Chapter 40. Everyone is Playing a Part. Its never What it Seems.

Ydoc walks fast. Not out of urgency.
But out of a desperate need to put distance between himself and what just happened.

Froosta jogs beside him—half-prancing, half-tripping over roots, trying to keep up without looking like he’s chasing.

Behind them?

Vexira.

Still glowing. Still beautiful.
But now?

She’s wheezing slightly, trying to maintain dignity as her voice shoots up an octave.

“I wasn’t being weird!!”
“You’re just mean!”

Ydoc doesn’t slow down.

“You offered to let me mount you on a moss patch like it was part of the tour.”

“IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SEDUCTIVE!!”
“I read about it! Mortals like offers! Of things! Of access!”

Froosta coughs, clearing his throat.

“She also once tried to marry a mirror.”

“IT SAID NICE THINGS!” Vexira shrieks.

Ydoc finally stops walking, sighs hard, and turns around.

“Okay. Pause. Everyone breathe.”
“Froosta, I need to ask: What is going on?”

Froosta opens his mouth—
but Vexira cuts in, hands flailing like snow-covered windchimes.

“I am the eldest daughter of the Frost Goddess Halasae, guardian of the weeping lakes, bloom of the blizzard, BORN from her divine sorrow!”
“I am ancient!”

Ydoc raises one brow.

“...How old are you really?”

“Like... eighty-three.”

Ydoc turns slowly to Froosta.

Froosta, already grinning awkwardly, mutters:

“She’s actually the youngest bud of a frost elder tree. She popped like two decades ago."

“Twenty-seven!!” Vexira blurts.

“Okay fine, twenty-seven,” Froosta nods.
“But her tree-mom’s real nice. Makes apple pies.”

Ydoc’s face contorts.

“Wait—apple pies? From a frost tree?”

Froosta’s eyes sparkle.

“Yeah! Her bark steams the crust and her roots soak in cinnamon! It’s like magic-home-pie!”

“I only get one slice,” Vexira growls.

“Because you hoarded the peppermint glaze that one time,” Froosta whispers.

Vexira gasps.

“It was limited edition!!”

Ydoc stares at the both of them.

Two magical forest beings. One breathless. One fluffy.
Both emotionally unstable.
Both deeply, clearly, not used to being around actual people.

He rubs his temples.

“I’m surrounded by children.”

Froosta tilts his head, paw raised.

“Emotionally, I’m very mature.”
“I just have a lot of feelings. And tail wagging.”

Vexira sniffs.

“I’m mysterious. That’s not childish. That’s genre-accurate.”

Ydoc keeps walking.

They follow—one fluffball humming nervously, the other arguing with the air itself about being “totally ancient and alluring.”

Ydoc walks with his hands tucked into his sleeves, half-listening to Vexira hum a sour tune behind them. Froosta’s tail bounces like a metronome beside him, the soft jingle of his hair beads brushing the air with every skip.

Finally, Ydoc speaks:

“So. We know she’s not ancient.”
“Vexira is, what—twenty-seven and a half?”

“Twenty-seven and three-quarters,” she snaps.

Ydoc grins.

“So, Froosta.”
“How old are you?”

Froosta lights up like a winter lantern.

“Me!?”
Tail wag intensifies.

He hums.

“Not that old! I mean, I guess… I’m a little over a hundred and some change? Still kinda young in spirit-years. Not a baby, but like—middle seasoning.”

Ydoc raises an eyebrow.

“Middle seasoning?”

“Like a pie!” Froosta chirps.

Behind them, Vexira rolls her eyes so hard they nearly frost over.
But she’s smiling—gods help her, his stupid joy is contagious.

She plants a hand on her hip.

“He’s lying.”

Froosta gasps, turning with big betrayed eyes.

“I am NOT!”

“You are Winter,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Not ‘a winter spirit.’ Not ‘from winter.’ You are the original. The breath-before-the-storm. The one who sneezed the first snowflake.”

Ydoc stops in his tracks.

“What.”

Vexira points, accusing like an older sister with dirt.

“Every single frost elemental, ice maiden, and blizzard sprite traces their lineage back to him. Our family trees look like snowflakes because of him.”

Froosta huffs, his cheeks puffed in offense.

