"Long ago, this kingdom faced a great problem—a war that threatened to consume everything," the old storyteller began, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the bustling market square. He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the gathering crowd. "But one day, against all odds, our brave soldiers emerged victorious. The war ended, and a wave of jubilation washed over the land. The people rejoiced, the soldiers celebrated, and for a time, the world truly did seem bright again."
His words, however, were immediately met with a cacophony of childish inquiries. A chorus of small voices erupted, each child vying to be heard.
"Who were they fighting, Grandpa?" a small girl with bright, curious eyes piped up.
"What kind of bright, Grandpa? Was it like a rainbow?" another child asked, his voice filled with wonder.
"Did they have fireworks?" a third chimed in, his imagination already painting vivid pictures of celebratory explosions.
The old storyteller, momentarily overwhelmed by the enthusiastic barrage of questions, blinked in surprise. His carefully crafted narrative had been unceremoniously interrupted, leaving him struggling to regain control. He opened his mouth to speak, but before a single word could escape, a new sound cut through the air – a sharp, authoritative proclamation that silenced the entire market.
"Bow your heads for the Prince!"
The marketplace fell silent, a hush descending like a sudden snowfall. From between the colorful stalls and throngs of people, Prince Edric emerged, his presence commanding attention. He sat astride a magnificent black stallion, its coat gleaming under the dim light, flanked by six imposing palace guards, their armor polished to a mirror sheen. His royal navy cloak billowed dramatically behind him as a gust of wind swept through the square, revealing the glint of a sword at his hip and the Caelthorn crest, a symbol of royal lineage, embroidered proudly on his chest.
Every person in the square bowed low, their movements a mixture of respect and apprehension. Whispers rippled through the crowd, a blend of admiration and fear.
"That's Prince Edric…" one whispered, awestruck.
"He's even more handsome in person…" another murmured, her voice laced with a dreamy tone.
"But cold. I heard he never smiles," a more cautious voice countered, hinting at a darker side to the prince's reputation.
"Did you know he once broke a noble's arm just for staring?" a hushed voice revealed a chilling tale of the prince's temper.
Edric, however, remained impassive. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, sharp and unwavering, yet strangely lifeless. He acknowledged no one – not the excited children waving, not the whispering girls captivated by his appearance, not even the elderly who bowed deeply before him. The only sound was the rhythmic clop of his horse's hooves and the subtle creak of leather armor.
His guards followed in silent procession, their eyes constantly scanning the crowd, their hands hovering near their weapons as if anticipating a sudden threat from any direction. The atmosphere was thick with tension, a stark contrast to the festive atmosphere that had reigned moments before.
Edric's gaze briefly flicked towards the distant mountains, where a thin, slow snowfall was beginning to descend. It was an eerie silence, a stark contrast to the usual sounds of a winter storm.
The imposing castle loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the snow-dusted mountains. As Edric and his entourage passed through the outer gates, the castle grounds sprang to life. Servants and guards bustled into action, their movements precise and efficient.
"He's returning! Make way!" a servant shouted, his voice echoing through the courtyard.
"Clear the path! Lay the red velvet!" another commanded, preparing for the prince's arrival.
"Where is the steward? His Highness must be greeted!" a third voice urged, ensuring all protocols were followed.
Inside the grand hall, the atmosphere was both opulent and chilling. Torches flickered along the high walls, casting dancing shadows on the polished marble floor, which gleamed like a sheet of ice. Stained-glass windows cast vibrant hues onto the rich tapestries, but the air remained strangely cold, colder than the winter wind outside.
At the top of the grand staircase stood Queen Margot, her regal bearing unmistakable. Clad in a gown of emerald silk and black fur, she exuded an air of composed elegance. Her fingers, adorned with silver rings, played with each other as her lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Her eyes, however, held a depth that hinted at unspoken concerns.
She watched as her son entered the hall, his demeanor as stoic as ever.
