"I… it's so cold…" Kieran whispers, his breath catching as the wind howls past him. Snowflakes sting his cheeks, carried by gusts that feel like icy blades against his skin. He clings to the rope railing of the bridge, his knuckles white, the wooden planks beneath him swaying as if mocking his every step.
"I can't do this anymore…" he mutters, trembling. His knees buckle, and he drops to the bridge with a gasp. His hands grip the frozen planks as if they're the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss below. "It's been days… no, weeks since I've felt warmth. I… I can't remember the last time I saw the sun."
The wind picks up again, and Kieran squeezes his eyes shut. The bridge groans beneath him, tilting slightly to the left. His heart pounds in his chest. "This is it," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the storm. "This is where I fall… no, this is where the wind takes me. I'll never see home again. I'll-"
He whirls around, staring back at the bridge where his family lags behind. His sister's small frame wavers against the wind, her cries piercing through the storm. "It hurts, Mom, it hurts!" Ryn sobs, clutching her arm as though frostbite has claimed her fingers. She stumbles, the basket in her hand tipping dangerously close to the edge.
"Ryn! Hold on!" Kieran shouts, his voice cracking. He forces himself to his feet, his legs trembling like the bridge itself. "Don't let go! You're stronger than this!"
Behind her, their mother leans heavily against the railing, her face pale and her breath shallow. Snow clings to her hair, and her lips are tinged blue. She looks up at him, her voice faint but filled with despair. "Kieran… you have to go on without us. Save yourself."
"No!" Kieran cries, tears blurring his vision. "I won't leave you! I can't—"
The bridge jerks violently under his feet, and he crashes down again, his knees slamming into the planks. He gasps, clawing at the wood as if it's trying to toss him into the endless void. "I have to do this. I have to save them. I can't give up. Not now. Not ever!"
Gritting his teeth, he pushes himself up, one trembling hand gripping the rope, the other clawing at the icy planks. His dramatic resolve swells. "I'll get us through this. I'll fight the storm in this deadly land!" Kieran declares, his voice quivering with a mix of defiance and fear. His grip tightens on the railing as he stumbles forward, each step a monumental effort. The wind howls around him, threatening to tear him from the bridge.
Ahead, Ryn moves closer to the edge, her small figure dwarfed by the swirling snow and the endless void beyond. She looks back at him, her face solemn, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Kieran…" she whispers, her voice carried faintly by the wind. "I have to do this."
"No!" Kieran cries, his heart lurching in his chest. He stumbles forward, the bridge swaying violently beneath his feet. "You don't have to do anything! Just come back! Stay with me!"
Ryn shakes her head, a single tear sliding down her cheek. "If I don't jump, you won't leave us. You'll never save yourself if I don't…" Her voice catches as she steps closer to the edge, the basket she's carrying slipping from her grasp. It tumbles into the abyss, the faint sound of it vanishing swallowed by the wind.
Kieran freezes, his breath coming in panicked gasps. "Ryn, please! Don't do this! I can't— I won't let you!"
Her sad smile cuts through him like the wind itself. "It's okay, Kieran," she says softly, stepping onto the very edge of the swaying planks. "You have to let go."
"No! I won't let you go!" Kieran screams, surging forward just as Ryn jumps. The world slows. His heart pounds so loudly it drowns out the storm. His hand shoots out, and for a terrifying moment, he feels nothing but empty air. Then—he grabs her wrist.
"I've got you!" he shouts, gripping the rope railing with his other hand as the bridge bucks beneath them. Ryn dangles over the chasm, her face a mask of despair, her tears streaking through the frost on her cheeks.
"Kieran," she whispers, her voice trembling. "I—I can't hold on. It's too late…"
"No!" Kieran roars, his fingers burning as he tightens his grip. "Don't you dare say that! You're not falling, not today! Not while I'm here!"
With a desperate heave, he pulls her up inch by inch, his legs trembling, the bridge groaning beneath their combined weight. His muscles scream in protest, but he refuses to let go. "I promised I'd save us! I promised, Ryn!" he cries, tears streaming down his face.
Finally, he hauls her onto the planks, collapsing beside her in a heap. He wraps his arms around her, shaking with relief. "You're okay. You're okay…" he mutters, his voice cracking.
