Once upon a time, in the Elysian Kingdom, a story unfolded that might make even the most stoic historian chuckle bitterly.

The royal family had a legend, more of a curse, really, embroidered with the kind of irony that could only be appreciated in retrospect or perhaps in a dark comedy.

It all began a millennium ago, when a wise man visited the pregnant queen. He prophesied that the queen would have a daughter destined to bring joy to the kingdom and embody filial piety.

Naturally, the queen and king, who had their hearts set on a male heir to continue the royal family’s Force art, were less than thrilled.

So, when the princess arrived, she was met not with joy but disdain. Quickly sidelined in favor of her soon-to-be-born brother, she became the kingdom’s least favorite child.

While the brother was showered with love and adulation, she was relegated to the role of the family's black sheep, an outcast even to the palace servants who bullied her relentlessly.

The plot, as plots do in tales of royal folly, thickened when she was mysteriously pushed into the palace pond and drowned—an act whispered to be the handiwork of her darling brother.

Of course, everyone hushed it up.

As if the palace hadn’t learned its lesson (and let's be honest, when do palaces ever learn?), the queen gave birth to another daughter who bore a striking resemblance to the late, unloved princess.

Overcome with superstitious dread, the royal couple promptly rid themselves of the newborn. History, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor.

Fast forward a few decades, and that favored son ascended to the throne, proving to be a tyrant who mistreated his elderly parents and violated a noblewoman.

This woman, in a twist of poetic justice, gave birth to another daughter looking eerily like the previously murdered princesses.

The cycle continued—a carousel of cruelty where each male heir somehow turned into a monstrous ruler while each doomed princess with striking resemblance to the first princess was kind yet tragically mistreated.

After several generations of this grim family tradition, the kingdom itself began to crumble.

But lo and behold, it was the seventeenth princess—a mirror image of the first—who saved the day.

Rumor had it she was the original princess reincarnated, returning again and again to a family that never learned.

With a bit of uprising here and a dash of overthrow there, the kingdom was turned on its head. The princesses ascended to power, celebrated and cherished, while the princes, well, they were there too, mostly for moral support, shackled by past sins.

And thus, the Elysian Kingdom learned the hard way: keep killing your kindest, and they'll come back to haunt you, possibly saving you from your own disastrous decisions.

As for the princes, they became the eternal second fiddles in a matriarchy that thrived, because sometimes, the best man for the job is a woman. Repeatedly—

***

Morgan Le Fay disappeared right around the time the uninvited guests decided to pop in from their not-so-cozy crack in the sky.

Coincidence? Well, maybe not.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

This fortuitous swap of presences did make a few eyebrows in Nethermere arch high enough to rival the very arch of that sky crack.

Speaking of the crack, imagine it as less of a doorway and more of a fiery gatekeeper floating ominously above Nethermere.

This wasn’t your garden variety magical portal where you could just flounce through to the other side for a quick interdimensional jaunt.

No, this crack came with a built-in BBQ feature—try to pass through without an invitation and you’d get charred faster than a marshmallow at a dragon’s birthday party.

The locals spun tales, pointing fingers at Morgan for her timely disappearance, suggesting she might have traded her earthly residency for something a bit more cosmic.

The conspiracy theorists had a field day with this, theorizing that she was either hosting intergalactic tea parties or had somehow become an involuntary ambassador in space.

Perhaps she’d gone off to negotiate a space trade deal: magic spells in exchange for alien tech and an accident happened in between—it sounds fair, right?

Well, that theory stopped circulating after the fact that she was still nowhere to be found even after three years.

Was she… dead?

On the topic of technology, some bright spark theorized that the reason these invaders could waltz through the crack without turning into cosmic toast was due to their shiny spaceships, equipped with the latest in “Don’t-get-fried” tech—a gadget that Nethermere’s finest minds hadn’t quite cracked yet.

The idea that only these high-tech hotrods could navigate the crack without disintegrating brought about an intense side-eye from the Nethermerians.

After all, who would want a one-sided visit?

Despite undeniable proof that theirs wasn't the sole prospering civilization amidst the vast expanse of space, the denizens of Nethermere remained frustratingly earthbound, unable to traverse the celestial realms that lay tantalizingly beyond their reach.

This also explained why Burn couldn't simply hurl his proverbial bucket at the invaders and force them to kick it—figuratively speaking, of course.

"Where did she mention she was heading?" Burn inquired of Yvain as they sat together at the strategy table, having just discussed their next conquest of the Elysian Kingdom.

Yvain's gaze dropped as he admitted, “My Master… well, I’ve never been worthy of worrying about her problems so she never said anything when she was going to leave to solve anything…”

“You knew she was going somewhere to solve problems?” Burn prodded, reading between the lines.

Yvain solemnly answered, “It’s obvious when my Master had a problem.”

“For the minor skirmishes, she'd disappear without a word and reappear by dawn, as if she'd just popped out for a midnight snack. But when the big guns were called for..."

Here, Yvain gestured vaguely into the air.

At his wave, a small dimensional rift yawned briefly above the table, casually disgorging a cascade of magical items—each bristling with protective enchantments.

"Whenever it was time for her to confront something big, she'd arm me with this arsenal of homemade… rare, mythical goodies," Yvain continued, with a wave towards the glittering array of artifacts now cluttering the table.

"You know, just casual keepsakes to protect me. I know she has always been extra about things like this, but this time…”

Seeing the items on the table, Burn remembered why Yvain was a tough one to kill in his first loop.

The implication was clear: when the going got tough, the tough got going, and Yvain’s role was to sit tight and try not to let anyone sneak up on him—armed, of course, with his Master's crafty collection of enchanted trinkets.

Burn lapsed into a contemplative silence, his mind whirring as he parsed the breadcrumbs of information Yvain had scattered before him.

It was during this reflective pause that something on the table caught his eye, drawing him out of his reverie.

There, amidst the assorted magical paraphernalia that Yvain had casually summoned, lay the Frostbearer's Heart stone, now masterfully crafted into a ring.

This wasn't just any trinket; it was a marvel of mystical craftsmanship. The stone itself shimmered with an inner light, pale blue and crystalline, as if capturing a sliver of winter sky within its facets.

It was set in a band of silver that twisted around like the branches of frost-covered trees, delicate yet unmistakable in its strength.

The ring's aura of cold was palpable, chilling the air slightly around it, hinting at its power to wield the essence of frost itself.

“Frostbearer’s Heart… the Wintersin Empire?” Burn blurted.

“Eh?” Yvain suddenly flinched.

“What?” Burn turned to him. “You know something?”