A squad of knights in polished silver armor advanced in formation through the edge of a snow-laden forest, their movements disciplined and deliberate. At their center walked a man who carried himself with effortless authority—an elegant knight clad in the same silver plating, though distinguished by a deep crimson cape that flowed behind him like a stain against the white landscape. At his hip rested a finely forged blade engraved with a twin-headed bird insignia, its craftsmanship marking him as nobility among soldiers.
One of the knights stepped forward and bowed his head. "Sir, we are prepared. The units are in position."
The noble knight's gaze remained fixed ahead, as though he were already watching the outcome of what had yet to begin. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. "Good. Striking them during their day of celebration was the correct decision. Even beasts are most vulnerable when they believe themselves safe."
Beside him stood a man in a flowing white robe trimmed with gold, a stylized golden eye stitched across his back. His presence was quiet, almost detached, yet the air around him felt heavier than steel. The knight's attention shifted to him.
"High Priest Alastair," the knight continued calmly, "you truly have a talent for choosing the right moments to sever a kingdom's breath."
The priest's lips curled slightly, not quite a smile, not quite something human. His eyes glimmered with a cold, knowing light as he responded, "Faith rewards patience. And history rewards those willing to stain their hands before others are willing to speak the prayer."
The knight gave a quiet hum of approval, then raised his hand. The signal had been given.
…
Deep within the forest, far from the steel and strategy, a small boy laughed as he ran between the trees. His skin was a pale, almost glowing blue, and his ears tapered gently to fine points that marked him as one of the snow elves. Long white hair, soft and unkempt, bounced as he moved through the frosted undergrowth.
"Mother! I'm going to pick a polar flower!" he called out, his voice light with excitement as he disappeared deeper into the woods.
The forest itself felt alive in its silence. Towering trees coated in layers of ice stretched high above him, their branches glittering faintly in the sunlight like glass. Beneath them, the ground was scattered with delicate blue-white blossoms—polar flowers—each one swaying gently as if breathing with the wind. The world felt peaceful here, untouched, almost sacred.
The boy wandered further than he should have, guided only by curiosity and the innocent belief that the world could not possibly hold anything cruel.
Eventually, he found a clearing. It was filled entirely with polar flowers, more than he had ever seen in one place. Their petals shimmered faintly, as though each one held a fragment of frozen starlight. He knelt carefully, as if afraid his excitement might scare them away, and plucked one with gentle hands.
"This one should be good…" he whispered to himself, smiling softly. "I hope the Mother Tree likes it."
He turned to run back. But the smile on his face died before it could fully fade. The sky beyond the trees was no longer white. It was burning.
Black smoke rose in thick, choking pillars where his village had been moments before. The flower slipped from his fingers without him even realizing, drifting slowly to the snow below like something suddenly too heavy to hold.
For a moment, his body refused to move. Then his breath broke. And then he ran.
…
"Please… please be safe…!"
The boy sprinted through the forest, branches tearing at his clothes, snow kicking up behind his frantic steps. The closer he got, the more the world changed—smell first, then sound, then sight. The air grew hot with ash and iron. The distant echoes of screams replaced the quiet of the woods.
And when he broke through the treeline—
He stopped.
The village was gone. Not merely attacked. Not merely damaged. Erased in violence.
Knights in silver armor moved through the burning remains with brutal efficiency, cutting down anyone who still drew breath. Elves—his people—fell in the snow, their blood turning the pure white ground into something unrecognizable. The celebration had become slaughter in the span of moments.
The boy's legs nearly gave out.
"No… no, no, no…" His voice cracked as he stumbled forward anyway, as if refusing to believe what his eyes were showing him would somehow undo it. "Mom! Dad!"
He ran blindly through the chaos, dodging collapsing structures and falling bodies, his voice breaking with every desperate call.
"Mom!! Dad!!"
And then he saw them. Two figures lying face down in the snow just beyond a shattered wooden archway. Still. Silent. Wrong in the way only death could make something wrong.
The boy slowed without realizing it. Each step forward felt heavier than the last, as though the world itself was pressing him back.
When he finally reached them, he collapsed. His knees hit the snow hard.
For a long moment, he did not move. Did not breathe. Did not blink.
Then his hands reached out, trembling, turning one of them over just enough for the truth to settle in completely.
The snow beneath them had already turned red.
A sound tried to leave his throat—something between a scream and a breath—but it never fully formed. His body simply froze, as if grief had replaced blood in his veins.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
"Die, you monster!!" The boy turned too slowly.
A blade descended—
And stopped mid-air.
A sword pierced through the attacker's back, silencing him before the strike could land. The knight collapsed forward into the snow, revealing the figure behind him.
A snow elf stood there. Older, hardened. Alive in a way that felt different from everyone else in the village. His long white hair moved with the wind, and his sharp icy eyes carried a violence that did not belong to peace. He wore a thick white fur coat, fur-lined trousers, and boots built for survival rather than comfort. Around his neck hung a crude necklace of monster teeth—trophies, not ornaments.
He looked at the boy once. Just once. And then spoke, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
"Now is not the time to weep. Weep later. Live now."
Before the boy could respond, the man seized his arm and pulled him upright.
"Go," he ordered sharply. "Get to the holy fruit of the Immortal Tree before they take it. Head north. Do not stop. Do not look back. I will hold them here."
The boy's vision blurred, but his body obeyed before his mind could refuse.
As he ran, the sound of battle erupted fully behind him—steel clashing, spells breaking, screams swallowed by fire. And somewhere in that chaos, the last thing he heard was the sound of someone standing between him and extinction.