The Snowman didn't walk; he charged. His massive paws crunched through the
permafrost, sending sprays of ice into the air. His eyes, usually golden and soft whenlooking at his sisters, were now wide and bulging with a primal, territorial rage.
Behind him, the two sisters struggled to keep up, their breath coming in ragged white
plumes as they navigated the thickening mist.
"Big Brother, wait!" the eldest sister called out, her hand gripping a bone-knife. "What
do you see?"
They reached the jagged shoreline, the black waves of the neutral ocean licking at the
ice. The Snowman stood frozen, his nostrils flared, drawing in the scent he had
detected earlier. It was stronger now—metallic, sharp, and wrong. Yet, as they
scanned the horizon, there was nothing. Only the endless, sufocating wall of white
mist and the rhythmic groan of the tides.
For a moment, the tension broke. The Snowman let out a confused huf, his shoulders
sagging as he turned back toward his sisters. He began to rub his hands together,
wondering if the "noise" in his head had finally tricked him.
Then, the mist screamed.
A massive hull, jagged and dark, sliced through the fog like a butcher's blade. With a
bone-shaking thud, the ship slammed into the island's shore, grinding against the
rocks until it came to a violent halt.
The Snowman didn't hesitate. With a roar that shook the very foundation of the island,
he leaped. His six-foot frame cleared the railing, landing on the deck with enough
force to crack the wood. He was ready to tear apart whatever intruder had dared to
bring "noise" to his home—but as he stood up, his rage evaporated.
His sisters scrambled up the side of the hull, reaching the deck moments later. They
found their Big Brother standing in the center of the ship, his massive body trembling.
He wasn't growling. He was terrified.
The sisters looked where he was looking, and the breath left their lungs.
The ship was pristine. There were no signs of battle, no broken masts, and the sails
were neatly tucked as if the crew had simply stepped away. But the deck was not
empty. A literal river of deep, crimson blood flowed from the captain's quarters,
pooling around the Snowman's feet and spilling over the side of the ship into the
snow.
There wasn't a single body. No screams, no struggle, and no creature in sight—only
the silent, steaming warmth of fresh blood on a ghost ship.
The eldest sister clutched Noel to her chest, her eyes darting across the empty deck.
The silence was louder than any roar. Curiosity turned into a cold, hollow dread as
they realized the "Iron" smell wasn't just a warning—it was a funeral.