The Permafrost and Paperwork Prince

A prince would rather skate than save the world, but the Royal Bureau of Heroic Endeavors has other plans.

In the Kingdom of Glacia Perpetua, winter was not a season but a policy, ratified in triplicate and enforced with glacial indifference. The sky, a perfect, unblemished sheet of periwinkle ice, was a ceiling inspected daily by the Celestial Compliance Corps. The wind was a memorandum, circulating through the castle’s crenellations with a dry, rustling whisper of edicts and addendums. And the snow—oh, the snow was a masterpiece of administrative rigor. It did not fall; it was dispatched. Each flake was a six-pointed form, pre-approved by the Ministry of Flurries, catalogued by the Department of Hoarfrost, and filed upon landing by sub-zero-certified archivists. To catch a snowflake on one’s tongue was not a simple winter pleasure but an act of unauthorized document handling, punishable by a sternly worded citation.

This was the world Prince Ken was trying very, very hard to ignore. His world, at this precise moment, was a much smaller, more perfect circle of ice. The grand fountain in the central courtyard, long ago surrendered to the eternal frost, had become his private rink. Here, the only rules were those of gravity and momentum. The only paperwork was the elegant calligraphy his blades scrawled across the ice, a temporary poetry he could erase with the next turn. The scrape-hiss of steel on ice was the only proclamation he cared to hear. He launched himself into the air, body a taut spiral, arms crossed tight against his chest. One rotation. Two. The world was a blur of frozen marble and disapproving statuary. Three. He landed, a clean, sharp slash of sound that sent a shiver of ice dust into the air. A perfect triple axel.

A small, internal victory. He allowed himself a ghost of a smile, the cold biting at his cheeks. The air in his lungs burned with a clean, sharp fire that felt more real than anything else in this kingdom of chilled, stagnant order. He flowed backward, carving long, elegant arcs, preparing for a camel spin, feeling the rhythm in the marrow of his bones. This was freedom. This was flight. This was—

“Ahem.”

The sound was less a cough and more an official clearing of the throat, a noise calibrated to convey both politeness and the full, unyielding weight of institutional authority. It sliced through Ken’s concentration like a poorly sharpened skate. He faltered, his spin wobbling into an undignified stagger. He righted himself, glaring toward the source of the interruption.

There, at the edge of his frozen stage, stood the Prophecy Proclamation Committee. All three of them. There was Lord Pompous, his beard so immaculately frosted it looked less like hair and more like a violation of several municipal landscaping ordinances. Beside him, Magistrate Drone, a woman whose face seemed to have been permanently etched with the expression one wears when discovering a clerical error in a document one has already signed. And finally, Scribe Vellum, a creature seemingly composed entirely of dust and parchment, who clutched a scroll so long it had to be draped over the arm of a nearby cherub statue, which looked deeply unhappy about the arrangement.

“Your Royal Highness,” Lord Pompous boomed, his voice echoing unnaturally in the frozen silence. “We bring tidings of utmost, officially sanctioned, importance!”

Ken let out a long-suffering sigh, a plume of white vapor that immediately crystalized and fell to the ice with a faint tinkle, where it would no doubt be collected and filed as ‘Atmospheric Exhalation, Royal, Unscheduled.’

“Can it wait?” Ken called back, gliding in a lazy circle. “I’m in the middle of a particularly sensitive negotiation with the laws of physics.”

Magistrate Drone sniffed, a sound like a page being turned with unnecessary force. “The Prophecy, Your Highness, as stipulated in the Ancient Texts, sub-section Gamma, paragraph four, line two, waits for no man, not even one engaged in… recreational momentum.”

Scribe Vellum began to unroll the scroll. It was a process. The parchment, stiff with cold, crackled like a dying fire. The sound grated on Ken’s nerves. He could feel the pristine surface of his ice being violated by the sheer auditory dullness of their presence.

“Behold!” Lord Pompous declared, puffing out his chest. He was a man who spoke exclusively in exclamation points. “The Prophecy of the Permafrost’s End!”

Ken pushed off, skating backward away from them. “Heard it. The one about the princeling of frozen blood, the quest for a shiny rock, and a vague promise of ‘seasonal variability.’ It’s dreadful. The prose is wooden, the character motivation is thin, and frankly, the stakes are insulting. Who wants ‘moderate warmth’? It sounds so… tepid. So committee-approved.”

