The night began in silence, a quiet so deep it seemed eternal, until the tremor came. At first, it was only a whisper beneath the earth, the faintest of shivers. But then the chain groaned, and with it came a violent crack, like the world itself splitting open. A moment later, the ancient chain snapped, and with a deafening thunder, it unleashed a pulse of frigid air so sharp that it froze the very breath of the soldiers standing nearby.
Vincent Apollo staggered, his eyes wide as he felt the freezing wind tear through his cloak. His breath clouded in front of him, suspended in mid-air before freezing into crystalline shards. “Hold—hold your ground!” he shouted, but his voice quivered.
Beside him, his knight, Elias, gripped his sword, his knuckles pale under the frost beginning to settle on his skin. “Sir, what’s happening? The chain… it’s broken. One of the chains has actually—”
“Gods help us,” Vincent whispered, his voice raw with disbelief as the ground trembled beneath their feet. "This can’t be happening.”
But it was happening. From the yawning darkness of the Titan’s Keep, something shifted, an immense, hulking shadow unfurling like the herald of an endless winter. Crius, the Frost Wyvern, emerged—wings wide and shimmering, scales of pale, frosted blue catching the sparse moonlight. He was immense, each movement slow and deliberate, each shift of his body bringing a shudder to the air around him.
The soldiers, brave in their duties moments ago, faltered, frozen in fear. And then Crius opened his maw, and a blinding blast of frost surged forward, consuming everything in its path.
“Fall back! Get out of here!” Vincent’s voice rang out, desperate, but the frost was merciless. Men turned to flee, but Crius' ice chased them, capturing them mid-step, freezing them into statues of terror, their faces locked in expressions of panic.
Elias turned, pulling Vincent back. “Sir, we have to run. We can’t fight this.”
But Vincent shook his head, eyes never leaving the wyvern’s frozen form. “I can’t just leave them—my father entrusted me to keep this place safe.” His voice trembled, not out of fear for himself, but from the knowledge that the legacy of his family’s duty—the very reason for the Keep’s existence—was collapsing before him.
“Sir Vincent!” Elias’ hand tightened on his shoulder, his voice edged with desperation. “Look around you! There’s nothing left—the men…” Elias swallowed hard, his own gaze sweeping over the scene of devastation. “This isn’t worth your life. You have a family, sir. A wife, a daughter back in Solis. They’re waiting for you.”
For a moment, Vincent’s resolve wavered, the weight of Elias' words pressing down on him. The thought of Valencia’s small hand clasped in his, of his wife’s gentle smile—it all came flooding back, colliding with his sense of duty.
But he gritted his teeth, shaking his head again. “If I abandon this post, what kind of man am I to go back to them? How can I face my family knowing I left my men here?” His voice cracked, his fists clenching as he fought to steady himself. “No. If this is where it ends… then I will see it through.”
Elias' shoulders sagged, a look of sorrow etched on his face. He gripped Vincent’s shoulder even harder, his voice dropping to a pleading whisper. “Please, sir. If not for yourself, then for them. Go back to them. That’s the only way to truly honor what’s been lost here.”
The words struck deep, lingering between them as they stood amidst the icy ruins of the keep. For the first time, Vincent allowed himself to imagine a way forward—not just for honor, but for the ones waiting for him.
As they prepared to flee, Crius’ massive wings unfurled, each beat sending waves of icy wind that shattered the few remaining torches along the walls. The ground itself seemed to crack and freeze beneath him as he ascended, sending shards of ice into the air. Crius rose higher, his gaze cast toward the north, his eyes searching, yearning for something unseen.
In the midst of the chaos, Vincent took one last look at the land around him—the men frozen in place, the Keep now entombed in a thick, unyielding frost, the walls of the fortress cracking and crumbling under the weight of this unnatural winter. He swallowed hard, feeling the sting of guilt settling over him. “Elias,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “This is only the beginning.”
Elias nodded grimly. “Then let’s make it out of here alive. There’ll be no one to warn Aurelia if we fall.”
Together, they ran, the air sharp with the bitter bite of frost and the echoes of Crius’ fury still reverberating through the mountains. And as dawn crept over the frozen landscape, its light could do nothing to soften the devastation left in the wyvern’s wake—a desolate ruin, silent and still, as if life itself had been purged from the land.
——
The Frostborn Tundra, once quiet and lifeless, roared to life with an eerie, unnatural energy. Rumors of Crius’ awakening spread quickly across the north like a plague, each retelling heightening the tale until every face in Edalyn was marked with dread. The icy winds grew sharper, and even the stone foundations of the city trembled, as if in fear of the coming storm.
In the heart of Edalyn ’s town square, where normally the bustle of merchants and townsfolk brought warmth to the cold, a thick silence now hung over the gathered crowds. Small clusters of people huddled together, voices hushed and faces tense, and the usual sounds of bartering and laughter had been replaced by solemn whispers.
“I felt it,” muttered a weathered fisherman, his gray beard flecked with ice as he adjusted his thick woolen coat. He looked haunted as he glanced at the gathered faces around him. “The tremors came in waves through the ground, as if the land itself were groaning under some great weight.” He glanced around, as if searching for something or someone to reassure him. “The frost… it’s different. Some say it’s the titan Crius, but I never thought I’d live to see it.”
