The sky above was alive with color. A mesmerizing aurora danced across the horizon, casting a shimmering glow on the clear night sky, glittered with countless stars.

The snowy landscape reflects its beauty, with trees standing tall decorating its vast, endless scope. It was peaceful; it was another quiet night across this harsh yet beautiful land.

Shooting stars streaked across the expanse, leaving trails of light that seemed to linger in the air. White clouds drifted lazily, adding to the ethereal beauty of the night.

…

It was supposed to be yet another uneventful night for the guards, one filled with quiet and hardly any significant events. Perhaps a beast or two might stumble into the village, but the archers on the towers would quickly dispatch them.

Kiran thought it would be the same. He sat humming quietly on the edge of his tower, taking in the endless landscape and marveling at the world's beauty.

He gazed up at the sky, his thoughts drifting to his love waiting for him back home. Peace and contentment were etched across his face as he daydreamed about his future.

Yet his expression suddenly changed. Peace turned to horror as he witnessed a river of shooting stars streaking across the sky. His heart raced. 'The elders’ prophecy—it’s coming true.'

He descended the tower in a hurry, almost stumbling in his haste. Running beside the tall fence connecting every archery tower, he soon reached a clearing. It was the training ground, a vast expanse of land with only one house in the center.

He sprinted towards this house made of lumber. Two guards stood at the door, their expressions stern as they blocked his way.

Kiran slowed down, breathing heavily as he approached them, breathless. “Shooting stars! The prophecy—it’s happening!” he panted.

Shock appeared on the guards’ faces. One of them quickly entered the house. His quiet footsteps echoed through the hall until he reached a room where a man lay on a fur bed.

The man twitched, his eyes snapping open. In less than a second, he grabbed his spear and quickly rose, ready to defend himself.

“Sire, it’s me!” The guard shouted, sweating profusely as the spear's point hovered inches from his neck.

“Why did you enter? Did I not tell you to only come in an emergency?” The young elder growled, his voice threatening.

“Sire, there’s been a sighting of shooting stars—many of them!”

The man's eyes closed, and he fell into silence, his face frowning deeply.

The silence spread as the elder lost himself in thought, the sound of the guard's racing breath the only noise in the room.

“Send word to the other elders immediately! An emergency gathering needs to be held as soon as possible,” the man ordered.

A sigh of relief escaped from the guard as he rushed out of the room, relief washing over him.

The elder stood there in the dark, thoughts drifting as he considered the future. ‘May the peace last!’

…

As dawn's first light crept over the horizon, five individuals gathered in the great hall at the village center.

The hall, larger and more imposing than the rest, stood as a symbol of their authority.

The cold stone floor echoed with their hurried footsteps as they approached the giant wooden doors.

These were the elders, each with their own group, walking through the hall, each with their own agenda.

First to walk in was Rina, the eldest and most revered.

She was an imposing giant old woman; she walked with a stick, her back straighter than an arrow. Her movements were slow but deliberate.

Behind her was her group of people. They were a small group of her attendants, mostly women with children and crippled warriors, following closely, carrying smaller sticks.

These were the top builders who maintained the village, tasked with keeping the fences and pits in order.

Rina’s silver hair, tied back in a loose bun, contrasted with her deeply lined face, each wrinkle a testament to her many years of service.

Walking behind her was Elder Jorim, a giant of a man with muscles rippling beneath his bare, cold-reddened skin.

Despite the freezing temperatures, he wore nothing on his upper body, a sign of his strength and resilience.

His head, fully white, stood tall and proud as he carried a massive hammer.

Behind him were his five apprentices, equally muscular, carrying hammers as well, their eyes fierce and unwavering.

Walking alongside him was a young man; he was a noticeable figure clad in full-body leather armor.

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He carried a spear made from iron, a rare and precious metal.

This was the Guardian, Alaric. Guards in formation followed after. They marched behind him with disciplined steps, walking in sync, their footsteps all in rhythm. Some carried with them iron spears and others tall blades.

Alaric's face, hidden behind a leather mask, was a mystery to many, his voice a low rumble that commanded respect.

Following right after was Lyra, the youngest of the lot. She was known to be a hot-headed woman who many didn't dare cross.

She walked confidently in light leather armor; her thick hands and sharp eyes revealed her prowess.

A bow and quiver of arrows were strapped to her back; behind her were two ladies similarly armed.

Lastly, Varek, the village healer, entered. His footsteps made no sound, yet his cane tapping slowly notified those around him of his presence.

Aged and hunched, he walked with the aid of a long wooden staff.

Though blind, he needed no one to lead the way and walked on his own.

A stack of parchments made from animal hide hung from his side, containing the wisdom and knowledge his family had accumulated for generations.

His beard, long and white, swayed with each step as he moved forward, his blind eyes ever watchful.

No one followed behind him; his lonely figure was in contrast with the others; his figure was that of a lone dark knight.

Reaching the hall's doors, the guards following Alaric scattered, all headed into their own assigned positions.

Two opened the grand doors for them, allowing only the elders to pass through.

The doors creaked on their hinges, revealing a dimly lit chamber beyond. Walking toward it, each elder stood in front of their designated throne.

The thrones were arranged in distinct formations, each side representing a faction.

On one side sat Elder Varek, his sinister presence evoking both fear and respect. His throne, hewn from cold, unyielding stone, had a dark flower engraved at its apex, dark roses twining around it, flourishing despite the lack of natural light—a testament to his eerie influence.

Beside him, an empty throne stood, a scale engraved at its top. On one side of the scale rested a menacing skull, while a flowering tree adorned the other, symbolizing the delicate balance between life and death.

Opposite them were two imposing figures, Jorim and Alaric, their presence exuding strength and authority. Jorim's throne bore the engraving of a hammer, with an array of hammers behind it—each one representing a previous blacksmith leader.

Alaric's throne was marked with a spear, surrounded by an assortment of weapons embedded in the ground: long swords, daggers, and spears, some succumbing to rust, like fallen warriors left to time's relentless march.

The final side housed the two women, Elder Rina and Elder Lyra, their expressions a blend of wisdom and determination. Their seats, taller and more regal, faced the entrance, and the great contained fire.

Rina's throne featured a brush, behind which thousands of ancient scrolls were arranged in tubes planted in the floor, scattered like seeds of knowledge waiting to be harvested.

Lyra's throne bore the engraving of a bow, surrounded by countless arrows embedded in the floor, each arrow attached with a letter—the last words of fallen archer warriors, a somber forest of final farewells.

The great fire in the center cast flickering shadows, illuminating the elders and their thrones in a dance of light and dark, a metaphor for the balance of power and wisdom guiding their decisions.

…

The atmosphere crackled with tension, like a storm on the horizon.

Jorum took a step forward, his muscular frame casting a long shadow in the flickering firelight. Making a prayer gesture with his hands, he loudly declared, “The meeting shall commence!”

The elders nodded in approval and sat down, except for Alaric. His sharp and piercing eyes scanned the room like a hawk searching for prey.

“I initiated this emergency meeting because an urgent report was brought to my attention,” Alaric began, his voice echoing through the chamber like distant thunder. “Last night, a river of shooting stars was spotted.” His tone grew grave. “It’s been fifty years; they will soon be coming!!”

Elder Rina, her age-worn face a map of wisdom and worry, nodded, leaning heavily on her stick. Her eyes, like deep wells of memory, held a distant sadness. “My scribes have estimated that this year is the blood year. It has indeed been nearly fifty years since the last sacrifice,” she said, her voice drifting as if recalling the echoes of the past.