“It is your destiny!” Pompous insisted. “Your sacred duty! Your mandated heroic endeavor!”

“It’s boring,” Ken countered, transitioning into a series of swift, angry crossovers. The ice hissed under his blades. “It’s the most boring prophecy I’ve ever heard. There’s no fire, no passion. It reads like a zoning permit. ‘The Chosen One shall embark upon a journey, having first filled out forms 11-B through 17-C, to acquire the artifact of legend, pending environmental impact review.’”

Scribe Vellum, who had finally managed to unroll the scroll to the relevant passage, began to read in a voice that was the auditory equivalent of beige. “Hark, for in the age of the Indifferent Sorcerer’s Icy Grip, when snowflakes are filed and the sun is but a memory on requisition form 404-Null, a Prince of the Glacial Court shall arise…”

Ken tuned him out. He could recite it by heart. He’d had it cross-stitched onto a pillow by his royal governess. He’d had to analyze its grammatical structure for his royal tutors. He’d even seen a terribly uninspired interpretive dance version performed by the Royal Ballet, which had involved a lot of shivering and pointing northward. The prophecy was the kingdom’s national anthem, mission statement, and unread terms-of-service agreement all rolled into one.

“…He shall journey past the Peaks of Perpetual Paperwork and the Forests of Frigid Forms…” Vellum droned on.

Ken pushed harder, faster, building speed. He needed to feel something other than the crushing ennui of his own destiny. The world became a smear of grey stone and white ice. The committee’s voices faded into a monotonous hum. He crouched low, preparing for another jump. This time, a quad. A statement. A rebellion in the form of controlled, spinning defiance.

“…to confront the source of the endless winter and retrieve the Sunstone of Moderate Warmth, thereby restoring meteorological balance as per the original charter of the kingdom’s founding…”

He launched. The air was a razor. One turn. The world tilted. Two. His muscles screamed with the effort. Three. The faces of the committee, upturned and aghast, flashed below him. Four. For a breathtaking, heart-stopping moment, he was free. He was a creature of air and will, unbound by scrolls and statutes.

He landed. Or, rather, he would have landed, if his skate hadn't caught on the recently unfurled and ridiculously long end of the prophecy scroll, which Scribe Vellum had carelessly allowed to spill onto the ice.

There was a sickening crunch of parchment, a yelp from the Scribe, and the magnificent, physics-defying prince suddenly became a flailing, pinwheeling mess of limbs. He tumbled across the ice, a royal catastrophe of tangled legs and wounded pride, finally skidding to a halt in a heap of undignified snow directly at the feet of Lord Pompous.

A profound, icy silence descended upon the courtyard. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath, probably waiting for the correct form to be filed before resuming.

Lord Pompous looked down his nose at the sprawled prince. “An unorthodox but nonetheless compelling acceptance of your quest, Your Highness. The Royal Bureau of Heroic Endeavors will be most pleased. We’ll have the preliminary paperwork sent to your chambers immediately.”

“I didn’t accept anything,” Ken groaned, pushing himself up. His hip throbbed. His pride was a shattered icicle. “I tripped on your excessively verbose narrative device.”

“A semantic quibble,” Magistrate Drone said dismissively, already making a note on a small, frozen slate. “Your physical trajectory was undeniably quest-ward. The Bureau operates on intent, and your… forward momentum was clear. Article 9, section 4 of the Heroic Mandate Act is quite specific on this point. Now, about your quest partner…”

“Partner?” Ken sputtered, brushing ice crystals from his velvet tunic. “No one said anything about a partner. The prophecy specifically mentions ‘a Prince.’ Singular. I checked.”

“Ah, but you failed to consult the addendums,” Pompous said with a triumphant smirk. “Specifically, Addendum 74-Gamma, ‘The Companion Clause for Royally Mandated Adventures,’ which stipulates that all prophesied heroes must be accompanied by a certified Quest Facilitator and Risk Management Officer to ensure all heroic actions comply with kingdom regulations and liability protocols.”

Ken stared at them, horrified. This was worse than the prophecy itself. It was a footnote. A bureaucratic rider clause. His grand, solitary defiance was being turned into a chaperoned field trip. “You can’t be serious.”

