The twin cities of Iskalldrigvinter thrummed with frenetic life, a swarm of souls snared in chaos. Hundreds surged through the streets—servants hauling burdens, guards shouting orders, vendors gouging prices amid the cmor. Coal smoke coiled thick, ced with the sting of encroaching snow. Security gripped like iron, throttling the preparations into a faltering crawl.

  It was no ordinary day. The mightiest Heads of State in Paralon had converged on Arktiska for a United Nations summit—a csh of titans poised to redraw borders or kindle wars. Aldrigvinter, forged in the North’s ashes, bore the weight of hosting.

  “Dino,” a servant stammered, clutching a ledger as he neared the butler, “the Blumens demand rooms with ceilings at least four meters high—for their ‘stature,’ they cim. And the Queen of Sylberus insists on the Winter Pace.”

  Dino, the King’s butler, rubbed his temples, his bloodshot eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. “Fifth time we’ve moved the Blumens,” he muttered, voice fraying. “Fine. Send them to Iskallio. Tell the North Star Council to prepare—and ensure the roofs don’t bruise their egos.”

  “And the Queen?” the servant pressed, shifting nervously.

  “I’m heading to the Winter Pace,” Dino said, tugging his coat straight. “I’ll see if His Majesty agrees. Don’t bet on it.”

  This was a state visit to test even iron resolve. The UN had thrust the burden onto Arktiska—a realm hewn from ice and grit. Aldrigvinter traced its birth to the Mountain of Neverwinter’s fury, when fire and ash swallowed the North over two thousand years ago. The House of Vinter had ruled these nds for centuries, their hold unyielding even as Arktiska cimed Snobarga.

  Dino slipped into a bck car, its engine snarling softly against the gathering chill. Winter crept closer, dusting the asphalt with snowfkes that glittered like shattered stars. The road to the Winter Pace sliced through the city—smooth and fwless, a vein of Snobargan copper. Citizens trudged past, their drab coats stark against the gleaming pipes threading the streets. Snobarga’s mines fueled Arktiska’s industries, its copper the lifeblood of a frozen realm.

  .

  .

  .

  The skyline softened as steel spires faded into squat, ancient buildings of stone and timber, their edges dulled by time. Then the Winter Pace loomed—white as a frost giant’s fang, its spires cwing at the sky.

  The car bore the Vinter sigil—a frost-rimmed oak—and the gates parted silently. Dino stepped onto the gravel, its crunch steadying him as he adjusted his colr and entered.

  The halls of the Winter Pace shimmered with majesty. Gold and copper traced the walls, fring under torchlight. The ceiling arched high, adorned with murals of old kings locked in fiery defiance—the Ashfall’s echo in pigment. A metallic tang lingered, Snobarga’s pulse in the air. This was no mere pace; it was a living monument to the Winter Kings.

  “I’m here to see His Majesty,” Dino told a grim-faced guard, only to be cut off by shouts bursting from behind crimson curtains.

  “Are they mad?” a voice boomed, deep and unyielding. “They’re dragging Arktiska into a Southern war!”

  “I know, but it might be the right move,” another replied, steady yet strained.

  “Ninja, we’ve no stake in their mess,” the first voice snarled.

  “It’s their choice to back the People’s Federation—”

  “Bullshit!” The word shed out. “Then strip them of their ranks! They don’t get to drag Arktiska’s name into this altruistic nonsense.”

  A tense silence settled, thick with unspoken fury.

  “I’ll tell Micah,” the first speaker said, cold as steel. “We’ll start peeling away their governorships.”

  “That’s my government’s call,” the second voice countered.

  “Then you should’ve chained those fools if you didn’t want this. Out, Ninja. The Heads of State arrive soon.”

  “Lord Loaf,” the second speaker said, softening, “I’m torn between Arktiska and the world. But whatever I do, it’s for Arktiska. I’m its president, after all. I hope you’ll see that.” Footsteps thudded, and a figure emerged—tall, cd in green Mandalorian-style armor, his visor reflecting the torchlight.

