The Mistake of Encouragement
The glade had rules.
Old rules. Quiet rules. The kind of rules that didn’t need to be written down because nothing had dared to test them in several hundred winters.
Snow fell there differently—politely, almost. It drifted instead of dropped, settled instead of piled, as if the forest itself understood that this particular clearing was not a place for recklessness. Trees leaned inward, branches laced with frost, creating a bowl of white silence where even the wind learned to whisper.
Which made the laughter all the more offensive.
It burst out of the gnome like a cracked bell—sharp, delighted, and completely inappropriate. He doubled over in the snow, mittened hands clutching his belly, beard shaking so hard that loose flakes tumbled from it like startled birds.
“Oh—oh no—don’t do that again,” he wheezed, pointing with one mitten toward the dragon. “Or do. Actually, definitely do. That was magnificent.”
The dragon blinked.
It was small as dragons went—no larger than a firewood stack, all pale-blue scales and stubby limbs, its antler-like horns still short and uneven, as if they hadn’t quite decided what shape they wanted to grow into. Frost clung naturally to its hide, not the dangerous kind, but the soft shimmer of cold that belonged to it the way fur belonged to wolves.
It exhaled again.
This time, the icy breath formed bubbles.
Perfect, translucent bubbles that chimed softly as they drifted upward, catching light, wobbling like drunk snowflakes before popping with tiny crystalline pings.
The gnome lost what little dignity he had left.
He sank to his knees, laughing so hard his pointed red hat slid sideways. “That’s it,” he declared between gasps. “I’m dead. Killed by bubbles. Put that on my marker.”
The dragon tilted its head.
Its wide eyes flicked from the gnome’s shaking shoulders to his open mouth, to the way the sound echoed faintly off the trees and returned richer, fuller—as if the forest itself were listening.
The dragon straightened.
Something clicked.
Dragons, even young ones, were not stupid. They were creatures of pattern and response. Cause and effect. Action and outcome. And what the dragon observed, very clearly, was this:
I do a thing.
The small bearded creature collapses.
The forest reacts.
The dragon puffed its chest.
It exhaled again—harder.
The bubbles came faster this time, colder, sharper-edged. A few burst against the gnome’s boots, instantly frosting the leather white.
The gnome snorted. “Careful there, lad. I still need my toes.”
The dragon’s grin widened.
Excellent.
It stomped once—just a little stomp—but the ground answered with a faint crack, ice shifting beneath the snow. The sound echoed deeper than it should have.
The gnome noticed.
He stopped laughing.
Just for a heartbeat.
“Ah,” he said carefully, rising to his feet and brushing snow from his coat. “Now, that’s… impressive, but let’s not—”
The dragon roared.
It was not a big roar. Not yet. But it was confident. And that, as it turns out, mattered more.
The sound rolled across the glade, bounced off the trees, and came back changed—layered, multiplied, carrying weight that did not belong to a creature so small.
Snow shook loose from branches. Ice sighed.
Somewhere deep beneath the glade, something shifted and did not go back to sleep.
The dragon beamed.
The gnome stared.
“…oh,” he muttered. “You think I was laughing at you.”
The dragon raised its head higher.
Another stomp.
Another crack.
The glade, ancient and long-suffering, let out a sound that could only be described as a warning.
The gnome adjusted his scarf, forced a smile, and took a careful step backward.
“Alright,” he said gently. “We’re going to walk this enthusiasm back a bit before you accidentally become in charge of winter.”
The dragon inhaled.
Very deeply.
And the forest held its breath.
Confidence Is a Terrible Teacher
The dragon exhaled.
Not with frost.
With intention.
The breath rolled out slow and steady, no bubbles this time—just a creeping, deliberate cold that crawled across the snow like a living thing. Frost spread in delicate veins, racing outward from the dragon’s feet, climbing roots, kissing stones, tightening the air until it rang faintly, like glass rubbed with ice.
The gnome’s smile froze faster than the ground.
“Easy,” he said, palms out. “No need to flex. We were having a moment.”
The dragon puffed up further.
Moment acknowledged.
Dominance maintained.
It lifted one claw—slowly, ceremoniously—and brought it down.
The glade cracked.
Not shattered. Not yet. But the sound was deeper this time, old ice complaining as pressure shifted beneath centuries of snow. A ring of frost shot outward, snapping twigs, locking fallen leaves mid-decay like pressed memories.
The gnome stumbled.
“Oh no,” he said. “No no no. That’s… that’s the wrong lesson.”
The dragon turned in a slow circle, surveying the result. Its tail swished, carving a clean arc through powdery snow. A grin tugged at its mouth—small fangs glinting, proud and terribly pleased.
It roared again.
This time, the glade answered back.
Not with sound.
With movement.
The trees leaned further inward. Frost thickened on bark, growing in unfamiliar patterns—sigils old enough to predate names. Snow stopped falling.
The gnome felt it then.
That prickling along the spine. The sensation every sensible creature learns to fear: the unmistakable awareness of being noticed by something much larger and far less amused.
