(Recovered by hunters in Jotunheim, preserved on sealskin parchment)
Entry — Winter’s Wane, 1322 DR
We found it at dawn, half-buried in the frost of the western ridges. A shard of ice, jagged and perfect, as though cut from the heart of winter itself. It burned the hands with cold, yet never melted in the firelight. We carried it back wrapped in furs, though even then, the dogs whined and would not approach.
When we held it to the ear, it spoke. Not as a voice carried on the wind, nor the mutter of spirits, but clear words — Elvish, though older than the tongue the Alfar speak now. Three times it repeated, as if bound in a cycle:
“The one who cut the chain may yet unbind it.
My prison is not eternal.
The ice remembers.”
None of us claimed to know its meaning, though old Brynjarr spat and swore it was the Frostmaiden herself.
We swore to bury it again, far from our hearths. But the shard would not be covered. Each time we shoveled snow upon it, the drifts slid aside as if unwilling to touch it. At last we left it in a cave above the ridge, carving a warning rune on the stone: Do not listen. Do not touch.
I write this so others may know — the Frostmaiden whispers still. Whether it is promise or threat, I cannot say.
— H. Draugrsen, Hunter of Midgard