  “Mr. President,” Dino said, bowing low. The man offered a curt nod and marched off.

  Dino lingered, letting the storm subside, before entering the study.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, voice firm.

  “Come in, Dino,” King Breb Vinter Loaf replied, hunched over a desk drowning in parchment. Maps, decrees, and letters sprawled chaotically, lit by a lone oil mp. Breb’s silver hair gleamed like polished steel, framing golden eyes that burned with fierce intensity—eyes that pierced like bdes.

  “Here’s the preparation committee’s report, Your Majesty,” Dino said, handing over a sealed envelope. “Also, some delegates—monarchs and presidents—want to stay here during the summit.”

  Breb’s golden gaze snapped up, sharp with disdain. “They’ve got embassies, no?”

  “For diplomats, yes. These are rulers.”

  “The Blumens would sleep in a pigsty if I ordered it,” Breb growled, his silver hair catching the light as he leaned forward. “Who do they think they are? Deny them all. No Southerner taints my pace.”

  “As you command, Your Majesty,” Dino said, nodding. “Also, the Prince of Iskallio asks you to join him in an hour.”

  “Why?”

  “The Shiokaze and Akai delegations are arriving.”

  “Fine. Get the car—I’ll go. You, head to Lahti. Tell Jim Jim to send more grain and wine. The Southerners won’t sleep here, but they’ll guzzle us dry.”

  “I’ll inform the Governor of Lahti,” Dino replied, bowing before exiting.

  .

  .

  .

  As Dino sped toward Lahti, King Breb rode in brooding silence, the car’s hum a faint thread beneath his thoughts. His golden eyes glinted, fixed on a distant horizon.

  “To the White Oak Garden first,” he ordered, voice a low rumble.

  The driver nodded. In Snobarga, grass was a myth for most—a prize for the wealthy, who funted Lahtian sod as a crown. Lawns here were rarer than gold, a defiance of a nd where life withered. The Ashfall’s curse lingered, choking all but one stubborn patch.

  The car slowed, stone yielding to a sea of green. The White Oak Garden unfurled, its leaves whispering against the wind. They called it sacred—the sole survivor when fire and ash razed the North. Beyond its edge, the earth y barren; here, it bloomed, a remnant of a lost age.

  Breb stepped out, boots sinking into the grass. Camellias fred in soft pinks and whites, their scent a brief reprieve from the cold. White oaks towered, their frost-tipped branches shielding the garden from the snow beyond. This was no mere haven; it was a pulse in a dead nd.

  He approached an ancient tree at the garden’s heart, its bark gnarled by a thousand years. It had witnessed kingdoms rise and fall, its roots drinking deep from a forgotten world. Beneath it rested a weathered stone tablet—a grave unmarked by pomp, no mausoleum or pyramid, just a whisper of a soul.

  Breb knelt, a single camellia in his gloved hand, and set it before the stone. His silver hair stirred in the breeze, his golden eyes softening briefly. The wind keened, a mournful cry from the north.

  “Your Highness,” he murmured, rough with reverence. “Winter’s here again. And this time, I fear the frost bites too deep.”

  He lingered, the weight of his crown heavier than the snow-den oaks above.

  .

  .

  .

  The UN summit was but a fleeting shadow of Paralon’s vast tapestry, a modern cmor of pride and power yet to crest its peak. Over two thousand years ago, in an age untouched by steam or steel, the Ashfall devoured the Northern Kingdoms, leaving behind a shroud of ash and ice. From that frozen ruin, after three and a half centuries of silence, a boy arose—Bjorn, born beneath the tender veil of the first snow.

  This was his saga, etched seventeen centuries before the gleaming cars and copper veins of Arktiska’s present. Bjorn, the st true Winter King, stood tall in a nd where frost waged war with fire, his dream of an eternal spring igniting a lineage to defy the ages.

  Here dawned an era where frost met fire.