World Trheom, Year 11327 E.M.

In the north of the Fenesian Empire, in the territory of the principality of Cervid, on the border of the Greenwing forest lies the village Bitterthorn, here people survive thanks to the forest and what it provides.

Here we find the house of the Riger family, which stands at the edge of the forest, where the wilderness surrenders its right to the land to man. The house was built by Bratson Riger, a southern man born in the Idrham territories. He stopped in the harsh north out of love for Daisy, his beloved companion, with savings accumulated in the war. After two generations of Riger in this old, solid home we find young Aron Riger, born nineteen winters ago, the day before the day of the dragon, when night devours the sunlight of day.

Aron is a hunter, like his father Tyron. Six winters ago, Tyron died during a hunt, slipping in the fresh snow and breaking his arm—a wound that bled him dry.

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His older sister, Lisa, at the tender age of three fell ill with lung disease and died in this sad but not uncommon way here in the north. The mother, Melissa, within a year of Tyron’s death, Melissa fell ill—not in body, but in spirit. Her eyes dulled, their gray no longer like the moon’s light, but like old, dirty jade. His mother's apathy and silence were like another loss for Aron, but one that he faced with unusual calm, even he did not know why, but perhaps part of him already expected it, since in a similar way his grandfather also fell ill. The last member of the family is Betsy, an eight-year-old mule Tyron bought to help with the work. Now, she’s Aron’s only company. Where there is no longer any shelter from the frost of winter, no longer insulated by the thick oak walls, the wind is free to blow everywhere, overbearingly and wildly, seeping into homes and hearts alike.

Not only was a new current rising in the Riger house, but a storm was also rising from the north. Beyond Greenwing and pushing toward the northeast, past the towering mountain range, Dragonspine, which snakes from the north of the continent to the Tasson kingdom in the eastern empire. Only past this wall of frost lay the Whitewing forest and the domains of the northern tribes, united by their faith in the Dragon Fimbulwinter. Here, a storm—ancient in its nature—stirred once more, ready to unleash its imperious breath upon all in its path.