Ryn looks up at him, her face pale and streaked with tears. "Kieran… thank you. I thought… I thought it was the end," she says, her voice quivering.
He holds her tighter, his gaze fixed on the swirling snow around them. "It's not over. We're going to make it. All of us. I'll protect you and Mom, no matter what."
"Um…" Ryn's voice suddenly shifts, her tone sharp and confused. "What are you doing?"
Kieran blinks. He glances down at his sister, now staring at him with an arched brow. "What?"
A sudden thwack lands squarely on the top of his head, the bridge vibrating under the force. "Stop bothering your sister and leave that crazy imagination at home, mister," his mom says, her voice tinged with exasperation as she rests her knuckles back at her side. She shakes her head with a heavy sigh. "Honestly, where did I go wrong?"
Kieran rubs the sore spot on his head, clicking his tongue and crossing his arms with a pout. "Mom, I told you—I'm going to be a writer! I'm thinking like a stranger so I can be rich someday."
"Lame!" Ryn yells from a few steps ahead, sticking out her tongue as she sprints down the bridge. "You're just making stuff up!"
"Exactly!" Kieran shoots back, his voice rising. "That's literally what writing is!"
But Ryn's already too far to care, her feet thudding against the planks as she runs. The bridge sways wildly under her momentum, the ropes groaning in protest. Snow shakes loose from its railings as the structure twists sharply. The planks beneath her feet suddenly lurch, and the entire bridge spins in a complete 360-degree flip, leaving the three of them momentarily weightless.
"Ryn!" Kieran shouts, clinging to the railing for dear life as the world tilts. "The bridge is—"
"Fine," their mom interrupts, standing steady and unimpressed as the bridge rights itself. Her feet remain perfectly planted on the swaying planks, her basket of snowberries undisturbed. She lets out another sigh. "Stop whining, Kieran. Go play with your sister."
"Mom, I'm not—hey!" Kieran's protest is cut short as his mom plants a firm hand on his back and gives him a light shove.
The bridge tilts again, and Kieran tumbles forward with a startled yelp. His hands flail as he falls clean off the edge—only to grab the ropes of the next bridge midair, his momentum swinging him gracefully into a flip.
"Wheeee!" Ryn shouts from above, her laughter echoing through the frosty air. She leaps off her bridge as well, twisting into a corkscrew motion before landing on a lower bridge with a bounce.
Kieran swings himself onto a new plank, glaring up at her with mock annoyance. "That's cheating! You didn't even wait for me!"
"Then hurry up!" Ryn shouts back, already running ahead, the bridges twisting and swaying with her every leap.
Kieran finally cracks a grin despite himself. "Fine, but don't cry when I win!"
The laughter fades into the frosted air, carried away by the ceaseless wind. Above, the sky stretches vast and dark, painted in swirling hues of green, blue, and violet by the ever-present aurora. The light dances endlessly, casting an otherworldly glow over the towering forest below. Shadows shift and shimmer across the colossal trunks of trees that rise impossibly high, their canopies so thick with leaves and snow-laden branches that not even the fiercest storms breach them. The world beneath remains a realm of perpetual twilight.
The city sprawls through this forest, nestled within and around the ancient giants. Carved directly into the trunks, homes and shops spiral upward in intricate patterns, blending seamlessly with the natural curves of the wood. Bridges crisscross between trees at every height, connecting levels of activity and life. Their ropes and planks sway with the wind, creaking like whispers in the night. Snow clings to the ropes, dusting the bridges as if nature itself sought to decorate this labyrinthine sanctuary.
Far below, the forest floor lies cloaked in near-total darkness. Snow blankets the ground in an unbroken sheet, untouched except for where the occasional path winds through. Yet, even here, faint glimmers of light escape from the city above, casting fleeting shadows that shift as the aurora pulses overhead. The stillness of the forest floor is broken only by the rustling of unseen creatures or the occasional echo of laughter from above.
In the endless night, where the sun has long since vanished from memory, the city stands. Its structures are made from Kalthite Stone, a pale, porous material that insulates against the cold. Streets and walls seem to glow faintly, not with warmth but with the promise of enduring the frost. Icicles hang like delicate ornaments from railings and rooftops, their crystalline forms catching the aurora's light, scattering it into faint rainbows across the snow.
