Stone columns carved from glacier-blue marble rose in perfect symmetry around the vaulted hall, their bases encircled by swirling runic bands that glowed faintly under the lanterns of enchanted frost-crystals. Along the walls, bas-relief murals traced the Frostborne lineage from its dawn: the first mortal to bind the Snow Tiger, the Sage-Queen who silenced a volcanic fury with a single breath of ice, and the lineage of each Noble who guided Rimeheim under the motto, “Eternal Ice.”

  At the hall’s center stood the Grand Mural: a towering depiction of Aric Frostborne, the Sage-rank ancestor whose mastery of ice had earned him the title “Frostfather.” In one hand he held a crystalline spear crowned with living frost, in the other a scroll bound by seven seals—an ancient pact as old as Rimeheim itself. Stars gleamed behind him, mapping the four habitable planes he had safeguarded. His eyes, carved in lifelike relief, seemed to shimmer with latent power.

  No torch or spell brightened Aric’s visage; it was as though the very essence of ice animated the stone. Courtiers whispered that on moonless nights, if one stood perfectly still, Aric’s lips might part in a solemn chant of old—a reminder that Rimeheim’s safety rested upon vows carved in ice and blood.

  In the hush, a low bell tolled. Midnight.

  From a side door draped in frost-woven tapestries emerged High Archivist Talien Starbloom, her elven features framed by silver hair. She held a slender codex bound in pale hide, its cover embossed with the Frostborne crest. With deliberate steps, she approached the mural and placed the codex upon a pedestal hewn to mirror Aric’s spear—ice-hard and unyielding.

  “By Eternal Ice,” Talien intoned, her voice echoing softly, “we renew the covenant.”

  She opened the codex to its first page: an ancestral prophecy, written in ancient runes, foretelling a scion of dual Oricha who would awaken the Devil Scroll and shape the fate of all worlds. The words were old—older even than Aric’s marble—but they pulsed with quiet promise.

  Talien’s finger traced the incised letters. “When Snow Tiger and Pact-Bearer stand as one, the sleeping world shall waken.”

  A draft stirred the lantern flames. The runes glowed brighter—an omen or a blessing, none could say. With a final nod, Talien closed the codex and withdrew, leaving the mural to stand in silent vigil over Rimeheim’s future heir.

  Before dawn’s first light, the Icetalon Gardens lay beneath a glaze of hoarfrost so fine it glittered like diamond dust. Pathways of polished ice wound through sculpted hedges of crystal-leafed everbloom, each petal edged in silver frost. The air carried a hush—an expectant heartbeat before the world awakened.

  At the lowest terrace, two figures stood facing the eastern horizon. Lord Darion Frostborne, his cloak lined with ice-woven fur, watched as Voktar’s pale sun rose above the distant peaks. Beside him, Lady Elara Frostborne clasped her hands, the runic sigils on her fingertips faintly glowing.

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  “Our son will stand in that hall tonight,” Darion said, voice low. “Sixteen winters. And all of Rimeheim awaits his Rite.”

  Elara turned, her amber eyes reflecting hope and apprehension in equal measure. “He carries two Orichas, Darion. Snow Tiger and… that unknown power. We cannot know the Scroll’s price.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Our line has weathered greater storms. Aric wielded powers that reshaped continents. The Scroll awaits the worthy.”

  Above them, a thrush perched on an ice-limbed branch, its song crystalline in the still air. Elara smiled. “Eternal Ice,” she whispered—her voice both prayer and battle-cry.

  They walked toward the marble steps, where Kian would soon emerge from his seclusion. Each parent bore their own weight of expectation: Darion, the stoic scar from the last war; Elara, whose grace masked her unspoken fears. Between them lay the path their son must tread—one of pacts, power, and legacies older than memory.

  In the vaulted Chamber of the Frozen Rite, columns of living ice spiraled toward a domed ceiling that shimmered with trapped starlight. At its core, a circular dais carved from midnight-blue obsidian formed the ritual circle. Runes of power radiated outward, etched in silver filigree that pulsed with Ase—raw energy as ancient as creation.

  Behind velvet curtains, Kian Frostborne knelt upon a fur-pelt and steel deck, his heart both calm and stormy. At six, he had fumbled his first Ase drills; at sixteen, he had trained beneath tutors, forging muscles and spirit in equal measure. Yet tonight, he felt the gravity of every ancestor upon him.

  The heavy curtains parted. Lord Darion, Lady Elara, and Grandfather Aric entered, their cloaks of frost-woven silk whispering against the obsidian floor. Aric’s eyes, cold as diamonds, studied his grandson.

  “Descendant of the Sage,” he intoned, voice echoing in the chamber. “You stand upon the threshold of Mastery. Yet to claim your birthright, you must awaken your Oricha within the Frozen Matrix.”

  He raised a hand, and every rune on the dais flared. Ice-wind howled as spectral snow drifted inland. From the runes, shapes coalesced: the silhouette of a Snow Tiger with fur like wind-blown frost, and beside it, a scroll of shifting shadows and light.

  Kian inhaled. He had studied the legends: the Snow Tiger granted mastery of ice and water; the Scroll bound any pact in eternal will. To awaken one was fate; two, a legend.

  Aric placed a gauntleted hand on Kian’s shoulder. “Speak your intent, Heir of Frostborne.”

  Kian steadied his breath. “By Eternal Ice, I claim the Snow Tiger…”

  A roar of wind answered. The runes glimmered as the spectral Snow Tiger’s eyes blazed. Kian felt a surge of Ase fill his limbs—cold as glacier heart, fierce as storm.

  He drew a trembling breath. “…and I embrace the Pact of the Devil Scroll.”

  The chamber froze in suspended awe. Runes writhed, the snow-ghost curl of the Scroll shimmered into being, and Kian’s spirit trembled as two Orichas ignited within him.

  Grandfather Aric’s voice cut through the storm. “So it begins.”

  Outside, the first rays of Voktar’s dawn pierced the chamber’s entrance—light upon ice, marking the genesis of a legend.

  End of Prologue