1 Prologue

The Red Winter.

Eight years ago, amid the tranquil, snow-covered expanse of the Nivaltum Kingdom, a pristine gem of serenity perched proudly on the western edge of the continent, life teemed in a breathtaking winter wonderland.

Nivaltum, known as the ancestral home and dominion of the Glaciadenti people, represented a unique realm where the very landscape painted a vibrant portrait of their unwavering resilience and indomitable spirit.

Nestled within the colossal fortress city, hewn with relentless determination into the formidable side of a majestic mountain, an air of jubilation enveloped the towering citadel. This day was nothing short of extraordinary, an occasion like no other.

It marked the birth of the king's son, the very heir to the Nivaltum throne. To commemorate this momentous occasion, a grand feast unfurled within the heart of the kingdom, unlike any that had ever graced its vast halls.

For this remarkable event, every citizen of the kingdom was summoned to partake in a banquet where food and drink flowed in lavish abundance.

In this harsh and unforgiving land where sustenance was a rare luxury, the opportunity to consume with unrestrained enthusiasm was a gift no soul could refuse.

As the festivities commenced, the king, a colossus among his people, his voice akin to a sonorous echo resounding through the resplendent hall, addressed the gathered crowd.

"My people, I am profoundly grateful for all of you who have gathered on this magnificent night to celebrate the birth of my son," he declared. His voice resonated through the assembly, a mingling of awe and admiration filling the frosty air.

This king was no ordinary man; he embodied the very essence of the Glaciadenti race. His marbled blue and white skin bore witness to his esteemed lineage, and he stood as a towering figure, reaching a height of at least four meters and possessing the girth of a house.

His strength, like that of all Glaciadenti, was the wellspring of his power and social standing in their intricate society.

The king's voice resonated with heartfelt gratitude as he stood before the assembly, weaving a tale of tribulations he and his wife had faced.

"After years of trying and failing, I thought I was doomed to be childless, forever condemned to soar above but never to be a father."

The weight of the king's words hung heavy in the hall as he continued his story.

"Things took a darker turn when we discovered that my beloved wife could not bear children."

He paused, his gaze reflecting the painful memories that had haunted him for so long.

"In truth, when those words reached my ears, a part of me felt as if it had withered away. I feared that Marendthia and I would never experience the profound joy of parenthood, never hold the living proof of our love."

His voice grew softer as he delved deeper into his intimate narrative.

"I believed that I would never know the privilege of being a father."

But hope, like a flickering beacon in the darkness, had never deserted them.

"We never surrendered to despair. Against the counsel of healers and even in defiance of Fate, my wife gave birth."

The king's eyes glistened with unshed tears, their presence testament to the depth of emotion in his words.

"She gave birth, and in her act, she bestowed upon me the most wondrous of gifts—the gift of fatherhood."

"On this auspicious day, we shall feast and drink, celebrating the honor of my beloved wife and the arrival of my son!" he proclaimed, his voice resounding with joy.

A euphoric cheer erupted from the crowd, mugs raised high in honor of the new life and the realization of a long-held dream.

The king, a symbol of his jubilation, seized an entire barrel of wine and joined his subjects in the revelry.

The queen, perhaps overwhelmed by the grandeur of the event, kissed her husband on the cheek and, with her infant son in her arms, retreated to the chambers.

A celebration of such magnitude was no place for a newborn, and a quiet retreat was their prudent choice.

The Glaciadenti, renowned for their solemnity and stoicism, seldom engaged in exuberant merriment.

Their environment, dominated by unforgiving seasons, demanded unwavering diligence for survival.

Their reputation as unyielding as the icy mountains they called home was well-earned.

Yet, when the occasion permitted, they embraced mirth with grace and reveled with a depth of passion that spoke of their indomitable spirit.

These hardy people, swathed in fur-laden attire designed for warmth and protection rather than fashion, defied the constraints of their garments.

Dancing and joy flowed through their veins, and they moved with astonishing grace.

Circles of celebration formed, and the melodies of age-old songs resonated through the night.

The laughter of the Glaciadenti became the joyful symphony that marked this auspicious occasion.

