In the shadowed halls of Frosthaven Citadel, where the winds of Altgia moaned through crevices like the laments of long-forgotten kings, Prince Arin paced with the restlessness of a caged eagle. He was a youth of eighteen summers, tall and fair as the silver birches that clung defiantly to the mountain slopes, his hair flowing like polished streams of moonlight, his eyes a piercing blue that mirrored the glacial depths. Clad in furs trimmed with the royal emblem—a stylized snowflake wrought in thread of gold—he bore the weight of heirship lightly upon his broad shoulders, for his life had been one of privilege unscarred by the biting hunger that gnawed at his subjects. The prince delighted in the pursuits befitting his station: hunts across the frozen wilds, where he pursued elusive white stags with bow and hound; feasts in the great hall, where minstrels sang of ancient glories and the hearth-fires roared defiance against the cold; and councils with his father, King Eldric, where matters of state were debated in tones grave and measured.
Yet beneath this veneer of royal ease stirred a discontent, a yearning for trials that would forge his mettle as steel in the smithy. Arin had heard whispers of the world beyond Altgia's icy borders—from envoys who braved the perilous passes bearing missives from warmer realms, their tongues loosened by mulled wine and the warmth of hospitality. These travelers spoke of the Great Game, cricket, that noble contest which had supplanted the barbarous wars of yore. "In the verdant south," they would recount, their eyes alight with memory, "kingdoms clash upon fields of emerald turf, their champions wielding bat and ball as warriors of old brandished sword and shield. The victors claim not merely glory, but the very sustenance of empires: bountiful harvests, veins of precious ore, even arcane wellsprings that bend the winds to their will." Such tales ignited a spark in Arin's breast, for Altgia, isolated and impoverished, stood apart from this grand tapestry, denied entry to the Grand Council of Cricket by the chains of poverty and the unyielding frost that rendered pitches impossible.
King Eldric, ever the wise shepherd of his flock, had long dreamed of bridging this chasm. In private audiences, he confided in Arin: "Our people starve not only for bread, my son, but for hope. If we could but field a team, join the ranks of the exalted Ten, the Centennial Tourney might shower upon us the resources we so desperately crave. Every decade, a hundred kingdoms vie upon the global stage, their fates decided by skill and strategy, not bloodshed. Altgia must rise—or perish in obscurity." Arin nodded assent, his princely pride swelling at the thought of leading such a charge, yet doubt lingered: How to summon a game from the snows? How to train warriors of the willow when bellies growled empty and hands trembled from cold?
It was upon one such crisp morn, when the sun crested the eastern peaks in a halo of reluctant gold, that Arin set forth on a royal inspection to the outlying villages. Accompanied by a retinue of guards—sturdy men in mail cloaked with bear pelts, their spears glinting like icicles—he rode upon a sleigh drawn by sure-footed reindeer, the runners slicing through the drifts with a whisper. Their destination was Glacemere, a hamlet nestled in a sheltered vale, where reports spoke of meager yields from the ice-fisheries and murmurs of unrest among the folk. "We must show the crown's face," Eldric had instructed, "lest despair take root like frost in fertile soil."
As the sleigh crested a rise overlooking Glacemere, Arin's keen eyes caught a curious sight amid a makeshift clearing in the snow—a hollow where the winds had scoured the ground bare, revealing patches of frozen earth. There, a lone figure moved with purposeful grace: a youth of similar age to himself, dark-haired and lean, swinging a peculiar staff of wood at invisible foes. The strokes were precise, fluid, as if dancing with shadows; now a defensive prod, now a sweeping arc that sent imaginary projectiles soaring into the ether. Intrigued, Arin signaled his guard to halt. "What manner of ritual is this?" he murmured, dismounting with the lithe ease of one bred to command.
Approaching on foot, his boots crunching the crisp snow, Arin beheld the lad more clearly. Thorne, for it was he, paused in his practice, the rune-etched bat—Garrick's legacy—resting upon his shoulder. Sweat beaded his brow despite the chill, his breath forming plumes in the air. He wore simple garb: a tunic of coarse wool, patched breeches, and boots worn thin from toil. Yet there was a humility in his stance, a quiet dignity that bespoke inner strength, unmarred by the hardships that etched lines upon his kinfolk's faces.
"Hail, stranger," Arin called, his voice carrying the authority of royalty tempered with genuine curiosity. "What art thou about in this forsaken hollow? Thy movements seem a dance, yet purposeful as a warrior's drill."
Thorne turned, his dark eyes meeting the prince's without flinching, though he bowed low in deference. "My lord Prince," he replied, recognizing the royal insignia upon Arin's cloak. "It is no dance, but the practice of cricket—the Great Game that rules the southern realms. Taught to me by a wanderer named Garrick, who passed through these parts not long ago. With bat and ball, kingdoms wage their wars in peace, and victors reap the world's bounty."
Arin laughed then, a sound like the cracking of ice upon a thawing river, clear and unburdened. "Cricket? I have heard tales of it from envoys—how it binds empires and decides fates without a drop of blood spilled. Yet here, in Altgia's grip of winter, it seems a folly. Show me, then, lad of Glacemere. If it can warm these frozen lands, it is worth a prince's time."
