Emerging from the cold storm was a beast—an enormous ice bear, its fur glistening like frost-forged armor. Atop the beast sat a figure cloaked in layered pelts and steel: a warrior.
Not just any warrior.
Senestro Scarface.
A name both revered and feared across the Ice Kingdom. Leader of one of the elite protector squads of the northern city, he commanded respect with every slow breath and echoing step of his colossal mount—an ice bear twice the size of a transport vessel.
Trailing behind him rode thirty warriors he had personally trained, each astride their own spirit beasts, laughing and trading jests. They were returning from a small party outside the city's southern borders, their voices rising with the joy of drink and victory.
But the laughter dulled as a figure came into view—alone, cloaked in furs, standing at the edge of a frozen ridge.
Kael.
Beside him, silent and alert, stood Nyru—his spirit bear, crystalline fur bristling in the wind. The exile and his companion stood ready as the shadows approached.
Kael narrowed his eyes—until he caught the glint of familiar sigils carved into the warriors' armor.
"Phew," he exhaled, lowering his stance. "It's the Ice Warriors. For a second, I thought you were some savage beasts."
Nyru huffed and settled beside him, claws buried in the snow.
A deep chuckle broke from the lead rider.
"Well, well, well," Senestro said, his voice like ice scraping steel. "If it isn't the exiled one. The boy who murdered his father in cold blood."
The warriors burst into laughter, one shaking his head.
"Wait—was he actually scared of us?" another mocked.
"A son who slays his king… all for the throne," Senestro growled, his good eye narrowing beneath his scarred brow.
Kael said nothing. He looked down, shame flickering across his face.
"I didn't kill my father," he murmured.
Senestro leaned forward in the saddle, his ice bear letting out a low rumble.
"And yet, you were exiled," he spat.
Kael's gaze rose, locking with Senestro's.
"What do you want?" he asked quietly.
The warriors chuckled, blades clashing together in amusement.
"You think we'd let you walk free," one said, "after killing the Frost King?"
Senestro grinned, a cold, vicious thing.
"Truth is, you got lucky. If I'd been on the Council, you'd have been slain—just like your father."
Kael's jaw clenched. Nyru growled beside him, sensing the tension.
"You hear that?" one of the warriors said. "Seems fate brought him to us after all."
"Don't worry," added another. "You won't feel a thing. We'll make your death swift."
"After all," said a third, drawing his blade, "you're already dead to the kingdom. No one cares if you die out here."
Steel met steel as the warriors drew closer, clashing their blades together in anticipation. Snow kicked up around them. Their spirit beasts snarled in rhythm. The circle tightened.
Kael raised a hand.
"Oh, come on, guys," he said, trying to sound calm. "You don't really mean that. I've been out here for days, surviving on my own. You can't really want to kill me."
But there was no mercy in their eyes.
Only frost.
And fury.
No one really cares.
Kael took a step back, hands raised in surrender. "Guys, come on. We could work something out."
But as he looked into their eyes, he saw no hesitation—only resolve.
They were serious.
Serious about killing the son of Arokk.
Then, without a command, all the warriors except Scarface charged.
"Oh shit—"
Kael turned and bolted, sprinting through snow-laden trees, his breath ragged in the freezing air. The warriors thundered behind him, their shouts echoing through the forest, blades clashing, spells charging.
Mana bursts lit the night like blue fire. Heat and ice exploded around him as fiery magic seared into trunks, branches shattered, and snow burst into vapor.
Kael dodged the blasts, weaving between trees.
"Come on, guys!" he shouted. "Taking my life won't change anything!"
Nyru, massive and swift, bounded beside him. "I don't think they're listening."
"You got a better idea?!"
"We fight," the bear replied without hesitation. "What have we got to lose?"
Kael huffed, ducking a burning blade of magic. "They're the Kingdom's elite protectors! What makes you think we stand a chance?!"
"The Ice Sanctum. Remember that?"
Kael barked a bitter laugh. "We survived that. Doesn't mean we can take out thirty Ice Warriors!"
Nyru's eyes flared. "You'd be surprised what we can take out."
And with a sudden slide on the thick snow, the spirit bear turned—massive claws digging into the ice, fangs bared.
"Nyru!" Kael skidded to a stop. "What are you doing?! You'll get us both killed!"
Too late. The warriors had caught up.
With thunderous growls, they descended.
Blades clashed against Nyru's crystalline hide. The great spirit bear fought with raw power and desperate speed, fending off a half-dozen warriors at once—snow and blood flying.
Kael barely had a second before more enemies rushed him.
One warrior lunged.
Kael slid back and, with a flash of cold light, summoned his twin daggers—curved blades etched with ancient runes. Magic symbols pulsed along the steel, whispering of forgotten gods.
He blocked the first strike—but the impact sent him sprawling backward into the snow.
Another warrior pounced.
