The moon floated high in the heavens, and shed a silvery glow on the northern kingdom. Snowflakes swirled down like soft secrets, blanking the earth with a heavy, white shroud. The wind howled through the mountains, carrying with it a biting chill that only those born in the icy north could endure. It was here, in the heart of this frozen empire, that the princess stood—her dark eyes fixed on the horizon, a single gloved hand resting on the hilt of the blade strapped to her side.

Princess Elara of the North.

She was a force of nature, her presence as chilling and unforgiving as the winter storms that ravaged her kingdom. Her pale skin, framed by strands of silver hair, seemed to glow in the moonlight. But the crown upon her brow, delicate yet powerful, pulsed with old magic its own—the magic of her bloodline, the magic of ice.

But it was not the cold that she feared.

It was the enemies closing in.

Behind her, in the shadow of the towering castle walls, a council of her most trusted advisers debated their next move. The Silver Fang Clan, a powerful outlaw group who prize the strength of their beast warriors, had invaded their borders. The Fireborn Dynasty—a ruthless faction with control over flames—was marching towards her capital. whisper of the Jade Lotus Sect, a clandestine group able to use and exploit information, ran down the streets. All were after her—her power, her bloodline, her throne.

Elara knew she had little time.

"Your Highness," a voice called from behind her. General Bael, her most loyal commander, stepped forward, his armor glinting in the moonlight. "They come."

Elara turned, her expression cold as ice. "Then we shall meet them."

Bael hesitated. "My princess... there are rumors. There may be some in your own court who are not as faithful as they seem. We. we have to act quickly, if not too late.

Her gaze sharpened, but she said nothing. It was not the first time her trust had been betrayed. She had lived with this uncertainty all her life. There was no time for doubt now.

Suddenly, a shadow moved in the distance—swift and silent, like the wind itself. Elara's senses flared, instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. But the figure came into focus, and she felt a chill deeper than the cold night air.

A man.

Clad in dark crimson armor, the man stood at the castle gates, his sword sheathed but his stance unwavering. His gaze, similar to that of a predator, held hers with ease and untouched cold logic.

The Crimson Blade.

"You're late," Elara remarked, her voice as frosty as the winds surrounding them.

The swordsman's lips twitched into the slightest of smirks. "I was never one for punctuality," he replied, his tone low and measured.

Bael moved towards, the hand reaching instinctively to his own saber. "Who dares approach the princess?"

The swordsman didn't flinch. "I've been hired to protect her. If she is smart, she will not waste time objecting to the offer," etc.

Elara studied the man before her. His reputation had preceded him—The Crimson Blade, a mercenary known for his ruthlessness and skill in combat. He was as cold and distant as the sword he wielded, and his past was rumored to be as bloody as the crimson hue of his armor.

"You're the one they sent?" she asked, her voice laced with skepticism. "A mercenary to guard the throne of the North?"

His gaze softened, but only slightly. When times are such that a crown is little good, there should be a sword price (but won't).

Elara's eyes narrowed. "I trust my own sword."

"Good," the Crimson Blade said, his gaze turning to the distant horizon. However, if the wolves arrive, even one blade is not a guarantee of success.

The princess went behind him, feeling strange but ominous sight behind him. Night was still quite now, but that would change very soon. The fire of war was already beginning to burn.

"Then let us prepare," she said, drawing her own sword, its edge as sharp as the frost that clung to the land.

Just a look at each other, the swordsman and the princess, turned them towards the inky shadow of the approaching battle on the far side of the hill. The storm was coming.