Written in the pages of history, from what little was ever written about the Licorne and known to mortal minds, their ties to the earth were some of the most well known. Just a touch of their magic was said to bring forth bountiful crops and flourishing flora. Their kingdoms were once as bright and colorful as the banners within a summer festival.

Of course, that was years ago, and history only paints its victors kindly.

The court of Wulfhiem was as stark as the kingdom it governed. Ice columns glittered with a cruel brilliance beneath chandeliers of frozen stalactites. The citizens rarely smiled. Why should they? Winter had no mercy upon them. Crops withered. Cattle froze. Life was a perpetual endurance of starvation wrapped tightly against the biting cold. And though Miorjah’s hoofbeats graced the halls of stone black palace with a lightness akin to one untouched by sorrow, she carried her people’s grief etched into her heart.

The frost-laden world sat hushed beneath a leaden sky, a kingdom wrapped tightly against the cold embrace of the dead season. Snow crusted every branch of the evergreen like brittle lacework. The silence was absolute, so profound even the wind seemed afraid to breathe.

The licorne princess emerged from the gates of Castle Black as though she were a beam of moonlight through a glass window given form. Her hair was a torrential cascade of argent silk that shimmered against the twilight. Her coat was white enough to wound the eyes of mortals who dared look too long. And upon her brow sat the crown of her birthright, a slender spiral of iridescent opal that pulsed faintly with inner light.

The princess's hoofbeats took her beyond the palace’s frozen gates one morning, a trek spurred by weariness rather than duty. The winter blanketed Wulfhiem mercilessly. Its winds howled across the empty streets that should have been bustling. There were no songs. No warmth etched into that landscape. Just silence. Ice. And the faint ache of longing she could never shake.

Her hooves carried her from the chilled cobblestone paths delicately onto the frostbitten earth. Beneath her opalescent hooves stretched a wasteland of brittle white reeds. The chill here was so absolute it seemed to drink color from the world itself. Even her own reflection seemed dulled by the pervasive grayness of the snow. If not for the blushed pink of her dress, winter’s blanket might have even swallowed her whole.

The path she took was not one of logic, it was instinct that guided her steps. Her own kindred curiosity leading her down snow covered paths that lead to the edge of the woods. Here the snow was untouched. Pristine. It was quiet enough to feel the pulse of the frozen world beneath her hooves.

Miorjah found the snow enchanting, beauty so different from the flora of greenery of her home. Here, ivy did not crawl up castle walls and squirrels did not run through what was once a grand ballroom. At first glance, the grand kingdom of the north was everything but enchanting. Much like its king, Whulfhiem was cold, orderly and honor-bound. And yet the ice glimmered like diamonds, and the stars seemed to harden with the cold, it was different, but no less beautiful.

Yet it was not home, and enchantment could only soothe her aching heart so much.

She longed for color. For warmth. For life. Her kingdom was beautiful, yes, but it was the beauty of stillness. Of death carved into crystalline perfection. And Miorjah could not help the ache that grew within her chest every time she stared too long at the frost-choked earth beneath her hooves. She dreamed of fields that moved, of flowers that danced. The crimson of poppies, the flushed pink of roses. A world untouched by the frost’s eternal hand.

The princess was alone, having wandered far beyond the castle’s protective walls, her guards too wary of her icy temper to follow. Snow reached high against her slender legs as she moved through the whispering stillness of the winter caked clearing. The trees, ancient sentinels cloaked with frost, seemed to bow beneath the enormity of her presence. They knew her, even if she was a stranger amongst the people of Wulfhiem, nature knew their kin.

The ground beneath her hooves seemed to buzz in reaction to the natural magic the princess seemed to radiate. It seemed to thrum between her fingertips, a rhythm too faint for mortal senses to grasp. But to Miorjah it was something intimately familiar as her mother’s lullaby. As she paused, horn glimmering faintly with an otherworldly light, she felt the frost recoil beneath her.

Beneath her hooves, a trail red poppy burst through the snow, following in the wake of their princess. Its petals unfurled like the fragile wings of a freshly birthed butterfly emerging in spring. Crimson like spilled blood against the alabaster expanse. It was so vivid it made Miorjah’s petal-soft heart stutter. She stood there for a long moment, her reflection caught within the flower’s delicate surface. A bloom foreign to the land it sprouted upon.

The Licornes were creatures of spring, and the princess had brought spring with her.

Written by thelocalrou
Artwork by akitamonster