The first snow of winter fell softly over Bleakmire, covering the village in a thin, white blanket. Kael stood at the edge of the swamp, watching the flakes melt into the muddy water. His mother had always loved the snow.
"It's like the world is starting over," she would say, her voice warm despite the cold. 'No matter how dark things get, the snow reminds us that there's always a chance for something pure."
Kael clenched his small hands into fists, trying to hold onto the memory. He was only six, but he already knew the world wasn't as kind as his mother believed. The snow might hide the mud and rot, but it couldn't wash it away.
Behind him, the village stirred to life. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the fragile huts, and the sound of voices carried through the crisp air, Bleakmire was a poor place, a forgotten comer of the Draktharion Imperium, but it was home. For now
"Kael!" His father's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and impatient. "Get back here before you freeze to death!"
Kael turned and trudged back toward the village, his boots crunching in the snow. His father, Thome, stood in the doorway of their hut, his broad frame silhouetted against the firelight. He was a big man, with hands calloused from years of labor and a face hardened by disappointment.
"Where's Nymera?" Thome asked as Kael stepped inside.
"Still asleep," Kael muttered, brushing the snow from his coat.
Thorne grunted and turned back to the fire, where a pot of thin stew simmered. Kael sat on the floor beside his little sister, Nymera, who was curled up under a threadbare blanket. At three years old. Nymera was too young to understand the weight of their lives, but Kael could see the shadows in his father's eyes.
The war was coming.
It had been creeping closer for years, like a storm on the horizon. Soldiers from the Draktharion Imperium passed through the village occasionally, their armor gleaming in the dull light, their faces grim. They spoke of battles in the Heart of Kaelthar, of the Vorynthal Dominion and the Aeltheris Sovereignty clashing over the ruins of the ancient Thal'Kyr civilization. Kael didn't understand much about the war, but he knew it meant danger.
"Kael," Thorne said suddenly, his voice low. "If anything happens... if the war comes here... you look after your sister, understand?"
Kael nodded, though the words sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the cold.
That night, as the snow continued to fall, Kael dreamed of ravens. They circled overhead, their black wings blotting out the sky, their cries echoing in his ears. When he woke, the snow had stopped, and the village was silent.
But the ravens remained.