The Frost Dragon and the First Shovel of the Season

On the first true morning of winter, when the sky turned the color of crushed ice and the wind hummed its low, sleepy tune, a young frost dragon named Glintbright burst from his lair with uncontainable excitement. This was the day he had been waiting for — Shoveling Day, the unofficial start of the season.

Glintbright adored everything about winter. The sting of cold on his snout. The glitter of fresh snow on his scales. The satisfying crunch of ice beneath his claws.

But even a frost dragon had to admit that snow had its inconveniences. It piled high around his cavern entrance, drifted into the walkway, and made it terribly difficult for wandering adventurers to stumble inside — which was, of course, the primary way his dinners arrived. Snow could also block the path used by various creatures who visited to deliver their offerings of fealty: polished stones from the mountain dwarves, jars of starlight from the moon elves, and the occasional politely terrified goat from the hill giants.

So Glintbright fetched his favorite tool: a wide, rune‑etched snow shovel nearly as tall as he was. He planted his feet, flicked his tail for balance, and then began to scoop.

Swoosh.

Scrape.

Fwoomp.

Glintbright shoveled with gusto, sending arcs of powder glittering through the air. He carved a neat, winding path from the mouth of his cavernous lair all the way down to the frozen creek. He even added a little flourish at the end — a decorative curl of cleared stone, just to show he had style.

When he finally leaned on his shovel, panting happily, he admired his work. It was a perfect path. A welcoming path. A “please‑come‑in‑and‑don’t‑mind-the-teeth” path.

But when he turned around to head back inside…

…the entire stretch behind him had already vanished beneath a fresh blanket of snow.

The sky, it seemed, had decided to start the next storm without asking.

Glintbright blinked once. Twice. He let out a delighted trill.

“Again!”

So he shoveled the path a second time. And a third. And a fourth. Meanwhile, each time he finished, winter simply laid another shimmering layer behind him, as though playing a gentle prank.

By midday, Glintbright was still at it — cheerful, determined, and utterly unfazed. For this was the secret joy of frost dragons: winter never ends, and neither does the fun of clearing it away.

And if an adventurer happened to wander by, slipping on the freshly iced stones and tumbling neatly into his lair?

Well, that was just another perk of keeping a tidy entrance.