A young woman, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, eyes wide with worry, leaned closer to hear his words. “I thought that was just an old legend,” she whispered. “The titan who lost his heart… but why would he headed here now? What could he be after?”
A trader leaned in, his face grim. “They say it’s the Heart of the North,” he murmured, nodding toward the far horizon. “Buried under the frozen lake by Glacial Fort—some kind of curse laid over the land when he cast it away. And if he’s truly after it again…” He let his voice trail off, leaving the thought to hang, heavy in the chilled air.
Around them, other townsfolk cast uneasy glances toward the distant, glistening peaks. Some listened intently, clutching trinkets or charms, while others looked to the city gates, their eyes flickering with thoughts of escape.
“If Crius has risen, he’ll bring nothing but ruin,” the fisherman added, voice thick with sorrow. He looked down at his hands, worn and scarred from years of labor. “This land was once a place of beauty—eternal autumn, they say. Now it’s just frost and shadow.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd as the tension grew. People shifted uneasily, casting glances toward the horizon where the mountains loomed, their icy peaks catching the pale sunlight. Some spoke in low voices, while others whispered prayers to protect their families, their breaths fogging in the cold.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
In the corner, a group of children huddled close, their small faces drawn tight with fear as they clung to the edge of a merchant’s stall. “Is the frost dragon coming for us?” asked one, voice trembling, eyes wide as he looked up at his mother. She wrapped an arm around him, her own face pale as she forced a smile, trying to reassure him.
“No, sweet one,” she murmured, though her voice shook. “No one is coming here. We’ll be safe.” But as she pulled the boy closer, her gaze wandered toward the mountains, betraying her fear.
Another child, a girl clutching a small wooden toy, looked at her friend with wide eyes. “They say the titan lost his heart and cursed the land because of it,” she whispered. “Do you think he wants it back?”
The boy nodded slowly, a spark of nervous curiosity in his eyes. “And if he doesn’t find it… he’ll tear everything apart until he does.”
Nearby, Brother Ignatius, a solemn scholar with a thick woolen cloak and layers of ink-stained robes, stood watching the people in the square, his hands clasped as he listened. He felt the weight of the people’s fear, as tangible as the cold pressing against him. His thoughts drifted to the archives, to the legends stored within the Great Library. If Crius was truly awake, it would mean a power beyond anything Edalyn had faced in centuries. His heart pounded as he scanned the crowd, catching the eye of an elder who nodded knowingly.
“What do we tell the people?” the elder asked, voice quiet, his face pinched with worry. “If Crius is truly after his heart, there’s no telling what he’ll destroy to get it.”
Ignatius swallowed, his gaze dropping to his worn boots. “We must prepare,” he replied, though even as he spoke the words, he knew the odds. “If Crius seeks the Heart of the North, our defenses will need to be stronger than they’ve ever been.”
The elder nodded slowly, a glimmer of determination in his tired eyes. “Then we’ll call on all who can fight and protect. Even if it means calling for aid beyond Edalyn.”
The murmurs in the square grew louder, anxiety mounting as the frost-laden wind whipped through the marketplace. Every eye turned to the north, watching the darkening sky, their breaths steaming as they huddled close. They were the people of Edalyn —proud and strong—but the shadow of Crius stretched over them all, a reminder of how small they were in the face of an ancient, relentless force.
A single bell rang out from the city tower, cutting through the cold silence. It was a call to prepare, a warning that the peace of their lives had fractured. The people of Edalyn, frozen in place by the weight of this new threat, cast one last look at the mountains, knowing that life as they knew it was about to change.
——
The flickering candlelight cast shadows across the walls of the grand library’s deepest chamber, a place rarely visited except by the most devoted scholars. Tonight, that dedication belonged to three young students: Neil, Peter, and Donald, their faces etched with worry as they huddled over an ancient tome. Outside the window, the distant fields glistened with frost, the bitter breath of Crius seeming to seep into even the heart of Edalyn.
Peter’s voice trembled as he read from the brittle pages, the lines heavy with tales of both beauty and ruin. “Once upon a time, the north was the land of eternal autumn,” he recited, eyes glued to the words as if they held some secret. “Golden foliage and the scent of ripe fruit filled the air, shaped by Crius himself, a wise and gentle titan. They called him a creator, the kind ruler of the North. Until... until he fell in love.”
Donald, leaning over Peter’s shoulder, muttered darkly, “With an Elysian maiden who didn’t love him back.”
“Right.” Peter’s voice lowered, almost reverent. “Heartbroken, he crushed her in a fit of rage. Only afterward did he realize what he’d done. In his regret, he tore out his own heart and cast it into the Shimmering Lake.”
They all went quiet, the words hanging in the air.
Neil swallowed, feeling the weight of the story pressing on him. “That’s when everything changed, didn’t it?” He glanced at his friends. “When he became the Frost Wyvern.”
