The wind bit my cheeks like a thousand tiny teeth, and I couldn't feel my fingers anymore.

I'm Geneva, and I should probably mention that getting lost on Frostpeak Mountain wasn't part of my hiking plan. My dog, Biscuit, had chased a rabbit into the forest, I'd chased Biscuit, and now the trail had vanished beneath fresh snow like it had never existed at all.

"Biscuit!" I called for the hundredth time. My voice echoed back, mocking me.

That's when I saw the cave.

Now, everyone in Pinewood Village knows about the Yeti of Frostpeak. Old Mr. Henderson swears it ate his prize-winning goat. Mrs. Chen claims it shattered her cabin windows with a single roar. My own grandmother tells stories of its glowing red eyes and claws like kitchen knives.

So when I noticed the massive footprints leading into that cave—each one bigger than my entire backpack—my brain screamed *run*.

But my frozen feet screamed louder: *warm up or die*.

I crept inside.

The first thing I noticed wasn't a monster. It was the *clicking*. Rhythmic, gentle clicking, like my grandmother's knitting needles on winter evenings. The second thing I noticed was the warmth—impossible, wonderful warmth radiating from somewhere deeper in the cave.

And the third thing I noticed was my dog.

Biscuit sat perfectly still, tail wagging, wearing the ugliest sweater I'd ever seen. Bright orange yarn with purple polka dots stretched over his golden fur like a lumpy sausage casing.

"What in the—"

That's when the Yeti turned around.

He was enormous. White fur covered every inch of his body, and his shoulders nearly scraped the cave ceiling. His eyes weren't red—they were deep brown, like warm cocoa, and currently wide with surprise.