In the heart of the frozen dominion of **Crymbal mountains**, where the air itself bent to the will of winter, sat the ruler known to all as the **Ice King**.
His true name had long been buried beneath legend.
At merely Fourty winters of age, he ruled from a throne carved not by hands, but by thought alone—ice answering his will as if it were an extension of his soul. The throne rose like a jagged crown from the glacier floor, its surface eternally cold, yet never biting him. Frost recognized its master.
The Ice King's gaze was calm, almost detached, his dark eyes reflecting a thousand fractured crystals of blue light. Silver-white hair framed his face, untouched by age or fatigue. He did not need to speak to command fear. His presence was enough.
Behind him stood the **Royal Knights**.
They were not born of flesh and blood.
Each knight had been forged from a fragment of the Ice King's power—manifestations of his emotions, memories, and resolve. When he first awakened his gift, the storm within him tore reality apart, shaping guardians from ice and soul.
They stood in silent formation.
* **Glacier Vanguard**, wielders of massive frozen blades, embodied his unbreakable will.
* **Frostward Sentinels**, armored and faceless, carried his discipline and restraint.
* **Crystal Veil Maidens**, elegant and deadly, held the sorrow and compassion he never allowed himself to show.
* **The Pale Arbiter**, standing closest to the throne, carried his wrath—contained, but eternal.
Their eyes glowed with the same cold blue light, a reminder that they were not separate beings, but extensions of their king.
Once, the Ice King had been human—an orphan from a fallen kingdom, discarded during a war that scorched the world. He survived by enduring the cold when others could not. The blizzard that should have killed him instead answered his silent plea.
And so, winter crowned him king.
Now, empires beyond the frozen borders whispered his name with dread. Armies had tried to march on Aurelion Frost. None returned. The snow erased their footprints. The ice swallowed their banners.
Yet the Ice King did not seek conquest.
He ruled to protect.
From his throne, he watched the world beyond the glaciers—flawed, burning, endlessly at war. His knights waited, motionless, awaiting a command that might never come.
Then the ice beneath the palace trembled.
A crack echoed through the frozen hall.
The Ice King slowly rose from his throne, frost spiraling around his boots. His expression did not change, but the glow in the knights' eyes intensified.
"Something has crossed the boundary," he said, his voice soft yet absolute, carried by the wind itself.
The Royal Knights stepped forward as one.
Winter had been challenged.
And the Ice King would answer. ❄️👑