“The Divide doesn’t do time in lines! It loops and bends! I could’ve been born last week and still be ancient depending on the tree alignment!”

Vexira crosses her arms.

“You’re the concept of winter, Fluffball. You have pet names in dead languages.”

Froosta growls in a tone somewhere between an angry fox and an embarrassed bean.

“You’re just mad because the mushrooms at the Elder’s banquet called me Sir Frosty Bum!”

Ydoc blinks at them both.

“…So basically, you’re both ancient spirits pretending to be emotionally stunted children.”

Vexira throws her hands up.
Froosta flails his arms like a muppet.

Ydoc keeps walking, smirking to himself.

“Figures. Froosta’s into younger guys anyway.”

Dead silence.

Two pairs of glowing eyes snap toward him.

Froosta coughs, rubbing the back of his neck so furiously he might start a fire.

“W-Well… I mean… warmth is warmth…!”

Vexira chuckles and tries to hide her blush behind her hair, muttering—

“It’s not the age, it’s the temperature.”

Ydoc’s brow raises slowly.

“So… how old am I, then?”

Both of them freeze.

“Uhhhhhh—”

        ==--The Question on the Mind--== 

  Ydoc stops mid-step, narrowing his eyes.

“So… again.”
“How old am I, exactly?”

Froosta suddenly finds something very interesting about his tail.

“Oh! Uhm. You’re, like… older than some people.”

Vexira grins nervously, finger twirling a lock of hair.

“But also! Younger than… you know, others.”

Ydoc stares at them, deadpan.

“Wow. Insightful. Let me write that down in my diary.”

“Okay,” Froosta blurts, “You’re older than Vexira!”

“Hey!” she snaps.

“But younger than me,” Froosta adds proudly.

“A lot younger,” Vexira agrees.

“But!” Froosta interjects, “You’re also older than Vexira’s grandmother.”

Ydoc freezes.

“Wait. What?”

“And the Fire Spirits’ great-great-great-grandson once mentioned you in passing,” Vexira adds, waving her hand like it’s casual.

Ydoc’s eye twitches.

“I’m sorry. How many ‘greats’?”

Froosta hums.

“Three. Maybe four. He called you ‘The Raven Who Dances Through Bone.’”

“Charming.” Ydoc mutters.

“You were apparently very scary,” Vexira adds with a too-sweet grin.
“And had excellent posture.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Ydoc says.
“How old am I?!”

Froosta and Vexira glance at each other.

Their smiles widen.
But it’s the wrong kind of smile.
The kind that says we’re not supposed to talk about this.

Like they just accidentally brought up a family member who isn’t allowed at festivals.

“Okay,” Froosta says slowly.
“So… Vexira’s great ancestor—like the original blossom of her frost-tree line—knew the Raven of the Divide.”

“Personally,” Vexira adds.
“They even traded moss recipes. That’s how far back.”

Ydoc stares.

They both pause.

Then at the exact same time:

“But time in the Divide isn’t a line!”
“Right—it’s more like a spiral!”
“Or a soup!”
“A really enchanted soup!”

Ydoc looks between them.
One fluffy snow prince.
One frost-glamorous chaos nymph.

Now both standing side-by-side, working together, teaming up—against him.

“…You’re working together now?!**” he barks.
“I’ve been traveling with two cosmic toddlers who have no concept of time and mysterious backstories, and you’re telling me I might be older than the mythic forest grandmother of blue fire?!?”

Froosta raises a paw.

“But you have great hair for your age?”

Ydoc throws his hands in the air and keeps walking.

“I hate the Divide.”

Behind him, Vexira leans into Froosta.

“Do you think now is a good time to tell him about the Bone Library?”

“Nope,” Froosta says, tail wagging furiously.
“Let’s save that for when he’s eaten something.”

Ydoc throws up his hands.

“Unbelievable. The two of you hated each other five minutes ago. And now you’re playing tag-team time lords?”

He turns on them, walking backward through the snow.

“So! You’re friends now, huh?”

Instantly:

“We are not friends!” Froosta snaps.

“Ugh, gods no,” Vexira says at the same time.

“He once cried over a leaf.”

“She exploded a river trying to cast a sun spell.”

Ydoc stops walking and blinks.

