Chapter 2 : The Ember in the Frost
Five years.
That explosion claimed countless lives, including my entire bloodline. What happened? Who struck the blow? No one knew. The only certainty was that the Arcanum ducal family was no more. A land that was once cold yet prosperous and happy had been forged into a brutal borderland where people struggled merely to draw breath. Now, the striking, supernatural chill seeps into the very marrow of our bones. The ancient legend is repeating itself, whispering through the biting winds that plague the North:
*One day, Umbrals will return, A nightmare that the darkness will adjourn. Through frost and fire, their shadows will turn, To claim the world, as destiny's cold decree will affirm. A kingdom by the darkness torn.*
The Umbrals. They are ethereal beings, the living manifestation of pure shadow. While they maintain a hauntingly human silhouette, their bodies are composed entirely of undulating, dark mist that forms a tattered mantle beneath a deep hood. They move in silence—barefoot, unseen, and inevitable.
Their most striking features are their crimson eyes, glowing fiercely from the void of their hoods, a stark contrast to their pale countenances and jet-black lips. Their fingers terminate in long, ebony claws, capable of rending both flesh and spirit. Legend tells that in an age long past, the Umbrals were defeated by the very breath of dragons. Their fire, pure and potent, was the only force capable of banishing creatures forged from despair.
But the era of dragons is now but a whisper in the dust of history. As the Umbrals rise anew, the fate of Aetheria rests in the hands of the few who still possess a remnant of dwindling draconic magic. Because of this, the kingdoms established the Veritas—venerated halls of discipline located beyond the treacherous Mortis mountain range, a place where ordinary men dare not tread.
To even reach the gates of Veritas, one must survive Vita. It is not a mere test; it is a brutal, multi-day physical marathon through unforgiving, lethal terrain. It demands unparalleled endurance and unwavering solitude. Only those who emerge from the silence of Vita alive earn the right to enter Veritas and begin the grueling path to becoming a Reidar.
"Please, child," a raspy voice broke my thoughts.
I looked at my nanny, the only soul left by my side after five long years of wandering the shadows of Aetheria. Her face was a map of wrinkles and sorrow, her hands trembling as she clutched my threadbare cloak.
"Think of what you are asking," she pleaded, her eyes searching mine. "Vita is not a trial; it is a graveyard. You are the last of the Arcanum name. If you go to the Mortis peaks, you go to your death. Stay. We can find a quiet life in the southern vales."
A single tear escaped, tracing a path through the dirt on my cheek. I wiped it away with a steady palm, my gaze hardening like the ice surrounding us.
"I have spent five years running, leaving my life buried under the stones and ashes of my home," I said, my voice low but iron-clad. "I watched my father, my mother, and my siblings vanish into the dark. If I had the power to turn back time, I would. I would give my soul to see them for just a few seconds. But I cannot look back anymore."
I stepped toward the jagged silhouette of the mountains on the horizon.
"I won't just struggle to survive. I will reclaim Arcanumgard. To do that, I must become a Reidar. I will not only survive Vita—I will conquer it."
The nanny saw the fire in my eyes—a flicker of the old draconic heat that the world had forgotten. She stayed silent, knowing that no wall and no prayer could stop me now.
I turned my back on the only safety I had ever known and faced the towering, obsidian peaks of Mortis. The wind howled, sounding less like a storm and more like a challenge.
I took my first step into the dead zone. The trial had begun.