Chapter 1:

  The grand hall of the Elementalist Guild headquarters was a stark contrast to the snowy serenity of Frost’s log cabin back in the northern wilds. Towering crystalline pillars etched with glowing runes spiraled up to a vaulted ceiling that pulsed faintly with ambient magic.

  Despite its grandeur, the air in the hall was thick with distrust. Frost’s boots echoed sharply across the marble floor as he made his way toward the circular council chamber, where the guild’s elders sat in judgment.

  Whispers filled the room as Frost walked. “An unregistered Elementalist? Why is the guild entertaining someone like him?” one murmured. “Only 18. Can we really trust him?” another muttered, eyes narrowing.

  Frost ignored the murmurs, his icy-blue eyes fixed on the center of the chamber. The golden-orange ring on his right finger and the grey-blue cloak slung across his shoulders marked him unmistakably as an Elementalist. But without an official badge, he was marked unregistered.

  His long robe, lined with enchanted white velvet to ward off the northern chill, swayed as he walked.

  The enchanted longsword slung behind his back glinted faintly in the light of the runes.

  The five Councilors sat upon raised thrones, each carved from the material of their element. Elder Veyra, of Stone, sat on stone laced with gold veins. Elder Karel of Fire leaned back in his throne of black iron, the faint hiss of heat rising from it. Elder Lira of wind sat unnervingly still, her sapphire throne shivering and wavering despite no wind.

  Beside her sat Elder Thorne, clad in deep violet robes, his silver mask hiding most of his face. Steel, the only emotional element in the five.

  And finally, there was Sister Andelle, a young but sharp-witted Water Sage with a robe of mist silk and a demeanor of gentle menace.

  All of the masters are Sages, wielding only one element. Sages are rare in the magical world, and full elementalists, called enchanters like Frost, are even rarer. Most of the magical community only uses outer forms of magic different to the elements.

  “Frost,” intoned Elder Veyra, the eldest among them and the only one whose expression held a trace of neutrality. Her voice was calm but commanding, the kind that could silence storms. “You requested an audience to deliver your report. Now, speak.”

  Frost bowed slightly, a gesture of respect more than submission.

  “The dragon marked by the hunter’s guild has moved northward into the Skarn Wastes,” he began, his voice steady and clear. “I tracked its movements for three weeks. It avoids major settlements, but its trail is littered with signs of destruction: freezed forests, shattered cliffs, and the remnants of smaller hunting parties.”

  “Preposterous” a voice murmured, Frost ignored them again.

  “You expect us to believe that? A lone hunter, slaying one of the Frozen Ancients?” Karel scoffed. “You’ve no certification. No guild badge. Not even a proper title.”

  “The dragon’s behavior is unusual,” Frost continued, ignoring the sarcasm. “It’s not just rampaging aimlessly. It’s searching for something.”

  “And what,” interrupted Elder Karel, his tone sharp with suspicion, “makes you so certain of that?”

  Frost met Karel’s gaze without flinching. “Because it circled the ruins of Varenth twice before moving on. It left the area untouched—no destruction, no signs of feeding. Whatever it’s after, it’s tied to that place.”

  The mention of Varenth stirred a reaction. The ruins were ancient, shrouded in mystery and whispered to be a place of immense magical significance. Frost knew he was treading dangerous ground by bringing it up, but he also knew withholding information would do no one any favors.

  The ruins of Varenth are carted off the official maps of the Kingdom, not wanting anyone to wander off into danger, Ancient enchantments are placed by someone unknown around the area, anyone trying to enter are cursed vicariously.

  “Varenth is forbidden,” Elder Lira said, her voice like ice cracking under pressure. “No one is to approach it, not even hunters. You overstep your bounds, Frost.”

  “You walked into cursed ground. Broke three Elementalist laws. Unlicensed magic usage. Unpermitted combat. Trespassing a red zone. If you were anyone else, we’d have you executed.”

  “Come and arrest me, if you want.” Frost muttered, barely loud enough for them to hear.

  A tense silence filled the chamber. The elders’ mistrust of Frost was palpable, but so was the gravity of his report. They couldn’t ignore the danger he’d outlined, no matter how much they might wish to.

  “You trained here once, Frost. You could have risen high in our ranks. But you left without a word. Why?”

  Frost’s jaw tightened. “Because I saw what was behind the curtain. And I didn’t like it.”

  The council was quiet again. Something passed through the room—like pressure dropping before a storm.

  The Elementalists are one of the most elite fighters of the kingdom of Conchord, the major fighting force. Some of the residents rely on them to protect their daily life.

  THe counselors tutted, obviously annoyed.

  “What do you propose, then?” Elder Veyra finally asked, breaking the silence. “Do we need to send Elementalists to your aid.”

  “No need, I just came to report,” Frost said without hesitation. “The dragon has already fallen”

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  The silence fell again, this time, total silence. Shocked, and flustered, the elders exchanged glances.

  Dragons are extremely difficult to kill, let alone kill them alone.

  The atmosphere in the meeting room darkened, Frost’s expression didn’t change, but his voice carried a subtle edge. “I'm here to report, not to raise an army, Someone ought to know about the dangers.”

  Veyra sighed. “You have given your report. The Guild will... acknowledge your slaying of Ithrazor. You may leave.”

  Frost inclined his head. “Understood.”

  As he turned to leave, the whispers began anew. He could feel the eyes of every mage in the hall boring into his back. To them, it was news, major news that a single warrior killed a full grown dragon.

  One last thing,” Frost added, turning back around. “You’ve got a mole. Someone’s been leaking monster paths to the outer regions. My trail wasn’t the only one being hunted.”

  He left the council room silent, banging the heavy wooden doors behind him.

