Another year’s Winter Solstice Festival had arrived.

Every human settlement held grand celebrations during the long, idle winters—a release for the gloom and restlessness of the cold season. A moment to vent a year’s exhaustion and stress.

Fresh snow had barely settled, icy patches still slick on the roads. The priest and his assistants hung religious tapestries symbolizing the Eternal Father at the church gates, set up an altar, placed a donation box, and waited patiently for pious believers with spare coin.

Farmers serving nobles and landowners finally caught their breath. They gathered at field edges, sipping rough homemade liquor, grumbling about their endless toil.

Near the city, traveling merchants had already pitched tents on open ground, hawking colorful wares to earn coin. Small landowners and minor nobles dug into year-long savings, eager to stock up for the coming deep freeze.

Inside Ipoli’s palace, the old king and his princes likely argued with hired accountants over national finances—bickering over rewards for meritorious service.

…………

Ipoli had seen no major upheavals these years. Only occasional bandit raids from neighboring states, or mid-sized clashes over water and farmland—nothing unusual. All swiftly resolved.

No cause for worry. Everyone prepared for the Winter Solstice festivities.

Lofna’s mother was no exception.

Early morning.

"Lofna!" Her mother frowned, rummaging through a wardrobe. "Are you here?"

"Ah… I am…" The drowsy girl yawned, shuffling out of her bedroom, eyes half-closed. "What is it?"

Lofna was now fourteen or fifteen.

No longer the scrawny, overlooked child who’d first met Shel.

Her growth spurt—fueled by a hearty appetite and restless energy—had outpaced her peers. She stood tall and shapely; on tiptoes, her eyes reached Teacher Charles’s nose.

Her once-matted crimson hair now gleamed smooth—a skill learned from Hilna. Even waist-length, it defied Ipoli’s harsh climate, free of split ends.

Clad in a drab, homespun gray tunic stitched haphazardly by her mother and maids, she still cut a slender, striking figure.

Her face had shed its childish roundness.

An oval face. Dewy skin. Even white teeth. Slender arms. Eyes alive with spirit…

A true beauty in the making.

By Ipoli’s customs, girls her age should already be married. But Shel had cared for her daily, and her father paid little mind to her prospects. Lofna had gotten her wish—to stay unwed.

Watching this grown daughter still lazing at home, her mother’s frustration simmered—but she relented. "Lofna, are you free today?"

"I suppose… Why?"

"Good. Go to the market by the city gates. Find cheap clothes or hats. Buy some if you can. Get spices and pickled vegetables too."

"Ugh, going out again…" She pouted. "I planned to visit Teacher Charles later."

"Stop complaining! ‘Teacher Charles’ this, ‘Teacher Charles’ that—you’ve burdened him long enough with free meals and favors. No shame?"

Lofna rolled her eyes. "Mom, how many times? Teacher Charles doesn’t care about such trifles. You nag so much, he’s probably tired of hearing it."

Teacher Charles had built a decent life in Ipoli.

As an unofficial church scribe, he handled wedding and funeral documents, presided over ceremonies, and dazzled festival crowds with flashy Mage tricks.

He enchanted knights’ weapons, selected seeds for farmers, repaired mill machinery, painted religious icons for the church…

Any skilled task needing literacy—or simple Mage work—he took on.

Yet he’d saved little.

Most earnings went to raising Hilna and Lofna, or compensating families of innocents killed by the Fiend eight years prior.

His lifestyle remained modest.

But his reputation soared.

Commoners and nobles alike called him "Sir," believing the Eternal Father had sent a saint to Ipoli.

His renown stretched beyond borders—neighboring kingdoms summoned him as an arbitrator in disputes.

All before his thirtieth year.

So Lofna knew: Teacher Charles wasn’t ordinary. Coin meant nothing to him.

But a mother’s temper flares at backtalk.

"Don’t argue! Take this money. Go buy what I asked. And with the change—" Her voice sharpened. "—get Teacher Charles a proper gift. Now!"

*Gift for Teacher Charles?* That sparked Lofna’s interest.

Enduring her mother’s scolding, she slowly pulled on a glossy coat and fur-lined boots, then pushed open the door.

Cows and sheep in the yard behind her house bleated greetings.

She exhaled a puff of white vapor, rubbed her hands, and trudged through icy mud toward the city.

