Outside the palace gates of Caelthorn, the once vibrant city had been transformed into a scene of stark despair. The joyous celebrations that had once filled the streets were replaced by a cacophony of desperation. Crowds pressed against the royal walls, their pleas for aid lost in the howling wind. Snow clung to their cloaks and eyelashes, their faces pale and drawn, their hands frozen and red from the unrelenting cold. Children cried, their wails mingling with the angry shouts of men and the desperate pleas of women. Some, driven to the edge of desperation, hurled stones at the imposing iron gates, their fury a tangible force.
"Let us in!" a desperate voice cried out, its plea swallowed by the rising tide of unrest.
"My child is dying!" a woman wailed, her voice cracking with grief.
"Do we not serve this kingdom too?" a man shouted, his words a bitter accusation.
Inside the courtyard, the royal guards stood firm, a wall of steel and determination against the growing wave of despair. Their shields, raised high, formed an impenetrable barrier. The captain, his face grim, barked orders, his voice strained but resolute.
"Push them back!" he commanded, his voice echoing through the courtyard.
"Keep the gates closed!" he repeated, his words sharp and insistent.
"We don't have enough firewood for the whole kingdom!" a weary voice called out, highlighting the stark reality of their dwindling resources.
High above, on the arched balcony of the Great Hall, King Magnus surveyed the scene below – his face grim, his expression unyielding. He stood as a silent sentinel, a figure of authority amidst the chaos.
Behind him, Queen Margot stood with her arms crossed, her eyes half-lidded, her expression unreadable. A subtle stillness emanated from her, a quiet intensity that belied the turmoil raging beneath the surface. Prince Edric leaned against a pillar, his posture relaxed yet watchful, his gaze fixed on his father.
"They're panicking," the queen observed coldly, her voice cutting through the air. "Fear breeds anger. Soon, they'll blame us."
"They already do," Magnus muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "We cannot feed everyone. The frost has reached the outer granaries. Our supplies are dwindling."
Magnus turned away from the scene of escalating desperation, his gaze distant and troubled.
"I'll find the cause," he declared darkly, his voice filled with a steely determination. "Even if I have to walk into hell myself."
Margot's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. "You… would seek the past?" she asked, her voice laced with a hint of apprehension.
"You said it yourself," he snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. "This might be tied to what happened years ago. To what we buried and never spoke of again."
She looked away, her voice softening. "That was a mistake I thought had ended… a dark chapter we chose to forget."
He didn't wait for her to finish. "Ready my horse," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.
That night, under the cover of darkness, King Magnus rode alone into the deepest, most forbidding part of the forest. He rode without fanfare, without escort, his only companions the biting wind and the ever-present snow.
The frost intensified with each step of his steed, the air growing colder, the silence more profound. The trees, ancient and gnarled, twisted like frozen claws against the sky, their branches heavy with ice. There was no sound but the rhythmic crunch of snow beneath his horse's hooves and the distant whisper of the wind, a mournful sigh through the frozen landscape.
Finally, deep within the heart of the forest, he discovered a crooked tent, its structure fashioned from bone and black cloth, hidden amongst the tangled roots of an ancient tree.
A raspy voice emerged from within the tent, its tone both ancient and chilling.
"Enter, king of blood," the voice rasped, its words carrying a weight of centuries.
Magnus dismounted, his movements deliberate, and stepped inside. A fire, burning with an unnatural blue flame, flickered in the center of the tent, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Sitting before the fire was a withered crone, her form hunched and frail, wrapped in grey rags. Her face was hidden beneath a tangled veil of silver hair.
"You have come late," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackling of the blue flames.
"I came when it was necessary," the king replied, his voice firm and unwavering.
The crone smiled, revealing a set of broken teeth. "You live among stone and war," she said, her voice laced with an ancient wisdom, "but what you face now is neither. The curse is old. Older than your reign. Older than your crown."
"Speak clearly," Magnus growled, his patience wearing thin.
"A child of the woods lives still," the crone whispered, her words chillingly precise. "A maiden with snow in her hair and green fire in her gaze. Her blood holds the key. Kill her… and the snow will end."
Magnus clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing. "An elf?" he asked, his voice barely a breath.
The crone nodded slowly, her movements deliberate and chilling. "One of the last," she confirmed. "And pure. She must bleed."
Without another word, the king turned and left the tent, his eyes burning with a cold, determined fire. The weight of his decision, the terrible truth he now possessed, settled heavily upon him.
Back at the palace, the atmosphere was markedly different. The frantic energy of the earlier chaos had been replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence. Prince Edric sat alone in the Great Hall, his gaze fixed on the flames dancing in the hearth, his mind restless and troubled.
When the doors burst open, revealing his father's frost-covered figure, Edric rose immediately, his senses alert.
"Where have you been?" Edric asked, his voice sharp with concern.