In the midst of this sea of jubilant marbled blue and white figures, an enigmatic guest dared to venture into the heart of the feast. His name was Zaheer, a middle-aged man with jet-black hair and dark brown skin. His attire was unconventional, a set of baggy brown robes, and a white blindfold veiled his eyes, setting him apart from the Glaciadenti celebrants.

An unexpected and surprising camaraderie emerged among the Glaciadenti. They welcomed this mysterious stranger, extending their warmth to him in a fashion that defied conventional wisdom. It was a testament to the unique spirit of the Glaciadenti people.

Conversations encircled Zaheer as they sought to bring a smile to his face, one that had been shrouded in a shadow of sadness throughout the evening. The stranger from foreign lands had not expected this generosity. The Glaciadenti, renowned for their resilience, did not engage in such acts of sentimentality.

The unsettling feeling of self-disgust churned within Zaheer's stomach, growing ever more potent despite the generous amount of wine he consumed. He questioned whether this inclusivity was motivated by pity for his disability.

A rough yet gentle voice broke through his contemplations, offering both a reproach and an act of kindness. "I see you've nearly emptied your mug. That won't do," it chided, accompanying the admonishment with the generous refilling of Zaheer's mug.

Gratitude overwhelmed him, and he responded, "Thank you, that's very kind of you."

The stranger, whose presence was both warm and welcoming, urged Zaheer to cast aside his somber countenance. "Come now, my friend. You've been in the doldrums the entire evening. Let yourself go, join in the festivities. Such grand celebrations don't come around every day," he encouraged.

With some hesitation, Zaheer agreed, raising his mug with a swift, resolute motion, and emptied it in a single draught.

"Empty mugs are not allowed," Zaheer declared, passing his vessel in the direction of the voice, a silent request for another fill.

Collective gasps of astonishment filled the air, soon followed by raucous smiles and hearty laughter. Zaheer had wholeheartedly embraced the revelry, even inciting a friendly challenge among his newfound acquaintances to determine who would be the last one standing.

"Now, that's what I'm talking about," they exclaimed, clinking their mugs together in a harmonious toast.

As the celebration raged on, the revelers stood shoulder to shoulder, drinking from their mugs with enthusiasm. Mug after mug was emptied, but it was Zaheer who emerged victorious, the undeniable champion of their drinking contest. With a resounding burp, he marked his triumphant victory, which was met with an outpouring of cheers and applause in his honor.

Feeling the need for a brief respite from the merrymaking, Zaheer politely excused himself, gently squeezing through the animated crowd. He navigated his way to the balcony with the support of his cane.

The brisk winter air embraced him as he leaned against the castle's stone wall. A moment of fleeting silence enveloped him as he gazed out into the sprawling night. From the balcony, he could hear the distant sounds of mirth and laughter emanating from the Glaciadenti within.

His hand, seemingly drawn by an invisible force, found its way into the pocket of his robes. There, his fingers closed around a small picture, a precious memento. The image depicted a dark-haired girl whose radiant smile was forever etched in his memory.

As tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, he whispered an apology to the picture. "Please forgive me, darling, but I have no other choice," he murmured. The weight of his unspoken burden pressed heavily on him.

Determined to collect himself, Zaheer wiped away his tears and drew in a deep, steadying breath. With his resolve strengthened, he turned from the balcony, leaving behind the night's enchanting chill. The warmth of the castle's interior awaited him, along with the continued revelry of the Glaciadenti.

—-----

In the dimly lit corridor of the Nivaltum Kingdom, a formidable assembly of ten Glaciadenti warriors stood sentinel, their presence underscoring the solemnity of their charge. They faced the imposing chamber door, expressions marked by a sense of longing and disappointment. The fervent revelry from the other rooms reverberated through the massive fortress, seeping through the long hallway.

These warriors, towering and built like living citadels, were adorned in pristine suits of armor that gleamed like the purest ice. Their arms held spears and swords, symbols of their unwavering loyalty to their duty. The pale moonlight spilled gently through grand windows to the right, casting an ethereal glow that served as a poignant reminder of the lateness of the hour.

As the night deepened, the sounds of celebration only grew more raucous. The Glaciadenti inside the chamber celebrated with a fervor that made it clear they intended to extract every last ounce of joy from the night.