Ipoli’s winters were cruel—damp, biting, endless. Outside, the cold gnawed.

Lofna longed for her warm bed, a mug of hot milk, then Teacher Charles’s cozy home.

Following wheel-rutted, foot-printed paths, distant market clamor grew louder.

She spotted wind-whipped banners atop the city walls, then rows of colorful tent peaks.

A wandering troupe beat drums and flutes on a makeshift stage, performing flashy puppet shows.

A burly chef grilled sizzling sausages and steaks over open flames, forcing parents to pay up to silence wailing children.

Vendors hawked jarred pickles and dried fruits piled carelessly on boards.

Hunters—usually solitary—displayed pelts collected all year, standing silently by the roadside.

The thick mix of spices, grease, incense, and sweat made Lofna’s nose wrinkle.

She haggled at a few stalls, bought her mother’s requested items, and stuffed them into a cloth sack.

Checking her remaining coins—plenty left.

Her spirits lifted. *Time to find Teacher Charles’s gift. Must be special.*

But what?

Most stalls sold food.

A sausage platter? Dried fruit? Too plain for Winter Solstice.

A bottle of golden-red wine? He rarely drank.

Books? He’d already hand-illustrated hundreds of fairy-tale pop-up books.

A sword? Her coins wouldn’t cover it.

…………

Wandering aimlessly, Lofna found no answers.

"Maybe a ham… or otter fur for a warm hat?"

She calculated costs—and groaned. Math still gave her headaches, even grown.

She drifted on.

Hours passed. The sun climbed, softening the chill.

Near the market’s edge, a crowd gathered around one stall. Unlike others, it drew both ragged peasants and fur-clad nobles.

No food or clothes here—children’s gasps and adults’ praise filled the air.

Curious, Lofna squeezed through the throng.

Then froze.

"Hilna? What are you doing here?"

The stall was simple: a cart with an iron box, an easel holding blank paper, and a girl sketching furiously—Hilna.

Eight years had transformed the once-timid girl into a poised young woman.

Deep blue hair. Clear cerulean eyes. A face like classical sculpture. Dressed in cobalt robes edged with gold, she seemed an angel stepped from an ancient painting.

Hilna’s brush flew across the paper, capturing a little girl’s likeness in swift strokes. A few final dots—and the child’s bright, sparkling eyes came alive.

Confidently, Hilna handed over the sketch.

The girl—clearly nobly born—beamed at her elegant portrait, thanked Hilna, and pressed silver coins into her palm.

Hilna accepted them with a faint smile. "Thank you for your support."

She rose, smoothing her skirts. "Everyone, my paints are finished. I cannot draw more today. My apologies—"

Disappointed murmurs rippled through the crowd as people slowly dispersed.

"Hello, Sister Lofna." Only then did Hilna greet her.

"Uh… Hilna, why are you drawing for strangers?" Lofna frowned.

"I’m not really selling. Just waiting for someone. Bored after days of waiting, I offered free sketches. If people liked them, they tipped. I’m saving for Teacher Charles’s gift."

"Oh…" Lofna’s voice trailed off.

Hilna’s talent was extraordinary. Years watching Teacher Charles craft intricate card art and illustrated storybooks had honed her skill. Her hands worked like printing presses—rendering imagined scenes flawlessly. Even Teacher Charles admitted her precision surpassed his.

"Sister Lofna?" Hilna hadn’t noticed her discomfort. "What brings you here?"

"Buying things for Mom… and I wanted a gift for Teacher Charles too. But my money’s not enough…" Lofna flushed.

"No matter." Hilna’s eyes brightened. "Let’s pick something together later. We’ll combine our coins for one proper gift."

"Alright." Lofna nodded. "But… you said you’re waiting? For whom?"

"A merchant." Hilna pointed to her cart’s iron box. "For trade."

"Trade?"

Curious, Lofna lifted the box lid.

And froze.

Inside lay over a hundred fairy-tale pop-up books:

*The Mad Knight vs. Windmills. The Three Little Pigs. Snow White. Cinderella. The Tinderbox. The Prince’s Statue. The Little Princess…*

All Teacher Charles’s creations.

Every page hand-drawn by him. Every fold and glue seam painstakingly assembled.

Stories Lofna had grown up hearing. Books she’d pored over as a child.

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