“The Bureau is never anything but,” said the Magistrate. “She will be here momentarily. She is, as always, precisely on schedule.”

As if summoned by the very mention of punctuality, a new set of footsteps echoed into the courtyard. They were not the shuffling steps of a courtier or the heavy tread of a guard. They were sharp, rhythmic, and efficient, each footfall a perfectly executed, percussive strike against the frozen flagstones. The sound of someone who didn't walk, but proceeded.

A figure emerged from the colonnade. She was tall, clad not in velvet or fur, but in impeccably tailored, practical steel armor that had been polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the grey sky with merciless clarity. It was functional armor, devoid of ornamentation, save for the sigil of the Royal Bureau of Heroic Endeavors embossed on her breastplate: a crossed quill and sword over a stack of forms. She carried a thick, leather-bound portfolio under one arm and her helmet under the other. Her face was sharp, intelligent, and framed by dark hair pulled back into a bun so severe it looked like it could be used as a weapon. Her expression was one of absolute, unimpeachable competence, which, in Ken’s experience, was far more terrifying than any dragon’s glare.

“Knight-Scribe Anne, reporting for duty,” she announced, her voice as crisp and cold as the air. “Quest packet for His Highness, Prince Ken. Project codename: Operation Moderate Warmth. I trust the subject has been briefed?”

Lord Pompous beamed. “He has just enthusiastically consented, Knight-Scribe!”

Anne’s gaze fell upon Ken, who was still trying to subtly check if his tights had ripped. Her eyes, the color of a winter storm cloud, scanned him from head to toe. It wasn’t a look of judgment, or even disdain. It was a look of assessment, the way one might look at a piece of faulty equipment one was now responsible for.

“Right,” she said, her tone suggesting he was anything but. She strode forward, her armored boots making no sound on the ice. She moved with an unnatural grace, a terrifying efficiency. She did not slip. Of course she didn't. She had probably filed the appropriate paperwork to ensure friction remained on her side.

She stopped before him and dropped the heavy portfolio into his arms. Ken staggered under the unexpected weight. It had to be at least twenty pounds of pure, processed wood pulp.

“This is your preliminary quest package,” she stated. “It contains the initial itinerary, risk assessment forms, liability waivers, equipment requisition manifests in quintuplicate, and a brief, 300-page summary of the relevant bylaws pertaining to heroic quests undertaken in the northern territories. You’ll need to have sections A through K completed and initialed before we can depart. Section L is optional, but recommended if you wish to apply for per diem compensation for rations.”

Ken stared down at the monstrous stack of paper, then back up at her deadpan face. “You’re joking.”

“A joke is a non-factual statement uttered for humorous effect,” Anne replied without a flicker of emotion. “My statement was factual. Humor is an inefficient use of respiratory and cognitive resources. We depart at 0800 tomorrow, pending approval of your submitted forms. A delay in submission will result in a corresponding delay in departure, and a penalty will be applied to your final quest evaluation score. Do you have a quill? Or will you need to requisition one? Form 22-Delta, ‘Writing Implement Procurement.’”

Ken felt a wave of despair so profound it was almost impressive. His rebellion, his art, his one small circle of freedom—all of it had led to this. A partner who spoke in numbered forms and a quest that required more reading than questing. He looked from Anne’s implacable face to the leering satisfaction of the Committee, and then back to the beautiful, scarred surface of his ice rink.

He had a terrible, sinking feeling that the Indifferent Sorcerer, for all his kingdom-freezing power, was about to become the second most frustrating thing in his life.

The night was spent not in sharpening swords or studying ancient maps, but in the bleak, soul-crushing purgatory of paperwork. Ken’s chambers, usually a sanctuary of tasteful silks and strategically placed chaise lounges, had been converted into a temporary administrative sub-office. Anne had established what she called a “workflow-optimized document processing station” at his mahogany writing desk, leaving Ken to sprawl on the floor with a lap desk and a rapidly freezing pot of ink.

“You’ve used the wrong signifier on Form 43-B, ‘Declaration of Heroic Intent,’” Anne said, not looking up from her own stack of papers. She was cross-referencing a codex of royal decrees with a pocket-sized abacus. “You’ve circled ‘Valiant,’ when your profile clearly indicates your primary motivation falls under ‘Reluctantly Obligated.’ It’s a category 4 misfiling. We could be audited.”

