Arian Core stood like a dream carved from frost—cold, majestic, and untouched by time. Hidden deep within the snowbound highlands, it was a city embraced by jagged mountains and wrapped in forests frozen in eternal winter. Built from pale stone etched with glowing blue enchantments, the city shimmered faintly beneath the twilight sky, more myth than memory. It didn't just survive the cold—it commanded it.
At its heart rose the Royal Aethercastle, towering and angular like a spear driven into the heavens. Its sharp silhouette was perpetually dusted in snow, its spires veined with ancient runes that pulsed with restrained magic. Below, the streets lay silent and pristine, lined with homes whose hearths flickered gently behind tall crystal-glass windows. Magical lanterns glowed with quiet dignity—their light steady, never gaudy.
Life in Arian Core moved with precision, not passion. Its people walked with discipline, their faces unreadable—shaped by a culture that honored strength, silence, and self-mastery. Even the city's magic felt like a clenched fist: immense power, perfectly contained.
And above this silent, frostbitten jewel of the world... a shadow crossed the sky.
Ignarion, the draconic wyrm of ember and storm, cut through the icy wind. His flight was solemn, not swift—his wings beating with reverent grace beneath the weight of what he carried.
In his mighty claws were three figures—each broken in their own way.
Orion, the young prince of fire and fate, lay unconscious. His silver hair fluttered like a fallen banner, his chest rising in shallow breaths—barely tethered to life.
Qinyue, bloodied and broken, hung limp beside him. His injuries were deep, internal, and cruel. The proud elegance that once defined him had been shattered, leaving behind only fragile silence.
And then there was Frieda Gunnhildr.
She did not breathe. She did not stir.
Her body was locked in crystalline stillness, more statue than soul. Ice clung to her armor; her lips were blue; and though her eyes were closed, her face still screamed of something violently stolen and never returned.
She was gone.
The cold wind howled past Ignarion's horns, keening like the ghosts of warriors long dead. Snow spiraled in his wake as the towers of the Aethercastle rose to meet him, stark against the fading light.
When Ignarion descended toward the Aethercastle's gates, a great silence fell across the courtyard—thick and heavy, like a burial shroud.
The snowfall slowed, then stopped entirely—frozen midair, like ash uncertain of where to fall. The runes etched into the stone below flickered to life, not in alarm, but in reverence. They remembered him.
So did the guards.
They had trained their whole lives for this castle, this city, this sacred duty. But nothing—no drill, no spell, no ancient scroll passed down by blood—could prepare them for this.
A massive crimson wyrm, wings veined with frostfire, emerged from the heavens like a whispered myth come alive. His form was terrible and beautiful—his scales deep crimson streaked with glacial silver, like blood caught mid-freeze. Horns of blackened frost curled from his brow, and from his maw came no heat, only silence—a silence so cold it felt like judgment.
His descent stirred no wind. His wings beat soundlessly, like the breath of a dying world. And when he landed, it was without force—yet the entire courtyard bowed under the weight of his presence.
The guards at the gate gripped their weapons—but not from defiance. From instinct. From fear. And yet none dared raise them.
Because this was not an enemy.
This was Ignarion.
The Blade of VlastMoroz.
The Crown of Silent Reign.
The shadow-guardian of Arian Core, who watched while others slept.
No command was needed.
One guard dropped to his knee without realizing it. Another caught sight of the frozen woman in Ignarion's claws—and turned pale. A third saw the unconscious prince and let their spear fall with a metallic clang.
Still, none spoke.
Because what words could meet the eyes of a being that needed no introduction?
Ignarion lowered his great head slightly—just enough for his voice to reach them without cracking the mountain.
"Open the gates," he said, his voice a whisper of glaciers splitting.
"The blood of Arian returns home. And time itself bleeds behind him."
Inside the Royal Aethercastle, the great hall was cloaked in a hush not common for the inner chambers of the ruling family. The fireplace crackled softly, its warmth flickering against the cold blue tones of enchanted marble walls. Tall windows framed the eternal twilight outside, casting pale reflections across the floor.
King Orion, tall and composed yet carrying the subtle wear of rule, broke the silence with a tilt of his head and a note of confusion in his voice.
"This feels… unusual, Mother. I thought you didn't like being so formal in private quarters," he said, glancing toward the tall, graceful figure seated across the chamber.
Queen Minerva, equally composed but ever more perceptive, added gently, "Yes… is something wrong? You haven't called a formal audience with just the three of us in years."