Amidst their vigil, some of the guardians couldn't help but grumble under their breath. Duty had kept them away from the merriment, and their reasons for being stationed here were as varied as their expressions. A few had taken up this watch solely to secure the means to sustain their families through the impending winter, driven by the harsh reality that job opportunities had grown scarce.

Yet, as they heard the distant strains of laughter and music emanating from the celebrants inside, their convictions began to waver. They couldn't help but wonder if they had made the wrong choice.

One among the guardians, an elder and seasoned warrior by the name of Manghto, took it upon himself to address his fellow guards. His voice bore the weight of experience and disapproval. "Hush your mutterings and remain focused on your duty."

His reprimand was met with bewildered glances and youthful laughter. "Come on, Manghto," a young warrior countered, "why not lighten up a bit? Everyone else is having a grand time inside, and it's been quiet here all day." Another added, "We're not hurting anyone by enjoying ourselves, sir."

Manghto shook his head with a paternal sigh, a bemused smile emerging despite his attempts to maintain a stern facade. "You youngsters... You have no respect for work or for those who undertake it. I do wonder where the future of our warriors is headed if this is what you consider the pinnacle of dedication."

The younger warriors shared bemused glances and muffled laughter. Their camaraderie was palpable, and even the venerable Manghto couldn't resist cracking a faint smile.

However, their brief respite was rudely interrupted by the unmistakable sound of wood scraping against the ground from within the chamber.

"Who goes there?" demanded one of the warriors in a stern and alert tone, the laughter of moments ago replaced by an unwavering vigilance. They resumed their positions, their expressions now taut with seriousness. The expansive corridor fell into a tense silence.

But there was no response. The mystery of the intruder remained concealed, lurking in the shadows of the fortress.

"State your purpose here at this late hour," another warrior commanded, his voice a defiant challenge.

Once more, a thick silence descended upon the dimly lit corridor, charged with tension and foreboding. The warriors exchanged wary glances, their spears poised to strike against the creeping shadow inching closer to them. In the stillness of the hallway, the intruder's voice materialized in a barely audible whisper.

"I'm sorry... Please forgive me for what I'm about to do," Zaheer murmured, his voice carrying a haunting undertone.

In the span of a heartbeat, the tranquility shattered, replaced by chaos. No, it was swifter than chaos; the Glaciadenti warriors could scarcely follow the whirlwind of events that transpired. The warrior who had dared question the intruder's intent now lay headless, and none of the nine remaining warriors could discern when or how it had occurred.

A mere second later, orange-hued blood rained down upon the other warriors, their once-pristine white armor now stained by the gruesome testament of their comrade's life essence. The sickening reality of their vulnerability took hold as the metallic scent of blood pervaded the corridor.

"In formation!" commanded the wise elder, Manghto, determined to restore a semblance of order to the chaos. The remaining Glaciadenti warriors hastily regrouped, their spears thrust forward, pointed at the enigmatic figure who had vanished as swiftly as a fleeting ghost.

"Don't let your guard down! Be prepared for anything!" Manghto's voice resounded, both a stern warning and an urgent plea.

With an unwavering demeanor, the old warrior turned his gaze to a female companion, instructing her with a mix of authority and concern, "You, Yahvta, sound the alarms and summon reinforcements."

"Yes, sir," she replied dutifully, her hand reaching for a concealed crystalline beetle hidden within her armor to communicate the alarm. However, before she could complete the call, an ethereal blade, enveloped in ghostly green flames, sliced her throat with uncanny swiftness. She fell lifeless, the small crystal beetle dropping from her lifeless hand and flying off.

In the face of such a shocking death, the remaining warriors reacted with a combination of fear, confusion, and determination. They thrust their spears toward Zaheer, yet their elusive quarry slipped through their grasp once more.

"Damn it!" Manghto cursed as the creeping panic began to infiltrate their ranks.

"What's happening?" one of the warriors quivered, his voice betraying the fear that gripped his heart.

Manghto, in a remarkable display of composure and leadership, issued orders. "Do not yield to fear! Transition to formation zero, and stand ready to fend off an assault from any direction."

"This is no ordinary adversary," Manghto warned the others, his voice heavy with a somber truth. His words were immediately validated as, in that very instant, Zaheer materialized once more, wreathed in eerie green flames.