Above it all, the sky reigns supreme—black and infinite, pierced only by the ethereal waves of light that give this land its name. This is Eryndral, the Country of Endless Night, and at its heart lies Saint City.
-
The room is quiet. Its walls curve naturally, carved into the immense trunk of one of the great trees, the rich, polished wood smooth and glistening faintly under the soft golden-orange glow of the flowers embedded in the ceiling. Each bloom pulses gently, like tiny, captive suns, casting a warm, flickering light that fills the space without banishing the shadows entirely.
Around a long, low table, ten figures sit in silence, their forms partially obscured by the dim lighting. The elders of Saint city are a mixture of weathered men and women, their years etched deeply into their faces. Most have stark white hair, though a few retain stubborn streaks of green or brown that hint at the vitality of their youth. Their eyes glint faintly, sharp and watchful, as age had only sharpened their gaze.
Their bodies remain imposing, broad-shouldered and strong, muscles evident even beneath the heavy cloaks of yeti fur they wear. The fur is thick and luxurious, its snowy white strands streaked with faint silvers and greys, and each cloak is uniquely patterned with intricate embroidery—runes, vines, or the swirling shapes of the aurora. Their hands rest on the table or their laps, scarred and calloused. Some bear long, jagged marks across their faces or arms, the stories of these wounds left unspoken but heavy in the air.
The elders sit in stillness, their faces partially shadowed, the flickering light from the flowers shifting across their sharp cheekbones and strong jaws. None speak, yet their presence fills the room with a tangible weight, as though the tree itself recognized the gravity of their gathering.
Across from them stands Arashi.
He cuts a striking figure against the backdrop of the room. His white hair, like freshly fallen snow, shimmers faintly in the flowerlight, each strand catching the golden hues. His cloudy grey eyes are calm and unreadable. He stands tall, his frame lean yet strong, his loose white and light-blue attire draping gracefully over his body. The fabric, reminiscent of silk, flows with his every movement, the edges faintly embroidered with patterns of frost that seem to shimmer in the dim light.
"There are other ways to go about it." The rough voice breaks the silence, deep and gravelly like stone grinding against stone. Its owner, an elder with a broad scar cutting across his face and disappearing into his thick white beard, leans forward slightly, his fingers drumming against the table. The faint golden glow of the flowerlight dances across his fur cloak, radiating the sharp lines of his weathered face.
"It is no longer our responsibility," another voice counters, softer yet carrying a bitter edge. An old woman, her snow-white hair braided tightly with streaks of faded green, speaks with a quiet authority. Her eyes narrow as she continues, "The world has forgotten our strength, abandoned their debt to us."
She pauses, the weight of her words pressing on the room. "When this curse rose before, they came to us—begged us—to stand in their stead. We paid the price, spilling blood and burning resources for their survival. And yet, within fifty years, their promises turned to ash. They mocked us, denied their oaths, and walked away. Five centuries of tribute, they vowed… yet we saw not even fifty." Her voice trails off, heavy with the weight of betrayal.
The elders murmur faintly among themselves, some nodding in agreement.
"It knows better than to attack us," another elder interjects, his voice measured and deliberate. His yeti fur cloak shifts as he crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. "If anything, it will target the others. We can ignore this."
He turns his sharp gaze toward Arashi, his eyes glinting in the shadowy light. "We understand where your family stands on this… Are you certain?"
The room falls silent once more, the air heavy with unspoken tension. All eyes turn to Arashi.
Standing at the edge of the room, Arashi lowers his gaze briefly in respect before lifting his head, his calm, soothing voice breaking the stillness. "It is our duty, elders. I'm sure you understand why I must."
He steps toward the window, his long white hair swaying lightly with the movement. Through the frosted glass, he watches as children leap from bridge to bridge, their laughter echoing faintly through the thick trunk of the tree. He exhales slowly, his breath fogging the glass as he continues. "It is not an option but a necessity. True, he will flee when free. But at some point, he will return, and when he does, he will endanger the peace we have fought so long to maintain. Ignoring him is no solution."