"So silent again," she murmured to herself, her voice barely audible. "Even the falling snow makes more noise than him."
In the throne room, King Magnus sat slumped in his massive stone seat, the weight of his crown – a heavy piece carved with onyx and gold – seemingly pressing down on him. His beard was streaked with grey, and his eyes, though sharp, held a weariness that spoke of countless burdens carried over many years.
Edric entered without expression, bowing slightly to his parents.
"You've returned," Magnus said, his voice a gruff grunt. "The market didn't bore you to death, I hope."
"There was nothing of value there," Edric replied, his tone flat and emotionless.
"There never is," the king sighed, waving a dismissive hand.
Queen Margot stepped closer, her concern evident. "You should smile more, Edric. The people already fear you. Do you enjoy that?"
"I don't enjoy anything," he answered softly, his voice barely a whisper. The coldness in his words was palpable.
That evening, during the royal dinner, an oppressive silence hung over the long obsidian table. King Magnus sat at the head, Queen Margot to his right, and Prince Silas, Edric's younger brother, sat to the king's left. Silas, eighteen years old, was the opposite of his brother – lively, full of stories, and radiating warmth. Edric sat beside him, a stark contrast, silent and withdrawn, picking listlessly at his food.
"I saw you ride through the market today," Silas said, his voice cheerful. "You looked like a statue. Didn't even blink at the girls giggling over you."
"They weren't worth blinking for," Edric replied, his tone devoid of any hint of amusement.
Queen Margot chuckled softly, a sound that seemed out of place in the tense atmosphere. "And yet, they talk about you endlessly. The cold prince, the cruel heir."
Silas grinned, undeterred by his brother's lack of reaction. "They say you've never smiled since birth."
"I had no reason to," Edric muttered, taking a slow sip of his wine.
Suddenly, King Magnus slammed his goblet down on the table, the sharp sound shattering the silence.
"This snow…" he began, his voice heavy with concern, "…has lasted far too long."
All eyes turned to him, their faces reflecting a shared unease.
"I've ruled through twenty winters," he continued, his voice laced with a growing sense of urgency, "and never once has it snowed this much before winter even begins."
Silas raised an eyebrow, a hint of playful curiosity in his eyes. "You think it's magic?"
"I don't think," Magnus snapped, his voice sharp and forceful. "I know."
Queen Margot's gaze darkened, but she remained silent, her expression unreadable. The weight of unspoken knowledge hung heavy in the air.
Later that night, Edric stood alone in his private chambers, gazing out at the relentless snowfall. The wind howled like a tormented beast, scraping against the stone walls of the castle. The endless snow seemed to mirror the emptiness within him.
A knock came at his door. It was Lady Renna, their grandmother, her presence commanding respect despite the absence of a crown. Wrapped in thick shawls, she entered the room, her steps quiet yet firm.
"You stand like your grandfather did," she said, her voice soft yet carrying an undercurrent of understanding. "Always staring out, thinking too much."
"I wasn't thinking," Edric replied, his voice still flat.
"That's what he used to say too," she smiled sadly. "But he was always thinking. Of war. Of regret. Of love."
"I don't think of love," Edric said bluntly, his words betraying a deep-seated emotional detachment.
Renna sighed and stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You will. One day. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow. But when the world turns quiet like this… love is the only warmth left."
He didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the falling snow. But for the first time, a flicker of something stirred within his chest – a subtle shift, a nascent feeling he couldn't yet name.
Far from the warmth of the castle, deep within the twisting, snow-laden woods, a crooked tent stood solitary in the swirling snow. Inside, an old crone, her face etched with ancient wisdom and dark secrets, whispered to the crackling flames.
"The girl lives," she hissed, her voice raspy and filled with a chilling certainty. "The elf… she breathes still."
The fire crackled, spitting sparks into the darkness.
"The snow will not end… until her heart stops." The words hung in the air, a chilling prophecy that echoed the unsettling stillness of the kingdom.