Ken stabbed his quill into the inkpot with more force than necessary. “Does it matter? The end result is the same: me, freezing on some forsaken mountain, looking for a magical mood-ring.”

“It matters to the archivists,” Anne said. “And it matters for statistical tracking. The Bureau needs accurate data to project future heroic resource allocation. Last year, 73% of quests were undertaken due to ‘Prophetic Mandate,’ while only 18% were for ‘Personal Vengeance.’ ‘Spite’ was a surprisingly low 2%. We need to know if you’re a standard deviation or a statistical outlier. Now, initial here, here, and here. And use your full, legal name. ‘Ken’ is a diminutive. The forms require ‘Prince Kένnethalbert of the Western Spire.’”

“No one has called me that since my christening,” Ken grumbled, his hand cramping as he scratched the absurdly long name onto the vellum. “My own mother calls me Ken.”

“Your mother is not a legally binding document,” Anne retorted. “Next, Form 78-G, ‘Next-of-Kin Notification Preference.’ In the event of your dismemberment, vaporization, or transformation into a lower life form, whom shall we notify first, and via which method? Standard raven-gram, certified courier, or spectral projection?”

Ken let his head fall onto the stack of papers with a dull thud. The parchment smelled of dust and hopelessness. “Just leave a note on the fountain.”

“‘Fountain’ is not an approved notification recipient. Please see Appendix C for a list of acceptable designees.”

They worked for hours. Ken learned that his quest had a project number (Q-1138), a budget code (GL-774), and a projected success probability (48.7%, a number Anne seemed quite proud of). He had to declare any pre-existing magical ailments, list his personal fears in alphabetical order for the purpose of psychological risk assessment (he wrote ‘Bureaucracy,’ ‘Boredom,’ and ‘Beige’), and provide a notarized statement confirming he understood that the Royal Treasury was not liable for any curses, hexes, or chronic dampness acquired during his journey.

By the time the moon, a pale, heavily regulated orb, had risen to its designated apex in the sky, Ken was a hollow shell of a prince. His fingers were stained with ink, his brain buzzed with the meaningless jargon of the state, and his very soul felt as if it had been folded, spindled, and mutilated.

“Alright,” Anne said, stamping a final document with a heavy seal of approval. The thud echoed in the silent room. “Your provisional departure clearance is granted. We’ve been assigned a standard questing pack. Rations, climbing gear, 50 feet of regulation-grade rope, and a complimentary first-aid kit, which, I must warn you, does not include potions for dragon-fire-related injuries, as those fall under a separate insurance rider.”

“Wonderful,” Ken said, his voice flat. “I feel so… heroically enabled.”

Anne ignored his sarcasm, her mind already on the next logistical step. “We will requisition our transport at dawn. I’ve filed for two Royal Yetis. They’re the most efficient all-terrain option, though their union can be… difficult.” She packed her documents into her portfolio with a series of terrifyingly precise movements. Everything had a place. Everything was ordered. She was the living embodiment of the kingdom’s ethos.

She paused at the door, turning back to him. For the first time, her expression softened from ‘implacable administrator’ to something approaching ‘mildly concerned appliance.’ “You should get some sleep. According to my projections, you will need to operate at 92% efficiency for the first leg of the journey. Current metrics place your enthusiasm levels at a dangerously low 14%. This could compromise mission integrity.”

“Don’t worry about my enthusiasm,” Ken said, pushing himself to his feet and walking to the frosted window. He stared out at his beautiful, empty ice rink, gleaming under the pale moonlight. “It’s just… on backorder.”

Anne considered this for a moment. “I see. Do you have a requisition number for that?”

She left without waiting for an answer. Ken rested his forehead against the cold glass. The journey hadn’t even begun, and he was already defeated. Not by a sorcerer, or a monster, or a test of courage. He was being defeated by a thousand tiny, perfectly filed paper cuts. The cold outside was nothing. The real, endless winter was right here, in this room, in the ink and the vellum and the soul-crushing, deadening weight of the rules.

