The wind howled like a wounded beast, thrashing through the snow-covered cliffs of Varethal with a rage no mortal storm had ever known. Blizzards tore across the sky, clashing with bursts of flame erupting from cracks in the earth, turning night into a terrifying dance of red and white. Trees snapped like brittle bones. Ice shattered under the weight of elemental chaos. In the valley below, the villagers of Frostmark knelt in the temple of the old gods, whispering prayers between chattering teeth, unsure if the end had come—or if a god had finally descended.
But high above, in the Icefang Citadel, something far more profound than death or judgment was unfolding.
Queen Elaria screamed through clenched teeth, her sweat turning to frost upon her brow. The midwives, pale and trembling, worked in silence. Not one dared speak above the Queen's agony, for the King himself stood by the hearth, eyes ablaze—not with anger, but with fear.
Rovan had fought wars. He had slain tyrants and felled beasts. But nothing had prepared him for this moment. The temperature in the birthing chamber swung violently—one breath scorched his lungs, the next froze his tears in mid-fall. The elemental wards cast on the walls shimmered with stress, pulsing blue and red, barely containing the chaotic surges of energy.
"The child," whispered the High Seer, her voice thin as cracked glass. "It comes with fire and frost. The prophecy... it begins tonight."
Queen Elaria screamed again, her hand crushing the wooden grip of the birthing chair. Her magic, sealed for months, now spilled from her like ruptured rivers. Flames danced on her fingertips even as icicles formed on her hair. The air snapped and hissed, shifting between desert heat and glacial chill.
Then, silence.
A moment so still it rang louder than the storm.
The infant's cry broke it—a sound both haunting and holy. The fire dimmed. The frost withdrew. The winds outside slowed to a whisper, as if the world itself paused to listen.
The child's eyes opened.
Not blue. Not gold.
One eye shimmered with the endless cold of ancient glaciers, the other burned with the molten gold of a dragon's breath.
The High Seer gasped and dropped to her knees.
"She is the Ais Queen," she murmured. "Born of balance. Born of doom."
The news did not spread beyond the citadel walls. By royal decree, the night was declared a natural storm, the child's birth unremarkable.
But Varethal was never the same again.
Forests to the south bloomed in winter. Rivers to the north froze mid-flow in summer. Beasts of myth emerged from hiding, drawn to something ancient awakened. The constellations shifted subtly in the sky. Lightning struck where no clouds hung. Time itself slowed in the capital, as if the world held its breath.
The child, Ais, was named in secret—an old word meaning "edge" or "boundary," for she existed between flame and frost, between life and legend.
Elaria and Rovan knew what the world would do if it discovered their daughter's power. People fear what they do not understand. And power like Ais's? It could inspire worship—or war. Her very existence was prophecy, and prophecy was rarely met with peace.
So they lied.
The Queen and King announced a stillbirth, burying an empty casket beneath the royal tombs. The castle mourned a child that lived.
Ais was hidden in the Moonspire Wing, raised by two hand-selected caretakers bound by oaths older than kingdoms. No servants entered. No noble eyes peered within. Only her parents and her hidden guardians watched her grow. The hallways of Moonspire were lined with enchantments, casting illusions, suppressing magic, and guarding against scrying.
But hiding power does not stop it from growing.
By age three, Ais melted snow with her giggles. By five, her tantrums caused frost to spiderweb the walls. She laughed like fire. She cried like ice. The floors steamed beneath her footsteps. The walls groaned with the pressure of her dual nature.
At seven, she asked why she could not play with the other children. Her eyes searched her mother's face, seeking honesty, but found only hesitation.
Her mother lied. Her father gave her a sword.
"You were not born to play," he said. "You were born to endure."
Ais trained in silence. Her tutors were shadows. Her lessons were hard truths. She learned how to wield a blade before she ever held a book. Magic, they told her, was not her gift—it was her burden. Control was her virtue. Survival, her creed.
And still, she loved them.
She loved the way her mother brushed her hair at night, singing old songs of fire spirits. She loved the way her father let her win at swordplay—until the day she truly did. She cherished the secret moments they shared: brief flashes of warmth in a life otherwise made of discipline and solitude.
But love was not enough to shield her.
On her twelfth winter, the citadel was breached.
No horns were blown. No armies stormed the gates. The betrayal came from within.
Three noble houses—long thought allies—opened the castle to the enemy kingdom of Draegwyn in exchange for promises of wealth and thrones. Their greed had been carefully stoked, their envy subtly twisted. A coordinated betrayal, executed with surgical precision.
Ais watched from her tower as flames devoured the city. She heard the clash of swords, the screams. She watched her favorite tree in the garden collapse beneath a burning roof.
She did not cry.
She waited.
When the doors to the Moonspire burst open, she stood with blade in hand. The traitor knight who entered never left. His blood steamed as it froze across the floor.
Her parents fought to the last. The Queen vanished in a ring of fire. The King fell beneath a thousand arrows—but not before freezing the entire corridor around him, entombing the invaders in solid ice, their screams forever preserved in frost.
Ais fled through the old escape tunnels, barefoot, blood-stained, and alone. Her breath smoked in the cold. Her tears froze on her cheeks. She walked until the stone gave way to snow, and snow gave way to silence.
That night, Varethal fell.
But Ais lived.
Years passed.
Rumors spread of a girl wandering the frostlands, veiled in snow, her footsteps leaving embers behind. They called her the White Wraith. The Fireborn Orphan. The Last Flame.
Some said she was a spirit. Others, a witch. A few dared whisper her true name—but only in hushed tones, under moonlight.
But those who met her spoke of her silence. Her cold, unreadable gaze. Her refusal to speak of her past. Her hatred of traitors. And her unmatched strength.
She would appear from the blizzards to save a village from bandits, then vanish before thanks could be given. She melted iron shackles with a touch. She froze rivers to cross them. Wolves followed her, never attacking—only watching.
In a ruined world where fire and frost no longer obeyed the seasons, one truth began to rise through the ash and snow.
The Ais Queen lived.
And she would rise.