Snow fell without a sound that night.
Silent.
No whisper of wind, no echo of life—only the faint sigh of an eternal winter cloaking the world. It washed away color, stilled all hope, as though even time itself dared not breathe, afraid to disturb the sanctity of that quiet reign.
At the far edge of the northern continent stood Eldraheim, a kingdom that seemed like a dream frozen in place. Its silver towers reached toward a sky that had long forgotten the sun, prayers of stone suspended in frost. Every brick in its capital carried the memory of laughter long extinguished, and footsteps that never returned.
The flowers froze before they could bloom.
The palace fountains no longer sang, now sculpted into crystal monuments—beautiful, and unbearably sorrowful.
In the grand hall of House Valenhardt, candles flickered weakly, their flames trembling against the cold that seeped from the ancient walls. No music, no celebration—only the echo of loyal footsteps and the quiet breath of those who still prayed for dawn.
It was said the first snow of Eldraheim fell on the day when noble blood was spilled by its own kin. Since then, winter had never ended. The curse seeped into every flake of snow, sealing the sky, devouring the light, until the entire kingdom was bound beneath a silence that would never fade.
Yet in the heart of despair, one light refused to die.
Princess Althea Valenhardt, the last bloom of Eldraheim—soft as snow, yet her courage burned like an undying flame that no storm could extinguish.
That night, Althea stood upon the highest tower, gazing across the endless white. The wind played with her gown, and in her eyes—blue as frozen seas—lay a reflection of a world quietly breaking.
From behind the shadows came the rhythm of heavy armor, steady and familiar.
Sir Kael Ardent stopped a single step behind her, keeping the respectful distance of a knight to his sovereign. Yet in that silence, the gulf between them felt deeper than any abyss.
"This winter," Althea whispered, her voice as cold as falling snow, "never ends, Kael. Even the sky has forgotten how to hope."
Kael bowed his head, the pale moonlight gleaming upon his silver helm.
"Seasons always change, Your Highness," he replied, his tone quiet but certain.
"Perhaps not now... but one day, they will."
He knew it was a lie—
but sometimes, a lie was the only mercy left to keep a heart from breaking.
Althea turned to him, slowly. Their eyes met—long enough to unravel every vow buried between them. In her gaze, Kael saw his own reflection: a knight bound by oath, yet imprisoned by devotion.
"If this snow never fades," she murmured, "will the world still remember us, Kael?"
Silence answered.
Amid the falling snow, the night remembered—quietly, endlessly.
For in Eldraheim, love was never merely a feeling.
It was the final form of sacrifice.
The snow remembers.
Always.