“Alright,” he said quietly, reaching into his coat. “That’s quite enough of that.”
He pulled out a small bell.
It was plain, dented, and unimpressive—copper dulled by age, tied with a fraying blue ribbon. The kind of thing you’d expect to hang on a goat, not challenge a dragon.
He rang it once.
The sound did not travel far.
But it sank deep.
The frost hesitated. The sigils on the trees dimmed slightly, as if reconsidering. The ground settled, grudgingly, like a beast shifting its weight but not lying down.
The dragon recoiled.
Just a step.
Its eyes narrowed.
Obstacle identified.
It snorted, sending a sharp puff of cold at the gnome’s boots. Ice climbed them instantly, locking leather to earth.
“Hey now!” the gnome snapped, yanking one foot free with a crack. “That’s rude. And unnecessary.”
The dragon bared its teeth.
It crouched.
That was when the glade finally gave up on subtlety.
The snow at the center of the clearing sank—slowly, deliberately—revealing a circular pattern etched into stone beneath. Runes flared to life, pale blue and furious, lighting the dragon’s scales from below.
The air thickened.
The gnome swore.
“Oh, that is not good,” he muttered. “That’s the ‘absolutely do not let a dragon do this’ circle.”
The dragon rose onto its hind legs, wings twitching for the first time.
It felt it now—power answering confidence, the glade mistaking bravado for command. The cold bent toward it, eager, obedient.
I am doing this correctly.
The gnome rang the bell again.
Nothing happened.
He rang it harder.
Still nothing.
Somewhere beneath the stone, something old finished waking up.
The runes flared white.
The dragon spread its wings.
The gnome looked up, beard bristling with frost, and sighed.
“I really should have explained laughter better.”
The Correct Interpretation of Laughter
The glade exhaled.
It was not a gentle breath.
Snow lifted from the ground in a slow spiral, hovering, trembling, as the runes beneath flared so brightly they burned blue shadows into the trees. The air grew sharp enough to sting lungs, every breath scraping like broken glass.
The dragon froze mid-pose.
Not physically.
Conceptually.
Its wings were half-spread, claws sunk into glowing stone, confidence still roaring in its chest—but something vast had wrapped a hand around the moment and said no.
The thing that rose from beneath the glade did not stand.
It unfolded.
Ice peeled back like old bark, revealing a shape made of frost, stone, and centuries of obligation. No face, no eyes—just the suggestion of authority etched into its form. The Warden of Winter. A construct, not a creature. A rule given weight.
It did not speak.
It remembered.
The dragon felt it then—the weight of lineage, of mistakes made long before it had hatched. Its confidence wavered, replaced by a creeping unease it did not have words for.
The gnome, still ankle-deep in half-frozen snow, lifted his hands.
“Now listen,” he said, calm but firm. “We’ve all had a misunderstanding.”
The Warden turned—slowly—toward him.
The gnome swallowed.
“I mean,” he added, “mostly my fault.”
The dragon let out a small, uncertain chirr.
It was nothing like a roar. More like a question.
The sound echoed once.
The glade shifted.
The Warden paused.
The dragon tried again—softer this time. A tentative exhale, barely enough to frost the air. No power. No bravado. Just sound.
The gnome smiled.
He laughed.
Not loudly. Not explosively. Just a warm, breathy chuckle that fogged the air and carried no challenge at all.
The Warden cracked.
Not physically—structurally. A fracture ran through its form, light leaking out like a held breath finally released. The runes dimmed. Snow drifted back to earth.
The glade relaxed.
The dragon lowered its wings.
Understanding settled where dominance had been.
Laughter is not victory.
It is invitation.
The Warden sank back into the earth, ice sealing over as if it had never been disturbed. The stone beneath the snow dulled, ancient rules reassuming their patient silence.
The gnome exhaled long and slow.
“There we are,” he murmured. “That’s the correct lesson.”
The dragon shuffled closer, nudging the gnome’s knee with a frosty snout. A single bubble escaped its breath—small, wobbly, harmless.
The gnome laughed again.
The forest allowed it.
Snow began to fall—soft, ordinary, polite.
In the days that followed, travelers swore the glade felt warmer. That winter behaved itself a little better there. That sometimes, if you stood very still, you could hear laughter carried on cold air—answered by the soft pop of ice bubbles.
And deep beneath the forest, an ancient rule quietly updated itself.
Giggles in the Glade of Frozen Fire isn’t just a tale—it’s a frozen little moment of joy you can keep around long after winter stops pretending it owns you. If you want that gnome-and-dragon mischief living on your wall (and silently judging your life choices), grab the framed print or go full “museum energy” with the luminous acrylic print. Want to earn the story the hard way? The puzzle lets you piece the chaos together one satisfying click at a time. And if you prefer portable magic, the pouch is basically a tiny enchanted bag for your real-world nonsense—while the greeting card is perfect for sending someone a little “I saw this and thought of your questionable taste” winter whimsy.