One of the elders, a tall, wiry man whose scars trace across his hands like a map of battles long fought, rises to his feet. "Then we prepare," he states firmly. His voice carries a finality that commands attention. "We have time. We have been preparing for centuries, anticipating this moment. If the world will not pay its debts, so be it. We will act for ourselves."
Arashi exhales again, turning from the window. His grey eyes gleam faintly in the golden light as he looks upward, his gaze drawn to the towering ceiling carved from the ancient wood. "Our ancestors fought, not for wealth or resources, not for their people but for our people. Their strength was their honor, their legacy."
He brushes a hand through his long white hair, pushing it away from his face as he looks toward the elders. "I am not a self-righteous man," he says softly. "But I follow my own path."
Walking toward the table, his footsteps are deliberate, each step echoing faintly in the hushed room. He stops before them, lowering his head slightly in respect. "I apologize. From here on out, I will ignore your orders."
The elders remain silent, their faces shadowed, their expressions unreadable. Without waiting for a response, Arashi turns and walks out of the room, the faint creak of the wooden door the only sound as he leaves the quiet chamber behind.
-
The snowstorm howls like a living beast, tearing through the endless white expanse. Snow shoots down in thick sheets, carried by violent gusts that whip the frost into chaotic spirals. The air is sharp, stinging exposed skin like needles, and visibility shrinks as the storm intensifies. Among the swirling white, chunks of ice begin to fall intermittently, plummeting like crystalline hammers from the heavens.
Twenty men march through the blizzard, their boots crunching deep into the snow with each step. Frost clings to their lashes and beards, but none falter. The wind tears at their thick coats, their hoods flapping wildly, until one of them yells above the gale. "It's getting worse!"
The man pulls his hood back, revealing a bald head slick with melting snow. He tosses his coat aside, stretching his arms wide as if the storm is a minor inconvenience. One by one, the others follow his lead, peeling off their heavy outer layers and shaking out their limbs. Their breath rises in visible puffs, mingling with the snow as they calmly dodge falling chunks of ice, their movements precise and unhurried.
A shard of ice strikes one man's shoulder with a sickening thud, leaving a dark purple bruise. He sighs slightly but doesn't slow his pace. "General, we're reaching the forest!" another man shouts, his voice cutting through the blizzard as he points ahead into the distance.
The men stretch and roll their shoulders, brushing snow from their shirts. The storm worsens, yet their posture grows more relaxed, their bodies enduring the relentless cold and punishing ice with practiced indifference. They move as if the storm itself were little more than an inconvenience.
Behind them, two towering creatures plod through the snow. Each stands over ten feet tall, their massive forms blending into the wintry landscape. Their six long, elegant legs end in broad hooves, perfect for traversing the deep drifts. White clouds of steam puff from their nostrils as they pull an intricate carriage behind them. The creatures are Frosthorn Stags, a rare species of deer known only to the depths of the Endless Night. The first stag has a body covered in thick brown fur streaked with streaks of gold, its four antlers rising like gnarled branches draped in frost. The second is a stark contrast, with shimmering white fur and antlers that seem carved from ice, glinting faintly even in the dim stormlight.
The carriage they haul is a masterwork of craftsmanship. It is carved from a rare and ancient material, its natural grain glowing faintly with veins of silver and blue. The structure is sleek and angular, supported by sled-like runners that cut through the snow with ease. Its surface is adorned with subtle etchings of swirling winds and auroras, understated yet captivating, and the windows are made of enchanted glass that resists frost. Inside, a warm, golden light filters through the windows, flickering softly like the flowers that light Saint city.
Within the carriage, a man sighs deeply, his breath fogging up the glass as he leans back in his seat. His frame is smaller than the others, almost delicate in comparison, and his round glasses sit slightly askew on his nose. His hair, a mix of gold and red, clings damply to his forehead, and his bright green eyes glint with frustration.
"His seal just broke," he mutters, running a hand down his face. Exhaustion and terror mingle in his voice, and he turns toward the figure seated across from him. "This is the worst day ever," he groans, throwing up his hands dramatically.
Across from him, Arashi sits in silence, his posture steady despite the jolting of the carriage. His white hair spills over his shoulders, untouched by the frost that clings to the windows. His cloudy grey eyes remain fixed ahead, calm and unreadable, as the storm rages on.