The Isdore Empire, with its renowned title, the Northern Empire, is a desolate and icy realm where the landscape remains perpetually white with snow. Sheltered by soaring peaks and deep valleys, a kingdom lies dormant behind an eternal wall of ice. The children of this land have grown familiar with the bone-chilling cold, their existence shaped by winter, which they revere as their god.
The place where I live is a peaceful and small countryside, nestled behind rolling hills. Here, untouched by imperial aid or any semblance of welfare, a life etched in poverty seems an unyielding reality. Life here is a shared burden, a tapestry woven with threads of self-reliance and the comforting weight of each other's support, a silent promise of survival whispered on the gentle breeze.
My brother and I live a solitary life in a wooden house nestled amidst soaring pine trees, a world away from the clamor of the main village. This hidden existence has been our only reality, a shadow cast by the relentless war that has raged between North and South for fifty years without cease. The weight of loss has shrouded our lives since our parents passed away, leaving this small wooden house as our sole sanctuary. Five years have passed since father joined the army, his face is now a blur in my memory and the yearning has slowly etched itself into a deep-seated ache in our hearts.
The age of thirteen felt heavy with worries. My brother, Kian, was just a twelve-year-old boy, a splash of vibrant auburn hair against the stark white of the snow, his clear blue eyes still holding the bright spark of curiosity and mischief.
"So, what's for dinner tonight, Sis?"
Carefully carrying the wooden bowl out from the cramped kitchen, its feeble warmth brushed against my face, already accustomed to the bitter cold. Setting it down before him, I let out a quiet sigh.
"...Sorry, looks like it's potatoes for us once more today."
"It doesn't matter, anything is fine with me"
I knew he was only saying that to comfort himself, reluctance was evident in his tone, fleetingly visible in his eyes and in the slight shrug of his shoulders attempting to conceal disappointment. A decent meal was a luxury for children like us. In those days, despite being a cheap sustenance, potatoes still held great value in our meals because they were all we could afford at the time.
Yet in this moment, they were enough.
Kian was a good child, he didn't deserve to endure such hardships at such a tender age. Even so, sometimes just seeing that child heartily enjoy these bleak meals somewhat lightens the burden in my heart.
The lives of two orphaned children in this remote countryside offered few choices. Occasionally, I would try to sell rare herbs gathered from the hills to earn a meager amount of silver or take on odd jobs offered by anyone willing to pay, even if just for a few pieces of stale bread. I had grown used to this difficult life, someone without education or any outstanding skills would find it very difficult to get a decent job, even as a maidservant. Moreover, our status was low, for we were just humble wildlings.
"Sis, I have something to do later so I'll be heading out, okay?"
I paused, the wooden spoon in my hand stilling. "Where are you planning to go at this hour?"
"It's nothing important, I'm just going out for a bit."
That nonchalant shrug sent a shiver of unease down my spine, a gut feeling that Kian was likely hiding something. It felt certain.
"It's late now. Where are you planning to go and what are you going to do?"
"I'm old enough to look after myself. Besides, I'll only be out for about an hour."
"It's pitch black out there, it's really not safe at all. Why can't it wait until tomorrow? What's so urgent?"
''Please. It's just for an hour and I won't go far from the village." His voice was insistent, his sparkling blue eyes pleading.
"...Honestly..."
Though hesitant, I reluctantly agreed. Kian was a resilient and clever child, the reality of losing our parents had taught him more about life than merely being a mischievous boy. He would be fine, or so I convinced myself.
An hour had passed since Kian left home, I kept myself busy with the remaining chores. The gentle whisk of the bamboo broom against the cracked tile floor, a lonely sound that accompanied the careful movements of worn hands as I rearranged a few threadbare garments. Poverty clung to us like a persistent ghost, our worn and dirty clothes were a bitter reminder and the same dry food day after day dulled both our palates and our hope.
Pausing my work, I gazed out at the blurred world beyond the windowpane, wondering if a better future was even possible for us. What awaited us in this life other than the choking bitterness of boiled sweet potatoes?
Suddenly, the piercing wail of an alarm tore through the silent night. Abruptly, the sky blazed with an eerie red, casting grotesque light upon the ground. From the capital, frantic bell tolls echoed relentlessly, everything screaming a terrible warning: a surprise attack in the night. The territorial war between the Wolf and the Dragon had reignited, sparked by an age-old myth about the stolen eyes of the dragons.
Bolted from the house, a lump of dread in my throat as the siren wailed a second time. Kian, the boy was still wandering out there somewhere. This was bad, truly terrible.