Seraphyx stood at the center of the chamber, a long fur-lined cloak cascading from his shoulders. His usual air of quiet confidence was dulled, softened by something heavier—guilt. It hung in his posture, in the tension at his jaw, in the distant look clouding his otherwise calm expression.
He sighed, and for a moment, it sounded like he was exhaling centuries of restraint.
Guilt shimmered faintly in his eyes as he turned away from them and walked to the window. Snow drifted gently outside, kissed by moonlight. He placed one hand on the glass, as though trying to ground himself.
"It's time I told you the truth," he said softly, the words barely more than breath. "The truth about the Revival of the Fallen. About the man who struck down those monsters that day. And... about me."
He paused. The weight of what he was about to confess hung like frost in the air.
But before he could say more—
the doors burst open with a violent crash.
Two guards rushed in, their expressions pale, their breathing ragged with panic. They didn't wait to be acknowledged. Protocol meant nothing anymore.
"My Lord—!" one of them gasped. "Prince Orion has returned!"
Minerva shot up from her seat. "What?!"
The guard continued, stumbling over his words, voice cracking under the weight of what he had just seen.
"He's unconscious, Your Majesty. Gravely so. And he wasn't alone. A crimson wyrm—gods help us—a wyrm brought him back. There's… there's another badly wounded and—"
His throat tightened.
"—one dead."
Silence. Like a blade through glass.
Seraphyx's hand clenched slightly against the window frame, his back still turned, but his whole body stilled—as if the world had snapped into focus in one cruel, precise instant.
Minerva's face drained of color. "Who?"
"Who is dead?" Orion demanded, rising to his feet.
Ignarion stepped into the royal chambers, his humanoid form cloaked in a lingering frost. His steps echoed across the marble, heavy with more than just his presence. Minerva and King Orion stood near Seraphyx, who turned at the sound—his eyes wide, stunned into silence.
Behind Ignarion, the guards entered—solemn, steady—bearing stretchers.
Prince Orion. Qinyue. And Frieda Gunnhildr.
"I am Ignarion," he announced, his voice low, yet resolute. "Fifth Emblem of VlastMoroz. Crown of Silent Reign. I have returned with the Prince—alongside those he held dear during his time beyond Arian's walls."
His pride cracked, and pity slipped through the fracture.
King Orion didn't speak. He rushed past Ignarion with a gasp caught in his throat, dropping to his knees beside the stretcher that held his son. He took Orion's cold hand in his own, fingers trembling as if terrified he might lose the grip.
Minerva was already there, kneeling on the opposite side. She clutched her son's body to her chest, her breath catching.
"I should've stopped you that day," she whispered, choking on every word. "You said you'd come back stronger. But you came back like this—"
Tears spilled down her cheeks, silent and unchecked, falling into Orion's silver hair.
King Orion pressed his forehead to his son's. "He's still breathing," he muttered. "Barely—but he's alive."
Ignarion sighed, voice tinged with weariness. "He is. But… she is not."
The words fell like stone in water.
Both parents turned.
On the next stretcher, Frieda's body lay still, armor torn and stained. A long, brutal slash ran across her chest. Her lips were pale, her skin drained of color. Her hair clung to her brow with blood and sweat, but her face… her face was calm.
Minerva stood and moved to her slowly. The closer she got, the more her expression broke.
"Who is she?" Her voice cracked. "Who did this?"
Ignarion's gaze dropped for a moment. "It was Highfall. When I arrived… it was already over. The girl had fallen. Prince Orion was… holding her. Crying into her armor. Refusing to let her go."
He paused. A softness entered his voice, oddly gentle for someone so fierce.
"If I had to guess… she was his beloved."
Minerva stared down at the lifeless girl. "She died… for him?"
Ignarion nodded once. "Yes."
King Orion stood behind his wife now, hand on her shoulder, his face darkened by pain—and something colder. Regret. Fury. Guilt.
Minerva's voice shook as she whispered, "She gave her life for our son… and we never even knew her name."
"She was Frieda Gunnhildr," Ignarion said. "A warrior. A protector. A girl who didn't hesitate."
He glanced toward Seraphyx now, his tone sharpening.
"But don't lose hope. Seraphyx should have told you. Kaelya… may still be able to bring her back."
The room fell into a tense silence.
Seraphyx's face twitched—subtle, but visible.
Both King Orion and Minerva turned to him slowly, confusion flashing into suspicion.
"You didn't tell us?" the King asked, his voice like frost on steel.
Ignarion frowned. "You didn't tell them yet?"
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