Kael rolled, dodging one strike, parrying another—but he was outnumbered, surrounded. Blades danced. Spells flew.
His speed couldn't match theirs.
Every second, every breath was a narrow escape. Pain bloomed across his ribs, shoulders, legs.
Still, he fought.
For some reason—some furious instinct—he was keeping up. Even at a lower level, Kael's soul flared in defiance.
But Nyru was weakening.
A spear sank into the bear's ribs.
"Raaaaarrrgh!" the beast cried out in agony.
Another spear struck—through his back this time—pinning him to the bloodied snow.
"No! Nyru!" Kael screamed, voice hoarse with rage and fear.
Distracted, Kael turned—and a blade tore across his chest.
He stumbled.
Another slash opened his side.
He turned again—and a warrior drove a blade into his back.
"Ahhh!" he howled, vision spinning. The world blurred—white snow, crimson blood, glinting steel.
Then—
A slash across his face.
A deep, burning pain across his eyes.
Blood poured into his vision.
"No… No… I didn't mean to kill my father," Kael gasped, falling to his knees in the snow.
Everything slowed.
The air grew still.
From between the warriors stepped Senestro Scarface—calm, cruel, eyes sharp as broken ice.
He approached like judgment itself.
"Then you shouldn't have," he said coldly.
Kael lifted his head, one final act of defiance.
He raised his trembling hand—
And Scarface, without pause, swung.
Steel met flesh.
Kael stared in horror as his hand hit the snow.
---
Silence fell across the trees.
So quiet, Kael could hear nothing but his own heartbeat—slow, heavy, fading.
He knelt in the snow, blood pouring from his face and back, his severed hand lying limp beside him. The air around him thickened, freezing with grief and pain.
Then—
Everything stopped.
Literally.
Time froze.
Snowflakes hovered midair. Blades halted mid-swing. The warriors—frozen in fury—stood like statues of wrath. Senestro Scarface's cruel eyes were inches from Kael's face, sword raised for the final blow.
Kael's mouth was open, breath shallow. His vision was red and blurring. He was at the brink. Of death. Of surrender. Of nothing.
And then… he heard it.
That voice.
The voice that haunted the moment his father died.
Deep. Cold. Otherworldly.
> "What are you doing?"
Kael's eyes widened.
He wasn't alone.
> "Don't tell me you're going to let them kill the last Ice Heir."
He lifted his head.
Standing before him was the Void—not as a shadow, but in form. Human-shaped, yet unmistakably unnatural. Its skin was pitch black, like a sky with no stars. It had no face—only a grin. A grin made of sharp, white teeth, and eyes that glowed like coals in an endless abyss.
Kael's wounds began to shift—his blood reversing, his muscles twitching, his bones sealing.
The Void hovered forward, unbothered by time itself.
"Stand," it said. "You are not yet finished."
Its long arm extended, revealing a weapon forged from darkness and frost—a dagger, twin to the one he lost. But sleeker. Meaner. Older. Its blade whispered as it moved, runes crawling like living tattoos.
Kael's trembling, bloodied hand reached for it—
And as his fingers touched the hilt, power surged into him like a tidal wave.
His body arched. Light tore through his skin. His lungs filled with ice.
His spirit bear, Nyru, slowly dissolved into a mist of pale blue and silver, merging with the weapon, the symbols, him.
The Void's grin widened.
> "You have been given the power to recreate mana."
> "Rebuild magic itself."
Kael stood slowly—new skin replacing torn flesh, his body reknit with something far more ancient than muscle. His eyes flared with frostfire. Even his severed wrist had reformed—entirely whole, veined with glowing sigils.
Time ticked again.
The warriors blinked. Snow fell.
Senestro Scarface, blade mid-swing, suddenly froze—not by power, but in confusion. His eyes narrowed.
Kael raised the dagger.
And caught Scarface's blade in midair—between two fingers.
A deadly smile curved across Kael's blood-streaked face.
> "My turn."
The air exploded with frost.
Scarface was thrown back ten feet before he even understood what happened.
The other warriors hesitated, instincts screaming.
Too late.
Kael blurred—teleporting through ice vapor—appearing behind one of them. The blade slit clean across the man's spine.
He was gone before the body hit the ground.
Another screamed—but Kael was above him, upside down, blade plunging into his neck.
He dropped, snow soaking crimson.
Two others cast fire spells—Kael devoured them with a swing of his dagger, the flames absorbed and returned as ice spikes that tore through their skulls.
The forest was no longer a battlefield.
It was a slaughterhouse.
And Kael?
He was the frost-fanged god of vengeance inside it.
Scarface stood, arm broken, face slashed. His eyes—finally—showed fear.
Kael turned to him, steps slow, voice low.
> "You wanted to see what killing Arokk's son would look like…"
He grinned again—this time, with a wildness only monsters wear.
> "Let me show you."
---