Morning light filtered through the frost-crusted window, pale and watery, painting long blue shadows across Y/n's bedroom floor.

The glass was cold. Colder than it should have been, even for January.

Ice crept from her fingertips to her wrist, crystalline and glittering, beautiful and terrifying in the same breath. She snatched her hand back. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

The frost on the window remained. It hadn't been there a moment ago.

Except for the tiny, lingering chill that refused to leave her palm.

Downstairs, her parents' voices drifted up in easy morning banter. They didn't know. They couldn't know.

But the ice on the window was still there, etched in patterns that hadn't been formed by the cold.

<Narrator: And it's spelling something.>