The next morning was grey and silent, the air so cold it felt solid. The Yeti Stables were located in the lower levels of the castle, a vast, cavernous space carved from the living glacier upon which the fortress was built. The air smelled of damp fur and ozone. Anne was already there, of course, standing before a massive iron gate, deep in conversation with a creature that looked like a mountain that had decided to grow hair and get a job.

The yeti was enormous, at least ten feet tall, with thick, white fur and a pair of majestic, curving horns. He wore a heavy leather tool belt and a vest emblazoned with the logo of the Amalgamated Brotherhood of Cryo-Fauna, Local 451. He held a clipboard in one massive, clawed hand and was currently shaking his head, a gesture that caused the icicles on his beard to clatter ominously.

“...and as I explained to the last three questing parties,” the yeti was saying, his voice a low rumble like shifting ice, “the new collective bargaining agreement is quite clear. Permafrost conditions on the Northern Pass are currently substandard. We’re seeing unacceptable levels of seasonal drift. It constitutes an unsafe working environment.”

“Grak,” Anne said, her tone crisp and professional, “we have a Level-Alpha Prophetic Mandate. That supersedes standard labor disputes as per the Inter-Species Accord of 1342, Article 15.”

“Ah, but the amendment of 1503, ratified after the Great Troll Strike, includes a ‘Hazardous Terrain’ clause,” Grak rumbled, tapping a thick claw on his clipboard. “Our members are not required to traverse areas where the ambient temperature fluctuates by more than 0.2 degrees Celsius over a 24-hour period. It compromises the integrity of their foot-pads.”

Ken walked up, his borrowed questing gear feeling stiff and alien. He was wearing fur-lined breeches, a thick woolen cloak, and boots that felt like they were made of lead. He felt less like a hero and more like a poorly packed piece of luggage.

“What’s the problem?” Ken asked.

Anne shot him a look that said, ‘The adults are talking.’ “A minor logistical snag, Your Highness. Grak is the shop steward for the transport yetis.”

“It’s not minor,” Grak grumbled. “Management has been ignoring our grievances for months. Do you know what the co-pay is on our dental plan? Tusk-sharpening is barely covered. And the cocoa in the break-cavern? It’s synthetic! Synthetic! We’re creatures of the ice. We demand organic, shade-grown cocoa beans.”

Ken stared at the ten-foot-tall beast of legend, now complaining about hot beverage quality. “You’re on strike?”

“It’s not a strike,” Grak corrected, puffing out his chest. “It’s a strategic work stoppage pending hazard assessment. We’re still performing essential duties, like intimidating tradesmen and looking majestic from a distance. But long-haul transportation? Not until our demands are met. It’s all in the pamphlet.” He tried to hand Ken a folded piece of hide, densely covered in runic script.

Anne stepped between them. “Grak, we have a signed requisition form. Your supervisor approved it.”

“My supervisor is a political appointee who thinks a glacier is just a slow-moving rock,” Grak sneered. “He doesn’t understand the needs of the working yeti. We need better permafrost. We need a better dental plan. And we demand a cessation of the use of the pejorative term ‘abominable.’ We prefer ‘altitudinally gifted.’”

This was it. This was his epic quest. Derailed before it began by a labor dispute over hot chocolate. Ken felt a bubble of something wild and unfamiliar rise in his chest. It wasn't anger. It wasn't despair. It was laughter.

It started as a small chuckle, but it grew, echoing strangely in the ice-bound cavern. He laughed until his sides hurt, until tears froze on his cheeks. He laughed at the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of it all. A prophecy, a quest, a knight-bureaucrat, a striking yeti. It wasn't a heroic saga; it was a farce.

Grak and Anne stared at him as if he’d just sprouted a second head. “Is he… malfunctioning?” the yeti rumbled to Anne.

“His enthusiasm metrics are unstable,” she conceded, eyeing Ken with clinical concern.

Ken finally caught his breath, wiping a frozen tear from his eye. He looked at Grak, a genuine smile on his face for the first time in days. “Okay, Grak. I hear you. The system is broken. It’s all forms and no substance. Tell me, when you’re out on the Northern Pass, what’s it like? The ice, I mean. Is it good?”

The yeti blinked, taken aback. “Good? It’s… it’s ice. It’s slick. It’s cold.”

“No, no,” Ken said, his eyes alight with a strange fire. He stepped closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Is it smooth? Does it have a good grain? When you slide on it, does it sing?”