We, the Wolf, are small and frail against the destructive might of the Dragon. These colossal beings, with wings spanning wide enough to cover the sky, exhale flames that reduce all to cinder. The capital, where the strongest mages gather, might still be safe, protected by a sturdy magical barrier. But small villages like mine, with no mages, no knights, no protection whatsoever for these wretched people are vulnerable when the dragons appear from the heavens, bringing their fury down upon the land.
The humble street, usually filled with gentle chatter, had become a raging torrent, sweeping away all tranquility. Doors slammed shut, frantic footsteps echoed and the piercing cries of children lost from their mothers all blended into a chaotic symphony of terror, a horrifying crescendo of fear.
"Kian! Kian!?"
Struggled through the panicked crowd, my desperate gaze seeking a small, familiar form, my voice was drowned out by the shouts and the pounding of fleeing feet.
Abruptly, a fireball tore through the night and crashed into the very center of the village square, engulfing the ancient fountain in a sea of flames. From above, the massive shapes of the dragons gradually emerged, their red eyes burning like embers as they stared down with contempt. Dark smoke rose in thick plumes, blackening the sky, blending with the terrible screams as more fireballs began to fall from the night. Lost and disoriented in the choking smoke, I could only blindly surge forward.
Suddenly, a fireball crashed down into the very path I fled, its horrific blast ripped through the air, sending me hurtling upwards before my body crashed onto the unforgiving cobblestones with a sickening thud. A jolt of pain shot through my ankle, drawing a soft groan as blood began to bloom, staining the rough fabric a deepening red. My legs wobbled with each step, my clothes smeared with grime and my once-dark hair was now a matted mess. The world swam into a blurry unreality, the sounds of chaos echoing as if from a distant nightmare.
Drifting in and out of awareness, I registered a small warmth, the insistent pressure of a hand shaking me.
''Wake up! Get up now! We have to get out of here!!"
Kian's tear-filled eyes, wide with fear, locked onto mine. His small hand gripped mine desperately as he yanked me toward the wooden house—a fleeting hope flashing through my mind: the shelter beneath, our last chance if we could just reach it. Fireballs continued raining from above, beautiful yet deadly, and the ground shook violently as we dashed across the battlefield. Explosions roared around us, scorching heat searing our faces, and sheer terror squeezed our hearts.
Prayer was all that was left, a desperate plea for a miracle.
A sharp crack ripped through the air as the roof buckled. A large chunk collapsed with a deafening thud, followed by the agonizing groan and crash of the old tree beside it. Without hesitation, I hauled Kian down into the safety of the shelter.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind us as I threw my full weight against the locking bar. Though a grim familiarity had settled over these night raids, their increasing frequency was unnerving, this week alone marked the third attack. We huddled together, two small, frightened creatures burrowed in the darkness of the shelter, where the only illumination came from ominous red streaks of firelight bleeding through the small window.
Time stretched, thick and suffocating with dread.
Suddenly, a faint rustling sound came from where Kian sat. He nuzzled his head against my shoulder, his tiny hands clutching my sleeve like a puppy seeking warmth. And how many times had this scene repeated itself, while the explosions no longer held the same terror for me, perhaps they still did for him. Drawing his small frame closer, I rubbed comforting circles on his back.
"Everything will be alright"
"...Do you think father will ever come back?..."
Truthfully, I didn't know how to answer. Five years of silence, an echoing void where his letters used to be, had extinguished any real hope of his return. But looking into those innocent eyes, the harsh truth felt like a physical blow I couldn't deliver. A lie, however fragile, might still be the kindest comfort it could be in this moment.
"He will, Kian. I know he will..."
Silence descended upon the shelter once more. Somewhere along this endless nightmare, the darkness of our shelter had become a suffocating norm. The war raged on, an unseen beast clawing at our lives. Since when had this sound become such familiar lullabies?
Four long, silent hours bled into one another before the explosions finally began to recede. The earth stilled its violent trembling, leaving behind a silence so profound that it felt like a held breath. Slowly, I pushed myself to my feet, my gaze cautiously seeking answers through the narrow window.
The aftermath of each attack paints the same devastating tableau. Homes lay ravaged, the earth was scarred with dark craters, and small fires still flickered stubbornly while the bewildered villagers desperately tried to extinguish the embers. This is evidence of the crime, the brutality of the Southern army. All that remained of the places they touched were ashes and the broken remnants of the forgotten people who called this place home.