With his unassuming cane now transmuted into a deadly weapon, a cane sword, Zaheer lunged at Manghto. The elder warrior met the attack head-on, clashing their blades in a testament to skill and strength. It was a confrontation of experience versus the unknown, of tradition facing the enigmatic.

Without a moment's hesitation, Manghto harnessed the formidable strength of the Glaciadenti, his pupils glew white as he forced Zaheer backward with sheer might and retaliating with a forceful swing. Yet once again, Zaheer vanished like a phantom, eluding the old warrior's retribution. The sudden reappearance of the enigmatic intruder, encircled by the eerie flames, painted a haunting tableau of supernatural prowess.

With his trusty cane now transformed into a lethal instrument, Zaheer descended upon the Glaciadenti warriors who stood huddled in their defensive formation. His form was that of a celestial body plummeting from the heavens, as he struck the ground with relentless determination. The warriors were helpless before his attack, their formation shattered like brittle ice beneath the weight of a cataclysmic impact.

In the heart-stopping moment before old man Manghto could utter another command, the world seemed to slow around him. Time itself appeared to bow before the impending tragedy, granting an eerie stillness to the corridor. In that suspended moment, Zaheer, a spectral figure enshrouded in the swirling emerald flames, unleashed his blade with lethal precision.

The blade cleaved through the air, a glistening arc of destiny, and with horrifying accuracy, it sliced through the Glaciadenti leader's throat as though it were no more than delicate parchment. The fervent life force of the commander erupted in a horrifying gush of orange-hued blood, splattering across their once-pristine armor in a gruesome and vivid tableau. The brilliance of their armor, now tainted by the stain of brutality, took on an eerie and chilling elegance.

In a flash of ruthless decisiveness, Zaheer severed the lifeline of the warriors' unwavering leader. The warriors, frozen in a gasp of disbelief, bore witness to their revered commander's life ebbing away. The echo of Manghto's last breath seemed to linger, reluctant to yield to the harsh finality of the moment.

But Zaheer was no sadistic reveler in the gore of his conquest; his mission remained paramount, unyielding to the chaos and suffering it wrought. His form blurred in a dance of unfathomable swiftness, rendering him a phantom on the battlefield, slipping through the fabric of reality itself.

His speed eclipsed the trained reactions of the Glaciadenti warriors. Trained for combat and hardened by their own formidable prowess, they struggled to keep pace with the relentless onslaught. Desperate attempts to form a coherent defensive line crumbled into chaos, their armored bodies a mass of fragmented and disordered panic. It was within this pandemonium that Zaheer thrived, an eerie conductor orchestrating a symphony of violence and disarray.

The macabre dance of death continued, merciless and abrupt. One by one, the warriors fell under the remorseless strikes of his cane sword. Each blow landed with chilling precision, a testament to his combat prowess hidden behind an outward façade of calm. Orange-hued blood painted the walls, a somber mural of the grim battle that had raged within those hallowed corridors.

Ultimately, as the corridor bore witness to the aftermath of brutal conflict, only Zaheer remained—an enigmatic and solitary figure amidst the sea of fallen warriors. With his blade sheathed within the confines of his cane, he advanced toward the chamber door, every step a deliberate note in the haunting melody of his mission. At the threshold of destiny, his hand reached for the door, and there it paused—a fleeting moment, as if in a final gesture of apology.

"I'm sorry... This has to be done," Zaheer whispered, his voice heavy with a blend of resignation and determination. His words were laden with a burden of conscience and purpose. "For a better world, for a better future... I hope that one day you will be able to forgive me, my love." His voice carried an echoing weight as he pushed open the chamber doors, stepping with unyielding resolve into the heart of his quest.

—---

The Glaciadenti king, once adorned in marbled blue and white, now bore a face aglow with a vivid, flushed red. His complexion was a testament to the copious amounts of alcohol he had unabashedly imbibed. These were not mere sips; they were gallons of wine that had left the room strewn with empty barrels—over five of them, all emptied by the king himself.