Grak looked utterly bewildered. “I… I’ve never thought about it. We’re trained to maximize grip, not… sing.”

“You’re missing out,” Ken said, shaking his head. “The song of the ice is the only thing worth listening to in this kingdom. Tell you what. You get us to this sorcerer’s castle. And on the way back, I will teach you the art of the perfect, soul-freeing power slide. Forget cocoa. This is the kind of warmth that comes from within. A different kind of fire.” He paused, then added, “And I’ll personally file a grievance on your behalf about the tusk-sharpening thing. I’ll use so many sub-sections and footnotes they’ll give in just to make the paperwork stop.”

Grak stared at the strange, laughing prince. He looked at Anne, who was already mentally drafting the forms Ken had just promised to file. He looked back at Ken, whose eyes held not the grim determination of a hero, but the gleeful insanity of an artist. It was an expression the yeti had never seen before, but it was far more persuasive than any official mandate.

He let out a slow, rumbling sigh. “The paperwork would be appreciated. Fine. Get on. But if my foot-pads get chapped, I’m filing for overtime.”

The journey north was a study in contrasts. The landscape was a poem of brutal, minimalist beauty. Mountains of ice clawed at the perpetually overcast sky. Plains of frozen tundra stretched into infinity, the wind carving long, mournful sculptures from the snow. It was a world of stark, silent majesty.

And then there was the conversation. Or, more accurately, Anne’s continuous, monotonous recitation of risks, regulations, and contingency plans, punctuated by Ken’s increasingly surreal questions about the aesthetic qualities of various ice formations.

“According to geological survey 7B,” Anne said, consulting a map that was, naturally, laminated, “we are approaching the Crevasses of Inadvisable Shortcuts. It is imperative that we stick to the pre-approved route to minimize risk of unscheduled gravitational events.”

“Look at that overhang!” Ken exclaimed, pointing at a massive shelf of blue ice. “The lines on it! It’s like a frozen waterfall. Do you think one could luge down it? Hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically,” Anne replied, “one would accelerate to a terminal velocity of approximately 150 kilometers per hour before an abrupt and fatal cessation of movement at the bottom. I would strongly advise against it. It would also generate a significant amount of incident-report paperwork.”

Their yeti, Grak, plodded on, occasionally grumbling about the inferior quality of the trail-side snowdrifts, which apparently lacked the “structural integrity” he was used to.

They traveled for days, the world a blur of white and grey. They ate iron-hard rations that Anne meticulously logged in her supply ledger. At night, they slept in a magically-warmed tent that required a three-page assembly manual. Ken would lie awake, staring at the canvas ceiling, feeling a strange sense of dislocation. The quest was still boring, the bureaucracy still infuriating. But the laughter in the stable had changed something. He felt lighter. The world, for all its oppressive rules, was also profoundly, deeply silly. And in that silliness, there was a kind of power.

Finally, they saw it. A spire of jagged black ice, piercing the sky like a shard of frozen night. It was a fortress of pure, malevolent cold. It seemed to absorb the light around it, radiating an aura of profound apathy. This was the citadel of the Indifferent Sorcerer.

“Scanners indicate a high concentration of undirected chaotic magic,” Anne reported, peering through a brass-and-crystal device. “As well as a significant drop in ambient temperature. Recommending activation of personal thermal runes.”

“It looks… lonely,” Ken said, tilting his head.

“Architectural emotional projection is not a recognized metric,” Anne stated. “Prepare for potential hostiles.”

They left Grak at the base of the spire—he refused to go further, citing a lack of adequate guest parking—and began the final ascent. There were no guards. No magical traps. No riddling sphinxes. The only obstacle was a monumental staircase carved from the same black ice, each step polished to a treacherous sheen. Ken, for the first time, felt his skills might be useful. He navigated the stairs with the grace of a skater, while Anne had to use a set of regulation-issue crampons, her movements stiff and awkward.

The great doors of the fortress were frozen shut. Anne was preparing to consult a manual on siege tactics when Ken simply knocked.

The sound echoed, thin and small against the immense silence. They waited. Nothing.

Ken knocked again, this time with a bit of a rhythm. Shave-and-a-haircut.

There was a scraping sound from within, and then a muffled voice. “Go away! I’m busy!”

