"Yngveal!", a brutish, loud man barged into his little hut.

"Yngveal?", the man muttered, an irritated look rose on his face, "Who the hell is Yngveal? The name's Yngvi, don't say it if you can't, you unlearned boar."

Yngvi stood up, putting his hammer aside and putting a blunt sword back into the forge. It hadn't quite taken the shape yet.

"And who are you announcing to? What's the point of hiding out here if you can't keep it down?", Yngvi certainly hated the interruption.

His slender, tall figure was like a bright light in that small hut. With skin so pale you could almost see through him, and long silvery hair lying on his back, as straight as a horse's mane. But the frown on his face was the most striking as it sat perfectly snuggled between his sharp features. And of course, the pointy ears. The perfect definition of a snow elf, the noblest among all elves.

"Oh forget about that Yngvir! We've got trouble!", the brutish man grabbed Yngvi by his shoulders.

"Don't touch me, you oaf", Yngvi swiftly shook him off, "Just state your business, Wigheard, and be out of my hair as soon as possible."

"The sword! You have to finish it, Yngvi!", Wigheard finally got the name right, "They found out you're hiding here."

The expression on Yngvi's face darkened.

"Have they? Well, it was only a matter of time", Yngvi dragged a stool and settled down, "I'll have it finished by tonight. You should leave now, Wigheard. Take the path across the river, if you know what's better for you."

With a tense expression on his face, Yngvi settled down and began working in the forge again.

"Yngvi! You have to get out of here too! They'll-"

"Wigheard!", Yngvi interrupted him, "There are things I cannot abandon. And you cannot either."

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Wigheard understood that. He knew Yngvi couldn't be moved. He'd known him for too long. Even though he was just an idiot, Wigheard understood Yngvi. Yngvi wouldn't admit it but there was only one person he could truly consider a friend. Even as the elves were hunted left and right, and all of Yngvi's supporters distanced them from him, proposing to hide him for his safety, it was only Wigheard that didn't mind taking the risk to go see him everyday.

That was the state of the world now. Hordes and hordes of elves were executed every day. The noble snow elves were some of the first to go. Yngvi had lost his family too but he was saved just in time. As long as he was standing, there was still hope.

"Yngvi, the first king of Mercaia."

The title needed to be preserved, for the sake of Mercaia's future. The sword that Yngvi was forging was the culmination of all that was noble. Everything that the snow elves once stood for, the last remnant of their struggles, a memento mori.

"Wigheard", Yngvi had said, "You must carry this sword back to Mercaia when it is finished."

His little hut was in the deepest depths of a forest. A veil of white snow rested all around, except for a lake next to his hut.

That evening, Wigheard carried his heavy bode across the forest, with a heavier heart than he knew was possible. And he thought of Yngvi. The sound of his hammer had drowned in the forest, Wigheard had come too far.

"You'll need to see it all in my place. See to it that Mercaia stays standing. If they've got it against the elves, then so be it. But what we built must remain standing. This is our revenge against your kind, Wigheard. Even if they hate us for it, you are different", Yngvi had said, his back turned to Wigheard, "You are my friend."

Wigheard was a loud, idiotic fellow, and he was told he'd never make a knight. He was put down every step of the way. But now his head wasn't going to hang low. He wanted to tell them all that he was a friend of the king of all Mercaia. But he suppressed everything, even though he was an honest guy and he wanted to cry. And he braved through the snowy forest that night and left Yngvi behind.

The forge called for the pursuers all night. Yngvi didn't care about the noise anymore. The weight of their lives was bearing down on his shoulders. The elves...his loving wife...his children...all his people. Death was better than a life lived in oppression. And those who were still hiding needed a hope. So he poured everything into the sword.

When the dark night fell in the snowy forest, the fire in the forge had gone out but bigger flames had taken its place. The little hut was burned to cinders and when the morning came, the last light of hope in that darkness had gone out.

Who burned who? No one knew.

What they did know was that there was a giant of a man who had emerged out of the forest, carrying a magnificent sword on his back, and a scary, mysterious look, going around Mercaia. They didn't know who he was fighting. But just one look at him told them something. He had a story to tell.