Peter nodded grimly. “The lake froze instantly. And the land... all of it was covered in an endless snowstorm. Crius became what he is now—a ruler of ice and desolation, nothing like the titan he once was.”
Outside, a bitter wind howled against the library walls, as if Crius himself had heard them.
“So… this is the monster we’re up against?” Donald’s voice was tinged with helplessness as he traced the illustration of Crius' monstrous form, wings of icy spines spread wide, a maw of jagged frost.
Neil clenched his fist, staring down at the ring on his finger—the Mirage Pearl, its iridescent surface reflecting a thousand colors, none of which felt remotely useful against a primordial like Crius. “The council wants the ring bearers to stand as the last line of defense. But against that—” he gestured to the wyvern illustration, “how are we supposed to fight that? I can cast illusions, Peter’s ring can summon wind, and you, Donald, you have…”
Donald nodded, his voice heavy. “Fenrir’s Call. I can control the northern wolves. But what are wolves, illusions, and wind against a titan of ice?”
Peter glanced out the frosted window, his fingers drumming against the worn wooden table. “It’s… hopeless, isn’t it? They say villages have already been wiped out, whole families buried under sheets of ice.”
“They’re assembling the ring bearers, though. It means they don’t have anyone else left to send.” Neil’s voice was thick with frustration. “And by the time the knights arrive, it’ll be too late.”
Silence fell over them, each one caught in their own thoughts, grappling with a sense of helplessness that settled over them like the winter outside.
Peter finally broke the silence. “Do you think he’s still searching? For his heart, I mean.”
Donald gave a bitter laugh. “If he even remembers what he was before. Maybe all he knows now is the ice, the emptiness he left in his own chest.”
“Then that emptiness is exactly what we’re up against,” Neil said softly, his gaze drifting back to the Mirage Pearl on his finger. He could feel it—the slight warmth it emitted, the illusion of something vibrant, even in this frozen moment. But illusion could only go so far.
“It’s not fair,” he muttered. “They trained us to study and to think, not to face down primordial titans.”
Peter looked at him, his face pale but resolute. “But we’re all they have. That’s what matters now, doesn’t it?”
They stared at each other, their expressions bleak. The reality of their powerlessness was stark, as frigid as the frost now creeping over the library’s windows.
——
The town bell tolled through the chilled air, its echoes stretching across rooftops and alleyways, summoning every ring-bearer in Edalyn. Young faces, some barely old enough to hold a weapon, were scattered among the crowd, eyes wide and fearful as they waited for the final command.
Neil stood amidst the throng with his comrades, Peter and Donald, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. He caught sight of a few other scholars—those who’d spent their days pouring over ancient texts in the library. Now they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their expressions a blend of fear and determination. The icy wind nipped at their cheeks, but none moved, rooted by the gravity of what lay ahead.
From the raised platform, Brother Ignatius stepped forward, his voice booming over the murmuring crowd. “Hear me, sons and daughters of Edalyn! Today, we march to defend the north—to protect our people, our lands, and all that we hold sacred! We face Crius, the Frost Wyvern, and he brings winter’s wrath upon us. But we carry the fires of Elysion in our hearts!”
Peter leaned in, murmuring under his breath, “Does he realize half these people haven’t seen a battlefield before?”
Neil swallowed hard. "We’re all they have left,” he replied. “Crius won’t spare us just because we’re young.” He glanced down at the ring on his hand—the Mirage Pearl. Its smooth surface gleamed faintly, and a warm pulse seemed to emanate from it, resonating against the cold. He flexed his fingers, feeling the warmth spread through his hand.
Donald, on his other side, sighed, his breath fogging in the air. “The lake,” he muttered. “That’s where Ignatius wants us to meet Crius?”
Neil nodded, his gaze locked on Brother Ignatius, who was detailing the plan with fervor. “The lake holds the heart of Crius, buried beneath the ice. If he reaches it…”
“Then it’s over,” Peter finished, his voice taut. “If he reclaims his heart, there’ll be no stopping him.”
Neil looked down, tightening his grip on the Mirage Pearl. "Then we make sure he doesn’t. I’ll use every trick I know if I have to.”
Donald managed a thin smile. "I’ll have the northern wolves with me. They say Crius respects them… let’s hope it’s true.”
Meanwhile, aboard a royal train bound for the north, King Chris sat in the royal compartment, flanked by Lord Apollo and his son, Vincent. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels underscored the grim silence. Chris stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by, his face set with determination but edged with worry.
“Majesty,” Lord Apollo spoke quietly, breaking the silence. “The keep’s chains may have failed, but we won’t let the north fall. Not while we still have warriors willing to stand against him.”
Chris nodded, gripping the Thunder Crown on his hand as if to draw strength from it. “And we’re bringing everything we have to hold the line. Lord Vincent,” he said, turning to Apollo’s son, who stood with a stoic expression. “Are you prepared?”
Vincent’s gaze was unwavering. “Your Majesty. Crius took friends, brothers—from our family and our people. I’ll do what’s needed.”
The king looked at him, then back out the window, his fingers drumming against his knee. "We’ll reach the front before the frost sets over the entire north," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "I just hope we’re not too late."