“We have a prophecy to fulfill!” Anne called out, her voice sharp with authority.

“Do you have an appointment?” the voice yelled back.

“Prophecies do not require appointments!”

“Everything requires an appointment! Read the sign!”

Ken squinted. There was, in fact, a small, crudely-carved sign hanging on the door. It read: ‘No Soliciting. No Heroes. No Wi-Fi Signal. Seriously, Don’t Even Bother Asking.’

“We’ve come for the Sunstone of Moderate Warmth!” Ken shouted.

There was a long pause, then the sound of multiple bolts being drawn. The massive ice door groaned open just a crack. A pale face peered out. It wasn’t the face of an ancient, terrible sorcerer. It was the face of a teenager. A boy of maybe fifteen, with messy black hair, dark circles under his eyes, and a profoundly bored expression. He was wearing an oversized, dark grey parka.

“Look,” the boy said, his voice a weary monotone. “I don’t have it. I don’t know what it is. I just made everything cold because I was bored and everyone kept bothering me. Can you please go away? I’m in the middle of a really complex enchantment.”

Anne pushed the door open, striding in with an air of absolute command. “You are the entity known as the Indifferent Sorcerer?”

“I guess,” the boy shrugged, stepping back into a vast, empty hall. The interior of the castle was just as bleak as the outside. There were no demonic thrones or bubbling cauldrons, just bare ice walls and a few sad-looking piles of magical components that looked suspiciously like dirty laundry. “People started calling me that. My name’s Kevin.”

Ken looked around the desolate ice cavern. It was the loneliest place he had ever seen. “You did all this… because you were bored?”

“And I have no Wi-Fi,” Kevin added, as if this were the most critical point. “Do you know how hard it is to master the dark arts when you can’t even stream tutorial videos? I’ve been trying to summon a Greater Demon of Unspeakable Torment for weeks, but I think I’m using an outdated incantation. The signal up here is terrible.”

This was the great evil. The source of the endless winter. A lonely, magically-gifted teenager with a connectivity problem. The absurdity hit Ken again, and he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

Anne, however, was all business. “Kevin, your unsanctioned meteorological enchantments have caused a kingdom-wide administrative crisis. The paperwork is staggering. We are here to serve you with a Cease and Desist order, and to retrieve the Sunstone.”

“I told you, I don’t have a Sunstone!” Kevin whined, flopping down onto a block of ice that served as a chair. “What would I even do with ‘moderate warmth’? It sounds so… meh.”

“I said the same thing!” Ken chimed in, suddenly feeling a strange kinship with the adolescent sorcerer. “It’s a terrible name for an artifact. No flair.”

“Right?” Kevin said, looking at Ken with interest. “It’s like, either have a Blazing Orb of Eternal Summer or just commit to the cold. Don’t half-do it.”

“Exactly! Aesthetically, it’s a mess,” Ken agreed. “But we’re stuck with it. The prophecy is very specific.”

Anne let out an exasperated sigh, a sound that cracked the air. “This is not a debate about magical branding! This is a matter of state security and public works! The kingdom is frozen! We need you to reverse the spell.”

“Why?” Kevin asked, genuinely curious. “It’s fine. It’s quiet. No one bothers me. Except for you guys.”

“The frozen pipes are causing untold infrastructure damage!” Anne argued. “The sanitation department has a backlog of complaints a mile long!”

“Central heating would solve that,” Ken mused aloud. “Far more efficient than one magical artifact.”

“Central heating is a logistical nightmare!” Anne shot back, turning on him. “The installation costs, the maintenance contracts, the carbon emissions… Enchanted parkas are a much more fiscally responsible solution. Individualized, low-overhead, and easily distributed via existing bureaucratic channels.”

“But the parkas are so bulky,” Kevin complained. “You can’t get a good slouch in an enchanted parka. And they chafe.”

“He has a point,” Ken said, nodding seriously. “The chafing is a real issue. And aesthetically, a kingdom full of puffy coats is a disaster. It ruins everyone’s silhouette.”

And so, the epic battle for the fate of Glacia Perpetua began. It was not a battle of fireballs and lightning bolts, but a three-way debate on the socio-economic and aesthetic merits of large-scale climate control. Anne argued with charts and figures she seemed to produce from thin air. Ken argued with appeals to beauty, form, and the importance of a good skating surface. Kevin argued that all their points were moot if he couldn't get a decent enough internet connection to look up cheat codes for his latest necromancy project.