Magnus remained silent for a moment, his breath misting in the cold air. He slowly removed his frost-covered gloves, then turned to face his son.
"I went to find truth," he said, his voice low and grave. "And now I have it."
Edric narrowed his eyes, his suspicion growing. "Truth about what?"
"A curse," Magnus replied, his voice heavy with the weight of his discovery. "A creature. Something that doesn't belong in this world. And I will kill it."
"A creature?" Edric scoffed, a hint of disbelief in his tone. "What creature?"
Magnus walked past him, his movements stiff and deliberate. "That doesn't concern you," he said dismissively.
"Then why return looking like death?" Edric's voice rose, his frustration mounting. "Don't hide what I deserve to know."
The king stopped, turning to face his son. "You will do your duty, and guard the palace," he commanded, his tone unwavering.
"I can fight," Edric countered, his voice filled with a simmering resentment.
"You will obey," Magnus insisted, his gaze unwavering.
"I'm not a child," Edric retorted, his voice tight with defiance.
"You're not ready," Magnus said coldly, his words cutting like ice.
A heavy silence fell between them, thick and suffocating.
"Then make me ready," Edric challenged, his voice laced with a newfound determination.
The king turned, his face hard and unyielding. "If you must prove yourself… wait. When the time comes, the kingdom will need more than a sword – it will need a leader."
Edric looked away, his jaw tight with suppressed anger. The weight of his father's words hung heavy in the air.
The next morning, the sound of horns shattered the uneasy calm. The call to arms echoed through the palace, its sharp notes a prelude to action. Steel clashed against steel, flags waved in the biting wind, and the courtyard thundered with the synchronized steps of over a hundred soldiers, clad in black and silver armor, ready to ride into the heart of the frozen forest.
Edric watched them from above, his hands gripping the stone railing of the balcony, his heart heavy with a mixture of frustration and apprehension. They were riding out without him, leaving him behind in the suffocating silence of the palace.
Inside the royal gardens, Queen Margot found him, her presence a quiet contrast to the turmoil raging outside. She smiled thinly, a gesture that held little warmth.
"They will succeed, your father believes," she said, her voice soft yet laced with a hint of uncertainty.
"And if they don't?" Edric asked, his voice low and strained.
She tilted her head, her gaze penetrating. "Then winter wins," she replied, her words stark and chilling.
He stared at her, his eyes searching hers. "You're not afraid?" he asked, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and concern.
"Of snow?" she asked, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Or of what your father will become?"
Her eyes lingered on him, a silent communication passing between them.
"Be careful, Edric," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Some answers lead only to ruin."
That evening, Edric sat alone on the throne, not as a ruler, but as a solitary figure cast in shadow. The palace was eerily quiet, the absence of the soldiers palpable. The king had vanished into the snow, leaving behind a silence that was almost unbearable.
Silas entered quietly, his footsteps soft on the marble floor.
"You look like a ghost," his younger brother observed, his voice filled with concern. "Have you even slept?"
Edric didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the empty space before him.
Silas sat beside him, his presence a comforting warmth in the cold hall.
"You could still catch up to them," he said softly, his voice laced with encouragement. "You ride faster than anyone."
"I was told to stay," Edric replied flatly, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Since when did you listen?" Silas countered, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
A faint smile almost touched Edric's lips, a fleeting expression that quickly vanished.
"I need you to stay here," Edric finally said, his gaze meeting his brother's. "Keep the palace steady. Keep the people calm. You can do it."
Silas blinked, surprised by his brother's unexpected request. "Wait… you're leaving?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.
Edric stood, his movements resolute. "Three days have passed," he explained. "If they haven't found anything yet, they're not going to."
"You don't even know what you're looking for!" Silas exclaimed, his voice rising in protest.
"Neither do they," Edric replied, his tone unwavering.
Silas grabbed his arm, his voice urgent. "Brother, wait—!"
But Edric had already moved, his decision made, his purpose clear.
In the stables, he silently prepared his black horse, his movements precise and efficient. His hands moved with a practiced ease, his breath misting in the frigid air.
Queen Margot appeared, her voice soft but urgent.
"Where are you going?" she asked, her eyes filled with a mixture of worry and understanding.
"To find what they couldn't," Edric replied, his voice firm and unwavering.
"You don't understand what's out there," she warned, her voice laced with concern.
"I don't care," he said, his gaze fixed on his horse.
She stepped forward, her hand reaching out to him. "I won't let you go," she pleaded, her voice breaking slightly.
"You can't stop me," he replied, his voice resolute.
"Please," she whispered, her voice filled with desperation. "Edric…"
He looked back at her, his gaze meeting hers. Her eyes shimmered with an emotion he couldn't quite decipher – fear? Guilt? Or perhaps… a secret?
He said nothing more, his decision final. He mounted his horse, gripped the reins tightly, and rode out into the endless expanse of snow, leaving behind the palace, his family, and the weight of a kingdom's fate.