In a land where the snow never ceased, where the sky was an endless expanse of grey and the wind whispered tales of ancient gods, winter ruled with an iron fist. Mountains rose like jagged teeth from the frozen earth, crowned with storms and silence. Among them, a lone rider pressed forward—his dark cloak whipping behind him like a shadow in the storm.
He was a pale man, his skin the color of old snow, hair black as obsidian, and eyes like polished coal—cold, steady, and unreadable. He rode a horse just as dark, its breath steaming with each powerful step, hooves crunching through untouched snow. The man's name was Branan.
As he guided his mount higher into the mountains, the wind howled louder, and the path grew treacherous. Yet he pushed on, unmoved by the cold or the danger, his expression as still as the ice around him.
"I wonder how that little rìscal Artair is doing…" he muttered under his breath, a flicker of something human in his voice. "It's been over a year…"
The words were carried away by the wind.
Then, at last, the path opened.
Branan reined his horse at the peak, and the storm seemed to pause—just for a moment—as if the world itself held its breath. His eyes widened, and he could not help but rise slightly in the saddle, awe creeping into his stern gaze.
Below the mountaintop, past the jagged cliffs and frozen air, a miracle unfolded.
There, hidden from the world and cradled in the arms of the mountains, was a land untouched by winter. Verdant fields rolled like waves of emerald, dotted with crystalline lakes that sparkled under the sun. Trees with silver trunks and leaves like gold swayed in a gentle breeze, their branches heavy with strange fruits. The sky above it was a deep, endless blue—free of cloud or storm—and birds of brilliant colors soared overhead, their songs echoing like ancient lullabies.
This was no mere valley. This was Hyperborea—the land of myths. The land where time itself seemed to bend. Eternal spring reigned here, and the very air shimmered with magic so old it felt like the breath of the world's first dawn.
White marble ruins peeked through the hills, remnants of a forgotten age, while strange beasts wandered the meadows in peace—creatures born of legend, their eyes bright with intelligence. Rivers carved with silver light ran like veins through the land, and in the far distance, at the heart of it all, stood a city of towers that seemed carved from starlight and flame.
Branan stared in silence, the wind dying around him.
"…So it exists," he whispered.
And then, without hesitation, he nudged his horse forward, descending toward the land that men spoke of only in dreams and madness—toward Hyperborea.
...
The air was thick with smoke and blood.
The village of Dunmara was ablaze. Its roundhouses—homes of laughter, songs, and generations—were now reduced to flaming wrecks. Screams echoed through the snowy wind, mixing with the crackle of fire and the clash of steel. Everywhere, the banners of the Saren fluttered—red and gold cloth bearing Skarn's Spear, marking the invaders as lords of devastation.
They had come like a plague.
Their bloodied spears glinted with fresh carnage as they tore through the village, showing no mercy. Bodies lay crumpled in the snow—elders, warriors, children—cut down by relentless hands. No cries for mercy were heard. No prayers answered.
In the chaos, Nuala ran—her arms wrapped tightly around her son, Artair.
Tears streaked her cheeks, her face smudged with ash. Her fair hair, once braided, now streamed wildly behind her as she fled barefoot across the frost-bitten earth.
Her heart pounded in her ears, matching the rhythm of destruction around her.
"Hold on, my love… just a little more… please…" she whispered, clutching Artair tighter.
But then—they appeared.
A group of Saren soldiers blocked the path ahead, their silhouettes jagged against the firelight. Their spears dripped with blood. One stepped forward, eyeing Nuala with a look that chilled her to the bone.
"Carveth il'ronai, mirea no'dhala…" he muttered with a cruel grin, eyes crawling across her features.
"Velan'tor!" another barked, glaring at the first with disgust, his voice sharper, more commanding. He stepped forward, brandishing a golden spear, its blade engraved with symbols of rank.
Nuala gasped and turned to flee, only to find another group of Saren emerging from the smoke behind her.
