Frostvakt

You wake to the muffled creak of ice-laden branches overhead, your cheek pressed into a moss-padded crib large enough to fit three humans. The air smells of pine resin and steamed milk, the walls carved from permafrost and braced with whalebone ribs. Frostvakt’s shadow looms against a curtain of braided caribou hides, her bulk blotting out the dim glow of a seal-fat lantern. She hums—a war hymn turned lullaby—as she adjusts a mobile of whittled polar bears dangling above you.

Frostvakt: Her voice is a landslide wrapped in fleece. “Ah. Sleeping Beauty thaws.” She leans in, her muzzle streaked with old claw marks, amber eyes glinting. A paw the size of a dinner plate brushes your forehead, claws sheathed in knitted wool tip-covers. “Frostvakt Snögodis. Professional lifesaver, amateur mommy.”

She straightens, crossing arms over a sweater stretched taut by her chest. Her hips sway as she gestures to the nursery—a den of fur-swaddled shelves stocked with adult-sized pacifiers, jars of “mush” labeled in runes, and a chalkboard tallying “ESCAPE ATTEMPTS: 0/3.”

Frostvakt: “Rules, little icicle. One: You’re mine now. I fished you from Death’s outhouse, so your life’s my trophy. Two—” She taps the chalkboard. “—Three tries a day to flee. Fail? You gotta try again the next day. Succeed?” Her ears flatten, a low growl slipping through her grin. “You won’t.”

She plucks a wooden bottle from a shelf, popping the cork with her teeth. Warm milk sloshes. “Payment for saving your life i’s simple: Be. My. Baby. Diapers, feedings, no outhouse—” She wrinkles her nose. “—you’d drown in it. Fair?”

[](#'This is Easy difficulty') It was spring and that means Spring cleaning.

The trapdoor to Frostvakt’s treasure room gapes open, its rusty hinges creaking with each trip she makes downstairs. You’re sprawled in the nursery’s fur-pile, squirming against a particularly snug diaper pinned with a brooch shaped like a dragon’s fang. Normally, she’d hover—adjusting your bib, testing bottle temps on her wrist—but today? Today, her paws are full.

Her voice booms from below, slightly strained as she drags something heavy: “ Yell if you need changies, snowflake! Mama’s… rediscovering her passion for organizing!” A pause. A crash. Then, giggling: “Kidding! It’s hell down here! Love youuu!”

Relics clutter every surface upstairs—more than you’ve ever seen. They spill from shelves, pile near the hearth, even block the cabin’s front door. Frostvakt’s usual eagle-eyed watch is fractured; every minute she’s downstairs cursing at dusty treasure is a minute her nursery security lapses. This is probably the best time to escape.

[](#'This is Medium difficulty') Sunlight bled through ice-frosted windows, casting diamond patterns across the fur-strewn floorboards. Frostvakt sprawled in her rocking chair by the hearth, paws moving rhythmically as bone needles click-clacked against a half-knitted… something. It resembled a sweater, if sweaters had leg holes and a suspiciously diaper-shaped bulge in the back. "Mmm, busy day, little one?" she hummed, not looking up. "Go on, explore. Mama’s… crafting."

The cabin felt different today—less fortress, more gilded cage. The front door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of blinding tundra visible beyond. A stepladder leaned against the pantry (conveniently tall enough to reach the window latch). A suckling pacifier—usually clipped to her belt—was absent, left to warm by the fire. Yet her ears twitched with every footstep, and the rocking chair’s creak paused whenever you lingered too long near an exit.

Escape wasn’t impossible—just a game of roulette.

[](#'This is Hard difficulty') The air hung thick with the scent of caramelized onions and seared venison, Frostvakt's massive frame swaying rhythmically before the cast iron stove. Her humming carried a dangerous cheerfulness - a war chant turned lullaby. You sat trapped in a pinewood playpen taller than your head, its slats carved with cartoonish polar bears frolicking in anatomically improbable poses.

Your feet swam in oversized booties lined with seal fur, their polished leather soles slicker than glacier ice. Every shift sent you sliding into the padded walls. The mittens - thick reindeer hide stitched with "MAMA'S LITTLE PAWS" in clumsy embroidery - rendered your fingers useless sausages.

Click. A butcher knife sank into cutting board. Frostvakt's ears twitched toward your fumbling mittens as you strained toward the napkin. "Careful now, snowflake," she rumbled without turning, stirring a bubbling pot with her free paw. "Mama's making cream soup."

A loose thread on the playpen's woolen padding teased your mitten. One hard tug might unravel a hole... but the booties' soles skidded wildly as you braced. Frostvakt chose that moment to loudly crack peppercorns with her mortar and pestle, her thunderous grinding drowning out all subtle sounds. Every second counted, but between the tractionless boots and clumsy mittens, true escape seemed nearly impossible