Present Chronicle (Monastery, Year 0)
A bitter chill has settled in the corridors, though no furnace burns here. I feel it in my bones—the echo of frost not native to this desert monastery. Tonight, I write by the pale light of a single candle, its flame dancing like a reluctant spirit. The pages before me remain blank, as though resisting the weight of what must be recorded.
I press my palm against the desk, listening for the hum of memory in the wood grain. The Inner Echoes are silent—an omen I do not welcome. I uncap the inkwell and write:
"In every heart lies a winter of secrets—cold, unyielding, and patient."
I pause, uncertain whether the words spring from my own mind or from some distant whisper. The candle flickers. Beyond these walls, four kingdoms hold their breaths; here, one man trembles between truth and delusion. I set my quill aside and prepare to descend into the past once more.
Retrospective Scene (Circa –100 Years, The Frosted Groves of Orisylwia)
The air was sharp and crystalline, each breath tasting like dawn's first frost. I stood at the edge of a forest draped in white: Orisylwia's Northern Groves, where ancient trees wore coats of ice and their roots drank from hidden glacial springs. In those days, I had not yet earned my moniker among the great and terrible; I was still Arren, lieutenant of the Rada Dziesięciu, dispatched to secure an alliance with the elusive Zimowy Sen.
Legends spoke of elf-priests who communed with Forgotten Deities through dreams and nightmares. They guarded the Veil of Winter, a sacred boundary where the living world and the realm of ancient powers met. Crossing it meant risking your soul; negotiating safe passage meant earning the trust of beings older than memory itself.
I rode in a caravan of black warhorses, each draped in silver harnesses, their breath misting like dragon-fire in the dawn air. Behind me followed a small retinue: two Rada mages, versed in glyph-binding, and a scout from Drak'Ur skilled at detecting etheric currents. None spoke as we entered the groves—the hush under the ice-limbs was reverent, oppressive.
At the heart of the forest lay the White Spire: a towering column of living ice, carved with glyphs that pulsed faintly with moonlight. Beneath its pillar, elf-priests knelt on frozen moss, clad in white robes edged with sapphire. Their leader, the Snowwarden Elan'shara, rose to greet us, hair the color of moonlight on ice, eyes reflecting storm clouds.
"Arren of Va'rakan," she intoned, voice like wind through hollow branches. "Why does the desert's council seek the favor of ice and shadow?"
I bowed deeply. "Snowwarden, our world teeters on the brink. The Rada Dziesięciu desires peace among the realms—and the flow of Memory Stones must remain free. We seek your alliance, that the Veil of Winter protect caravans and that our magic may honor your rites."
Elan'shara regarded me with unsettling calm. "Your Memory Stones carry the essences of souls. You traffic in what we hold sacred: the remembrance of mortals and gods alike. What guarantee have we that you will not desecrate the Veil you ask us to guard?"
I met her gaze. "By my life, by my oath to the council and to my word, I swear our trade will respect your rites. We will not profane the Veil."
She nodded, and with a gesture, her acolytes raised ancient flutes. A haunting melody filled the grove, notes sliding through the frozen limbs of trees. Ice cracked softly underfoot, and I felt the ground shift as though beneath my boots lay the fragile boundary itself.
Elan'shara stepped forward, pressing her palm against the spire. The glyphs flared azure, and a wind rose, carrying whispers I could not decipher. "To prove your oath," she whispered, "you must walk the Frostpath."
A narrow ridge of ice snaked around the spire's base—a foot-wide path suspended over a chasm of frozen air. No rail guarded it; a single misstep would send you plummeting into endless cold. The procession parted to reveal the path's entrance.
I swallowed, tasting fear. The Rada mages stood behind me, competence in their eyes, yet they too trembled. I set my staff aside, removing my heavy gauntlets. With bare hands, I stepped onto the Frostpath. Beneath my toes, the surface was slick, but I felt its heartbeat—an echo of lifeblood trapped in ice.
The elf-priests fell silent, the flutes stilled. I placed one foot before the other, guiding my balance by the feel of the glyph-etched ice. The chasm yawned at my side, its depths lost to glittering darkness. At each step, I whispered the treaty terms—my promise to safeguard the Veil, to honor their rites, to never traffic in their sacred dreams.
Halfway around the spire, a gust of wind roared, pushing me toward the void. I clung to will and memory, toe finding purchase in a crack. The wind carried a voice: ancient, lamenting, a cry of gods bound in frost. My heart seized, but I refused to fall.
I recalled the caravan waiting beyond the forest—their lives hanging on this bargain. I thought of Va'rakan's dunes, whispering of tomorrow's sands. Each thought became a tether, anchoring me. Inch by inch, I edged forward.
When I completed the circle, the elf-priests exhaled collectively. Elan'shara extended a hand, frost melting where her skin touched. "You have walked the Frostpath with honor. Our alliance is sealed."
As she spoke, the ice around the spire shimmered and a network of runes glowed beneath the snow: a barrier to protect travelers, powered by the sacred Veil. I donned my gauntlets, retrieved my staff, and bowed once more. Beyond the forest, the caravan unfurled its banners, and I led them toward home.
Present Chronicle (Monastery, Year 0) — Conclusion
I set down my quill, gloved hand trembling from remembered cold. The Veil of Winter stands broken only in memory's touch—not yet in reality. My promise endures on these pages, though I wonder if ink can bind oaths as surely as frost binds the grove.
I roll the parchment and secure it with a band of silver. Outside, the candle flickers low. I rise, cloaked in gray, and whisper to the vacant corridor:
"May the shadows of winter guard the secrets we share."
I extinguish the flame. The echo of ice remains in the silence—an echo I will chase through every page of this chronicle.