Hours passed. The debate grew more and more arcane. They touched upon magical energy grids, the rights of ice elementals, and whether a partial thaw would require a complete rezoning of the kingdom’s agricultural sectors.

Finally, Ken had an idea. It was a stupid, absurd idea, but in this stupid, absurd world, it just might work.

“Okay, Kevin,” Ken said, stepping into the middle of the hall. “New deal. Forget the Sunstone. It probably doesn’t even exist. It sounds like something a committee would invent anyway.”

“Hey!” said Anne.

“You want Wi-Fi,” Ken continued, ignoring her. “The kingdom wants a thaw. We can make this work. What if we could get you a connection? A direct, high-speed magical link to the global arcane data-sphere?”

Kevin’s eyes widened. “You could do that?”

“We have a Royal Corps of Signals and Enchantments,” Anne admitted grudgingly. “Their response times are terrible, but their coverage is… adequate.”

“In exchange,” Ken said, “You allow for ‘seasonal thaws.’ Not moderate warmth, that’s too boring. But a proper Spring. A messy, chaotic, beautiful Spring. And a Summer. Let things melt. Let things grow. Let there be… puddles.”

Kevin considered it. He looked around his vast, empty, perfectly ordered ice castle. It was clean, it was quiet, but it was also profoundly dull. The idea of a world with color, with life, with high-speed internet… it was tempting.

“Deal,” Kevin said. “But I want the premium package. Unlimited data. No throttling.”

“I’ll draft the contract,” Anne said, already pulling a fresh sheet of vellum and a self-inking quill from her pack. The 'epic battle' had ended in a negotiation for telecommunications services. The Prophecy had been rendered obsolete by a service-level agreement.

The return journey was, if possible, even more surreal. They carried not a glowing artifact of legend, but a signed and notarized magical contract, complete with riders and an appendix detailing the agreed-upon bandwidth. Ken had fulfilled his destiny, not with a sword, but with a pen and a bit of ludicrous diplomacy.

As they descended from the black spire, a strange thing was happening. The air felt… different. A fraction of a degree warmer, perhaps. A single drop of water fell from an icicle and landed on Ken’s cheek. It was the first time he had ever felt liquid rain.

He stopped, looking up at the sky. A tiny crack had appeared in the uniform grey clouds, and through it, a sliver of something bright and unfamiliar shone through. The sun.

Anne looked up as well, her face unreadable. “The sorcerer is complying with the terms of the agreement ahead of schedule. That’s… efficient of him.”

They returned to the castle not to trumpets and fanfare, but to the dry, rustling sound of a bureaucracy kicking into high gear. News of the ‘Thaw Accords’ had preceded them, and the administrative body of the kingdom was reacting not with joy, but with the frenzied panic of an anthill that had just been told its entire structure was about to change.

Ken and Anne stood in the main hall, delivering their report to Lord Pompous and Magistrate Drone. The Committee seemed less pleased by their success and more horrified by the logistical implications.

“Puddles?” Magistrate Drone shrieked, her usual composure shattered. “Do you have any idea of the slip-and-fall liability? The paperwork will be endless! We’ll need new departments! The Ministry of Mud! The Office of Vernal Equinox Compliance! The Sub-Committee for Unscheduled Photosynthesis!”

Lord Pompous wrung his hands. “The prophecy was so much simpler! Get the rock, bring it back, plug it in! This… this is a regulatory nightmare!”

Ken watched them scurry away, shouting for scribes and clerks. He looked at Anne, who was gazing out the window at the slowly brightening sky. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips.

“You know,” he said quietly. “Defeating the sorcerer was easy. He was just a lonely kid. But them…” He nodded toward the retreating storm of panicked officials. “They’re the real endless winter, aren’t they?”

Anne didn’t answer. She just watched the sky, as the first, tentative rays of sunlight began to touch the ancient, frozen spires of the castle. The ice, for the first time in a generation, began to sweat.

For as the first drop of meltwater prepared to fall, a new department, the Ministry of Seasonal Moisture Management, was already printing its first one-thousand-page regulatory handbook in triplicate.