“…You tried fire magic?”

Vexira throws her arms out dramatically.

“I was experimenting! Maybe I don’t want to be a silly frost-doofus forever!”

Froosta crosses his arms, ears down.

“You burned eight sprites.”

“I said I was sorry!!” she wails.
“I didn’t mean to evaporate anyone! I was just trying to be… something else.”

She lowers her voice. It almost breaks.

“I didn’t want to be me anymore.”

Froosta looks down, the anger bleeding out of him.

Vexira stares, suddenly quiet.
Her fingers tug at her sleeve.

Then—

“But him?”
“I have actual reason to hate him.”

She points a dramatic finger at Froosta.

“He is the cold.”
“He’s the reason spirits suffer in winter. Holokons get sad, people freeze, the trees cry! He caused Azure’s Wrath!”

Ydoc tilts his head.

“Wait—what’s Azure’s Wr—”

“A storm,” Froosta says softly.
He’s trembling now. His eyes shimmering.

“A bad one. A really bad one.”

He doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t defend.

He just bows his head and murmurs:

“I’m sorry.”

Silence.

Even Vexira hesitates.

Ydoc frowns, eyes flicking between them.

“…Well now I feel bad.”

He sighs and waves both of them forward.

“C’mon. Let’s go before someone starts sobbing.”

They shuffle into step, heads low.
But not before Vexira leans over and whispers to Froosta:

“I didn’t really mean the leaf thing. It was a very nice leaf.”

Froosta wipes his nose and mutters:

“It was shaped like a tiny bear…”

                                                    STARS IN THE BLOOD 

The mood is fragile again—held together only by silence and the sound of snow crunching softly under their steps.

Ydoc exhales, steadying the ache that still trembles in his chest.

He glances at Froosta, who’s fallen a little behind, still hugging his own arms.

Ydoc pauses, then steps back and lifts a hand—gently resting it on Froosta’s head, stroking between his ears.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Sorry about earlier.”
“You’re not the cold. You’re just… you.”

He leans in just slightly, tone lightening.

“And when we get to the party, I’m buying you a treat. Something pink. With frosting.”

Froosta blinks, then beams, tail giving an enthusiastic little helicopter spin.

“You promise??”

“On the Great Void,” Ydoc says, hand still ruffling his hair.

From behind them, Vexira chimes in with a sniff:

“Wait—party?”
“There’s a party and I’m not invited?”

Froosta doesn’t miss a beat.

“It’s an old people party.”

Vexira glares.

“Holokons… so freakin' cool.”

But the joy stutters.

Ydoc staggers—just slightly.

The pain is sharp, sudden.

No gasp. No cry.

Just a faint noise caught in his throat as he clutches the side of his head.

Froosta’s eyes widen.

“Ydoc…?”

A nosebleed. Small. But dark.

Too dark.

And glimmering with tiny flecks of starlight.

It glistens like obsidian and pearl—not red, not right.

And in that moment—like a scream through a broken radio—
a voice cuts through the air:

“Try to remember sometimes… we are just skin and bones.”
“Make it harder than our selves… than it needs to be.”

And then—silence.

Ydoc trembles.

“...I really need to see that tree,” he whispers, eyes unfocused.

Froosta stares at him in confusion.

Vexira?
Vexira is starstruck.

“You’re bleeding ink,” she gasps.
“With stars in it! Like the Primordials. Or the ancient Holokons.”

Her eyes sparkle.

“That’s SO COOL! Do it again!”

Ydoc winces.
Froosta doesn’t speak.

Instead, he reaches into his fluffy coat and pulls out a neatly folded napkin.

Without a word, he offers it.

Ydoc however-distracted. To Distracted looking deep in the horizon of Trees, Looking for Someone.

Which is when Froosta climbs him.

Like a small, determined snow animal, he hops up, grabs Ydoc’s sleeve, and very gently uses another corner of the napkin to wipe Ydoc’s nose for him.

Ydoc blinks.

“…You’re on me.”

“Shhh,” Froosta says sweetly.
“Hold still. I’m being a good friend.”

Vexira laughs quietly behind them.

The snow continues.
Soft. Silent.

And above it all, a question lingers—
not spoken.
Not answered.

How old am I?