In a fervent echo of his subjects, the king had cast aside restraint, embracing the festivities as an extravagant feast laid out before him. This evening of indulgence stretched into the uncertain future, where responsibilities had suddenly multiplied with the arrival of his son. Time, once abundant, would soon become a precious commodity.

Amidst towering mountains of food, the king was surrounded by a constellation of trusted advisers, close friends, and beloved family members. Laughter filled the air, his smile was as radiant as the surrounding ice, and he reveled in every fleeting moment, each now imbued with unparalleled significance.

"Uncle!" a voice called out from behind.

"I apologize for coming so late; the storms are worsening with each passing day."

"Alorniel…" the king exclaimed, rising from his seat to embrace his nephew with open arms. It was an emotional meeting, a blend of joy and sentiment that brought tears to the king's eyes.

"You made it," he declared, his voice quivering with pride and love.

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world," Alorniel replied. He was a younger Glaciadenti, clean-shaven and robust, his presence radiating warmth and genuine affection.

"Congratulations on becoming a father. I'm sure Father would be proud if he could see you now," Alorniel said, his words carrying a hint of nostalgia for the one who couldn't be there to celebrate.

The king released his nephew from their heartfelt embrace, a tearful smile on his lips. With a determined swipe, he wiped away the tears and urged Alorniel to partake in the extravagant feast.

The warm bonds of family and the shared joy of the evening were intensified by the alcohol coursing through their veins, casting smiles upon their faces. Alorniel, too, was elated for his uncle, knowing that no one deserved happiness more.

But as the king reveled in this familial reunion, the festive atmosphere shattered like glass struck by a hammer. A Glaciadenti soldier, his clothes drenched with sweat and clutching a crystalline beetle, burst into the room with a frantic urgency that seized everyone's attention. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he clutched his chest as he fought to regain his composure.

"What is it, warrior? Speak," the king commanded, concern etching his features.

"The queen… chamber… assassin…" The words tumbled from the soldier's lips, their breathless delivery laced with an alarming tone.

The king's heart sank.

Before anyone could fully grasp the gravity of the soldier's words, the king was already in motion, his very being an unyielding force of nature, determined to confront the impending threat and protect his beloved queen.

The king, inebriated yet determined, moved like a gust of wind through the labyrinthine corridors of his fortress, his heart a frantic drumbeat of dread and hope. Each stride was a desperate plea to the heavens, a fervent prayer that he wouldn't be too late, that the world inside the chamber would remain intact.

"I beg of you… Please… Just this once…" the king implored in a breathless whisper, his words carried away by the urgency of his steps.

"Hear my plea…" he repeated, an agonized mantra etched into the night.

Upon reaching the chamber's threshold, he was met with a scene of grim devastation. His once-loyal warriors, entrusted to guard the queen and their newborn prince, now lay lifeless on the floor. Their blood-soaked forms turned the pristine walls of the chamber into a gruesome tableau of violence, a testament to the assassin's ruthless efficacy.

In the midst of this macabre theater, the king's faculties wavered in a disorienting whirlpool of emotions and alcohol-induced haze. The nightmare played out before him, but the nightmare had no mercy; it wore the face of his darkest fears.

Yet amidst the disorienting chaos, he was met with a haunting sound—a mournful cry that pierced through the horror and etched its despair into his very soul. It was the mournful cry of his queen, a heartrending lament echoing through the chamber's cold stone walls.

With trembling hands and a heart heavy with foreboding, he stepped further into the chamber, the dim light revealing a sight that would haunt him forever. There, in her nightgown, his queen stood, clutching their precious but lifeless son to her chest. The crimson hue of the baby's blood stained her garments, a ghastly contrast to the pale serenity that should have enveloped the chamber.

Her eyes were unfocused, her gaze lost in a realm of incomprehensible grief and trauma. Her world, once filled with the promise of a new life, was shattered in the cruelest manner imaginable.

And in the very heart of this unimaginable nightmare, there stood Zaheer—a figure shrouded in darkness, his face a mask of cold, emotionless resolve. There was no remorse in his eyes, only a chilling void.

"Emperor Elarianth sends his regards," Zaheer declared, the words dripping with a cruel satisfaction that left a trail of despair in their wake. The king's worst fears had materialized, and the world as he knew it crumbled in the face of this malevolent intruder.