A man sat on a narrow balcony enclosed by fogged glass, the paneled windows half-blurred by thick snow clinging to every surface outside. The world beyond was a blank, frozen haze—white and silent. He wore a long fur coat, knotted at the waist with coarse rope, its edges damp from the cold air that still crept in through the slightest cracks. A thin curl of steam rose from the chipped ceramic cup in his gloved hand, filling the enclosed space with the faint aroma of spiced cinnamon and bitter herbs.
He exhaled slowly, his breath briefly visible. His fingers twitched slightly as he adjusted his grip on the cup, the leather creaking around his palm. He took another quiet sip, the warmth rolling down his throat as his shoulders sagged with rare comfort.
"Today is such an amazing day," he murmured to himself with a tired smile, voice nearly drowned out by the soft whine of the wind outside. With a contented motion, he set the cup on the small wooden table beside him, the ceramic clinking softly. He then reached into the inner fold of his coat and pulled out a book, its cover worn and corners curled. His thumb hovered over the first page, but a distant tapping interrupted the calm.
His eyes flicked up.
There—just beyond the snowy glass—something moved. A shadow. A faint blur of wings.
He tensed, brows knitting. A bird struck the window—but instead of bouncing off, it passed through the glass like ink through water, leaving a brief ripple in its wake. The shadow reformed midair into the shape of a massive eagle, landing with a heavy thud on the balcony table. Its feathers were a scorched mess of soot and ash, tips singed, talons skeletal with exposed bone, and its eyes burned a deep, eerie crimson.
"What the hell...?" the man whispered, his back straightening.
The bird tilted its head unnaturally, then dropped a sealed scroll from its beak. Its wings flared wide, scattering flecks of ash, before it took off and vanished through the same invisible threshold in the glass.
The man's hand hovered in the air, hesitating. He stared at the violet wax emblem pressed into the scroll—the shape unmistakable. His expression shifted from curiosity to urgency.
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. With a gloved left hand, he snatched up the scroll, his fingers trembling slightly from the sudden rush of adrenaline. Without wasting a second, he turned and strode through the small room behind the balcony, his coat billowing behind him, then shoved open a thin wooden door that led deeper into the castle.
His boots pounded against the stone floor, echoing through the long, torch-lit halls. The velvet carpet beneath his feet dulled the sound only slightly as he sprinted, heart hammering. The scroll was still clenched tightly in his hand, and as he passed through a series of arched corridors, its seal caught glints of light—a dragon's skull framed by a crescent moon.
He darted past two stationed guards without a word. Their heads turned in sync to watch him.
"I wonder what Erok's rushing for now," one of them muttered, raising a brow.
The other let out a faint sigh, eyes following Erok's fading figure. "He's the queen's messenger. Even on his day off, the man never gets a break."
"At least we've got three days off and only five-hour shifts," the first guard added with a grin.
They looked at each other and spoke in unison, quietly but firmly: "Bless the queen."
Erok tore down the hallway, weaving past butlers and maids who moved aside in practiced rhythm. The air grew warmer the deeper he ran into the heart of the castle. His breath grew labored, chest heaving as exhaustion clawed at his lungs.
He came to a sudden stop in front of a towering wooden door carved with regal sigils. Gasping, he bent over, hands braced on his knees, sweat trailing down the side of his face. His fingers flexed involuntarily, still curled around the scroll. After a deep swallow, he straightened and approached the door flanked by two silent guards.
His knuckles rapped against the wood. "It's Erok. I bring a message for the queen."
A moment passed, then a heavy lock clicked, and the door creaked open. A faint shimmer of blue aura faded from the edges of the threshold.
Erok stepped inside, his pace slowing as the grandeur of the throne room opened before him. Sunlight filtered in from high stained-glass windows, casting prismatic patterns across polished stone and gold. He walked forward, each step measured, and stopped exactly seven feet in front of the queen's throne.
He bowed deeply.
Queen Rhea Despina sat in poised silence, her long gown spilling over the sides of her elevated seat. The air around her pulsed gently with aura. Erok rose and extended the scroll.
Her eyes narrowed at the seal as her fingers—graceful, adorned with thin silver rings—unfurled around the scroll after she took the scroll from Erok. Blue aura flared around it, melting the wax cleanly away. She read the message in silence, eyes flicking from line to line, and then rolled it up with the same care.
Still, she said nothing. With a slow, dismissive wave of her hand, she gestured him away.
Erok bowed once more, turned, and exited through the throne room's massive doors. They shut behind him with a resounding thud.
Queen Rhea remained seated for a moment longer. Then she sighed, the sound like wind slipping through leaves.
"The Akser Meeting…" she muttered. "Or the Akser Summit—whatever they're calling it now. It's coming faster than I expected. And this year, it's the Violet Kingdom's turn to host."
Her fingers drummed once against the side of her throne before she placed the scroll beside her. After a pause, she rose, her long gown trailing behind her like fog. Behind the throne, three stone steps led upward into a shadowed hallway. She ascended them slowly, vanishing into the stone corridor beyond.
—
Despite the thick blanket of snow falling from the sky, merchants remained open across the stone streets, smoke rising from chimneys and braziers flickering behind wooden stalls. One figure pushed open the heavy door of a blacksmith's shop, the hinges groaning against the sudden cold. He stepped inside, dressed in a black, heavy fur coat tied loosely with a worn rope at the waist. Snow clung to his shoulders, slowly melting into his sleeves as the heat inside rushed to meet him.
The blacksmith's interior was dense with heat and the sharp bite of scorched metal. Steam hissed from a nearby forge where a slab of glowing red steel cooled atop a specialized anvil—a runed incantation embedded beneath it exhaled freezing mist to temper the blade.
The floor was dark, scorched stone stained with years of soot and oil. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with rows of hammers, chisels, folded tongs, and fragments of old weapons. The air was thick and smoky, every breath coming with the taste of iron.
The man stepped forward, boots tapping against the stone. "Do you have any Alton Steel in stock for a sword?" he asked, voice muffled slightly by the thick collar of his coat. "I'm thinking… a longsword. Or something close."
The blacksmith, a broad man with a soot-stained apron and graying beard, gave a short nod and turned away. He set his hammer down with a heavy clunk beside the steaming blade, then grabbed a worn leather journal from the shelf above his workbench. His fingers flipped through pages filled with scribbles and lists, pausing occasionally to scan the entries.
As he scanned the list, the man behind him moved.
His gloved hand slipped into the folds of his coat and emerged with a slim, silver syringe filled with a faintly glowing green liquid. In one swift, deliberate motion, he lunged forward. The blacksmith turned slightly—just enough to catch a glimpse of movement—but not fast enough.
A muffled grunt escaped as the needle sank into his neck, the man's arm clamping tight around his shoulder. The blacksmith's hand shot up, fingers clawing to pull the syringe free—but the attacker shoved it deeper, forcing the injection through with a click of the plunger. The blacksmith staggered, body jerking in resistance, but the man's right hand snapped forward and cracked into the side of his skull with a brutal palm strike.
The blacksmith slumped forward against the workbench, unconscious.
The man stepped back, breath steady, eyes cold. He pulled off his gloves and let them fall to the floor without a sound. On his left hand, now exposed, glowed the faint mark of a jagged claw etched into the skin—its edges flickering with a dark green aura that pulsed like a heartbeat.
He turned without another glance, kicked open the door, and stepped into the storm. The snow was falling heavier now, swallowing footprints almost instantly. In seconds, he vanished into the field of white, leaving behind only the rising steam and the quiet hiss of the forge.