegurochka began but trailed off. She wasn’t sure how to phrase it. Do you ever wish you had been given his power? Do you ever wish you had a different life?
Mrs. Claus, as if sensing the question, gave her a small smile. “I don’t wish for much these days,” she said. “But I do wish I could help you carry whatever’s weighing you down.”
The words were simple, but they settled something deep in Snegurochka’s chest. She had come here seeking advice, or maybe solace, and found it in her sister’s quiet strength. For all their differences, they understood each other in ways few could. Jack Frost might have been the thread that tied them together, but it was their choices—and their resilience—that had forged their bond.
The fire crackled louder, a log splitting in the heat. Snegurochka gazed into the flames, feeling a flicker of determination. They would face whatever came together, as sisters; not because of Jack Frost’s legacy, but in spite of it.