  Stepping out into the crisp night air, The ruins of Varenth loomed in his mind, a place of secrets and danger. Something was happening, something up with the movements of the monsters.

  ___________________________________________________

  Westport, the hometown of Elementalists. The bustling markets of the busy streets are packed with market stalls, shops and booths.

  Out in a small side street, the Oak & Ember Tavern was dimly lit, its smoky interior a haven for travelers, mercenaries, and the occasional mage brave enough to venture into common company.

  Frost pushed open the creaking wooden door and stepped inside, his eyes adjusting quickly to the warm glow of the hearth. The scent of spiced mead and roasted venison filled the air, a welcome change from the sterile chill of the guild’s halls.

  Behind the bar stood Bottleburn, a broad-shouldered man with a patchy beard and a perpetual grin. His name came from his uncanny ability to empty a bottle of firewhiskey without so much as flinching. More than that, he was one of the few people Frost could count as a friend.

  “Frost, you old snow wolf!” Bottleburn’s voice boomed as he waved a meaty hand. “Haven’t seen you in weeks. Thought you’d frozen solid out there.”

  Frost smirked and made his way to the bar. “Not yet. But give it time.”

  Bottleburn slid a mug of beer across the counter. “This one’s in the house. What brings you back to civilization? Another beast to slay?”

  Frost took a sip, savoring the warmth that spread through him. “Something like that. A dragon.”

  Bottleburn raised an eyebrow. “A dragon, eh? Nasty business. And you’re working with the guild?”

  “I’m not working for them, just to report on the unusual movements of that dragon.” Frost replied, leaning on the counter.

  “But they’re desperate. This one’s different. It’s not just rampaging—it’s searching for something. And I intend to find out before it’s too late.”

  Bottleburn’s jovial expression darkened slightly. “You think it’s tied to the other things you’ve been seeing? The unusual movements?”

  Frost nodded. “I do. Something’s stirring out there, Bottleburn. The monsters are acting strange, like they’re being driven by something. If I can figure out what, maybe I can stop it.”

  “Sounds like you’re walking into a storm,” Bottleburn said, pouring himself a drink. “Are you sure about this?”

  Frost gazed into Bottleburn’s eyes. “Pretty sure.”

  Bottleburn clinked his mug against Frost’s. “Well, here’s to not getting yourself killed. And if you need anything — supplies, information, or just someone to drink with—you know where to find me.”

  Frost gave a small nod, his smile returning. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He finished his drink in one gulp and set the mug down, letting the warmth seep into his body.

  The tavern’s chatter grew louder around him — mercenaries bragging about their latest kills, travelers exchanging news of distant lands, and the occasional bard strumming a lute in the corner.

  For a fleeting moment, Frost felt a sense of normalcy, a reminder of the simpler times before his life became a relentless cycle of blood and survival.

  But the moment didn’t last long.

  The door to the tavern creaked open again, letting in a gust of icy wind that made the hearth’s flames flicker. A hooded figure stepped inside, cloak dusted with snow, two hilts of longswords sticking out of his back.

  The newcomer paused, scanning the room with eyes hidden from the deep cowl, before striding toward the bar with purpose. The room fell silent. The presence of the obvious dangerous aura casted a silent aura upon the public.

  Frost’s hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword, sensing the fighting figure. The silhouette stopped a few paces away and pulled back the hood, revealing a young woman with short cropped hair and piercing amber eyes.

  There’s only one word for her. Cute. But her frame radiated a dangerous aura. Like a rose, beautiful at sight, but strap with spikes if touched without care.

  Her slim figure is surrounded with a thick cloak draping down to her ankles. Her short-cut hair framed her slightly flushed face like silk curtains.

  Frost shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He turned back to the girl.

  “A hunter,” Frost said in a low voice, his cheeks slightly reddining.

  She was about his age, maybe a bit younger, he thought. The double short swords and the bronze hunter medallion slung around her neck are unmistakable signs of a guild hunter

  “Frost, it’s your name, is it,” she said, her eyes on his bluish hair, indicating the recognition. “We need to talk.”

  Bottleburn glanced between Frost and the woman. His eyebrows raised into an obvious question “Friend?”

  Frost shook his head and gazed at the figure “Who’s asking?”

  The girl took a step closer, her expression unreadable. “Name’s Vin. The guild sent me to find you. They thought you’d need... assistance.”

  Frost’s jaw tightened. “I prefer to work alone.”

  Vin crossed her arms. “And I don’t take orders from loners. But the guild seems to think this dragon’s just the start. They’ve assigned me to your hunt whether you like it or not.”

  Bottleburn let out a low whistle, leaning against the bar. “Well, this just got interesting.”

  Frost stared at Vin for a long moment, weighing his options. He didn’t trust the guild—they’d made that clear enough in the past—but if they were desperate enough to send someone to shadow him, it meant the threat was more serious than he’d thought.

  Finally, he sighed and set his tankard back down.

  “Fine,” he said grudgingly. “But stay out of my way.”

  Vin smirked. “Likewise.”

  Bottleburn chuckled, pouring another round of drinks. “Looks like you two are off to a great start. Here, have another mead on me. Sounds like you’ll need it.”

  Frost accepted the drink, but his mind was already racing. If the guild was this worried, They know that something was happening too, Nice for them to be reading the sighs.

  As the fire crackled and the shadows danced across the walls of the Oak & Ember, Frost silently resolved that he would uncover the truth, no matter the cost.

  For the first time in years, he felt the faint stirrings of something he’d thought long buried: hope. Or perhaps it was dread. It was quite hard to tell.

  “Cheers,” Frost said to Vin, who raised her tankard and drank.