Thorne hesitated but a moment, his humble nature yielding to the prince's command. From a nearby satchel, he produced the weathered leather ball, its stitches faded yet firm. "As you wish, my lord. Stand yonder, and I shall demonstrate the bat's art." He positioned himself in stance, knees bent, eyes focused upon an unseen bowler. With a mimic of delivery, he hurled the ball against a snowbank, letting it rebound, then struck it cleanly—a drive that sent it skimming across the frozen ground, straight and true.
As the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the vale, the two youths sat upon a fallen log, sharing a flask of warmed ale from Arin's provisions. "Thou hast a natural bent for this, Thorne," Arin admitted, wiping sweat from his brow. "Thy teacher must have been a master indeed. Tell me of this Garrick—whence came he, and what wisdom did he impart?"
Arin's eyes widened in admiration. "By the stars, there is skill in this! Not mere child's play, but a contest of precision and power." Emboldened, he stepped forward. "Hand me that... bat, is it? Let me try my hand."
Thus began their unlikely communion.
Thorne, with patient humility, instructed the prince: the grip, light as a falconer's hold; the footwork, agile as a mountain goat upon crags; the eye, ever watchful for the ball's deceit. Arin, quick of wit and strong of limb, adapted swiftly, his first attempts clumsy but improving with each swing. Laughter echoed in the hollow as misses sent snow flying, yet successes brought triumphant shouts. The guards watched from afar, bemused, their spears grounded in the drifts.
Thorne's gaze drifted southward, where the passes vanished into haze. "A vagabond of many roads, my lord. His eyes held the weight of ages, his tales the lore of distant pitches. He spoke of Aman the Founder with such intimacy, as if he had walked beside him in the Elder Days—how the reincarnate established cricket to end the wars, forging ranks of glory: Yellow for ten thousand runs, Great for thirty, Top Tier for seventy, and God for a hundred thousand, achieved by Aman alone in his two centuries of life." Thorne's voice softened, laced with reverence. "Garrick left me this bat, etched with runes that seem to whisper secrets. He hinted at shadows in the game—rivalries that endure like ancient grudges, pressures that test the soul."
Arin listened intently, a flicker of envy stirring in his breast, though he masked it with a jest. "A fine inheritance! Yet royalty commands its own gifts. Perhaps together, we might bring this game to Altgia's halls." The prince's pride, honed by years of unchallenged station, chafed subtly at Thorne's innate prowess, yet the bond forming between them was genuine—a fellowship born of shared discovery.
Days turned to weeks as Arin returned often to Glacemere, his inspections a pretext for their sessions. The hollow became their sanctuary, cleared further by willing villagers who sensed a spark of hope in the youths' endeavors. Thorne and Arin practiced relentlessly: Thorne's Future Sight granting him glimpses of the ball's arc when calm prevailed, his drives unerring as elven arrows; Arin's deliveries swift as winter gales, his seam bowling curving through the air with deceptive guile. Friendship bloomed amid the snows—shared stories by makeshift fires, where Arin spoke of courtly intrigues and Thorne of village hardships, each learning from the other's world.
Yet seeds of rivalry were sown in fertile soil. Arin's princely ego, unaccustomed to second place, bristled when Thorne's Sight allowed him to anticipate and counter the finest balls. "Luck favors thee today," Arin would quip after a particularly flawless stroke, his smile tight. Thorne, ever humble, deflected praise: "It is the game's gift, my lord, not mine alone." In moments of pressure—simulated by wagers or the guards' watchful eyes—Thorne's Sight faltered once, the ball slipping past his guard. Arin seized the moment, his laughter genuine but edged: "See? Even the gifted stumble. Balance is restored."
King Eldric, informed by scouts of his son's absences, observed from afar one eve, concealed upon a ridge. He beheld the two: Thorne's quiet resolve complementing Arin's vibrant command. "A union of low and high," he mused to his advisor, a wizened sage named Lorin. "This may be the forge of Altgia's salvation." Summoning them to Frosthaven, Eldric decreed: "The Great Game shall be our banner. We forge a team, meager though our means. Thorne of Glacemere, thy skill shall captain us; Arin, my son, vice-captain at his side. Together, ye shall lead us toward the Council, the Centennial, the ranks of legend."
Joy mingled with tension in the hall. Arin bowed assent, but inwardly, the demotion to vice rankled—his blood royal, yet yielding to a commoner's gift. Thorne, humbled, accepted with grace: "We rise as one, my king." Whispers of doubt echoed among courtiers: How build a stadium in eternal snow? How fund gear when treasuries echoed empty? Yet the king pledged royal stores, scant as they were, and bade them recruit from the realm.
As the chapter of assembly dawned, Thorne and Arin set forth, their bond a fragile bridge over brewing storms. Foreshadowing loomed in quiet moments: Arin's glances of veiled jealousy, Thorne's reflections on Garrick's warnings of pressure's toll. The path to glory wound through shadows deep, where egos clashed like blades, downfalls awaited, and comebacks would temper souls anew.
In the wider world of Elandor, other kingdoms stirred. In Eldoria's wooded halls, batsmen trained for the Ashes series, their rival Valthor plotting guile. Indor's spinners wove webs for the Border-Gavaskar Trials against Ausland's pacers. Altgia's whisper joined the chorus, a humble note in the symphony of destiny.
Thorne, wielding Garrick's bat, felt its runes warm under his touch, as if echoing approval from afar. Arin, at his side, gripped a ball with resolve, their rivalry a forge for growth. Step by step, friend and foe intertwined, they marched toward trials that would etch their names—or break them.
(Word count: 2000+)