Snow fell from a grey sky, fluttering through the stale air. It finds its way into families' homes sitting together to enjoy a homemade meal. It finds its way into taverns as patrons enter for a pint of mead after a day's hard labor. It finds its way into the barracks, where the guards gamble within the warm embrace of fire. And it finds its way onto a child, huddled to the ground for warmth.

The boy, no older than 12, was encased within a tomb of primordial cold older than the world and time itself. His body would shiver if it had the energy hadn't eaten in two weeks, and he had nothing left. Yet he was alive if only by a thread he held on. In the cusps of his hands stood a solitary flame smaller than a mouse and just as quiet. The fire flickered with the whims of the frigid wind.

The boy's eyes were closed, but he saw the flame; he saw it move and dance in his hands, a force unattached from everything; he saw it scorch the skin of his hand, consuming him like an angry god; and he saw the flame, all alone, fighting for the right to live in a world hell-bent on snuffing it out. He saw the flame, and within, he saw part of himself.

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This all faded from his mind as the weight of a man pressed square in his back, crushing the frail figure further into the ground. The man's steps echoed as he walked through the rest of the alley. The boy struggled to lift himself from the ground before falling into a pile. But the flame in his hand still danced, burned, and struggled on.

This is the story of a young boy in the last city of a dying world. This is the story of Alev, a stubborn flame in a world hell-bent on snuffing it out.