Trapped.
"No… no, please…" she whispered.
The golden-spear soldier tilted his head, curious as he listened to her words, not understanding—but sensing the desperation in her voice.
"Please… let us live! I beg you! Let my son live at least!" she pleaded, shielding Artair behind her with her trembling body.
The Saren leader laughed.
"Zheran votum… an'derak." he said coldly.
And with a swift motion—
he drove the spear forward.
The blade pierced Nuala's back with a sickening crunch. Her body arched, but she didn't scream—she only held Artair tighter, shielding him even now.
Her blood splashed onto his face.
Artair blinked, stunned, warmth and copper filling his senses.
"Mom…?" he whispered, as the world slowed, his small voice cracking.
Nuala looked down at him. Her lips trembled. Her eyes, once full of hope, now swam with sorrow—and love.
"My little… Artair…" she whispered.
And then, with a sudden, radiant strength, she began to sing, her voice rising like a final prayer.
"May your path be bright, my star,
May the winds guard where you are,
Grow strong, grow kind, be more than I..."
But the song was cut short—
The spear was ripped from her back, and her body collapsed.
Snow drank her blood. The light in her eyes faded.
"Mom!!" Artair screamed, reaching for her, sobbing, his tiny fingers clutching at her lifeless hand.
The Saren looked down on him. A few exchanged words in their cold, clipped tongue.
"Relek tu'dharen."
Artair's eyes snapped open—blazing crimson, as if blood itself had pooled in his irises.
The air around him pulsed.
The warmth of his mother's fading touch vanished, replaced by a searing heat that coursed through his veins. The grief shattered—splintering into something raw, primal, and all-consuming. Rage.
Those monsters…
They had destroyed his village.
They had butchered his people.
They had killed his mother.
And now, the only thing that remained in Artair's heart was the desire to make them pay.
The snow beneath him hissed as his bare feet trembled against it, steam rising where the heat in his body touched the frost. Red marks began to crawl across his pale skin—seething lines of light, jagged and furious, like molten veins branding their way across his arms, neck, and chest. They pulsed with power, almost alive, as if the mountain itself burned within him.
A whisper echoed in his ears—soft, sultry, and terrible.
"Are you angry, Artair?"
He trembled. His lips parted.
"…Yes," he growled through clenched teeth.
"Then kill them…" the voice purred, like fire sliding over silk.
Something snapped inside him.
With a scream of rage, Artair lunged forward, faster than any child should move. His hand closed around the shaft of a fallen Saren spear—still warm with blood—and in one fluid motion, he hurled it with terrifying force toward the golden-spear soldier.
The leader's eyes widened slightly in surprise, then curved into an amused grin. With a quick sidestep, he let the spear fly past him.
A sickening thud sounded behind him.
The weapon struck one of his men clean through the chest, pinning the Saren warrior to the scorched remains of a hut. The man didn't even have time to scream.
The golden-spear Saren let out a single, short laugh.
"Vel'ak tu…" he muttered in their tongue.
Before Artair could react again, the leader moved. In a flash, his gloved hand seized the boy by the arm.
Artair struggled, thrashing and snarling, the red marks flaring brighter with each heartbeat. The air shimmered with unseen heat around him.
But the Saren was too strong. With a cruel twist, he yanked the boy off his feet and drove a heavy fist into his stomach. The world spun. Artair gasped.
Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision.
"No…" he croaked, trying to swing again—but his limbs felt like smoke.
The Saren caught him effortlessly as he slumped, unconscious. His burning marks flickered—then faded.
With a grunt, the leader slung the boy over his shoulder.
"Sha'vel'korr…" the soldier muttered.
Around them, the fires of Dunmara raged on, a once-proud village reduced to ashes and ghosts. But even amid ruin, the invaders looked down at the unconscious child with a mixture of fear and interest—as if they had found something more valuable than gold.
To be continued...