In the narrow strip of land wedged between Ro and the Eastern Allied Nations, winter was no longer a season.
It was a siege.
The wind shrieked from the northern peaks like a predator, dragging sheets of ice that flayed skin and hollowed bone.
Snow lay so deep it swallowed the legs of draft animals, forcing farmers to slaughter them for meat before the beasts starved outright.
The rivers—once lifelines for grain and trade—were frozen through, jagged white scars cutting across the land.
Villages huddled under the weight of snow, their roofs bowed as if in prayer to a mercy that never came.
Thin trails of smoke rose from chimneys, their scent bitter and weak—barely hiding the stench of hunger.
Behind shuttered doors came the sound of quiet weeping, the rattle of coughs from children whose lips had gone blue.
In the great hall of Eldara, the king sat on a throne that seemed to drain the warmth from his marrow. His crown was tarnished, its gold dimmed by frost and neglect.
The fur lining of his robe had been cut away in strips to bind the feet of freezing children, leaving the hem ragged and uneven.
Before him, the court scribe unrolled two scrolls—pleas for aid sent to Ro and the Eastern Alliance. Written in the final reserves of ink and hope, they bore the last of Eldara's royal seals. Neither had drawn reply.
The king's grip tightened on the armrests, his fingers stiff and bloodless. "They do not see us," he murmured, voice low, raw. "Not Ro. Not the East. To them, we are nothing—just another nameless patch of snow between their wars."
The advisor at his right—a narrow man with eyes sharp enough to pierce armor—leaned forward. "Then we must make them see."
The king's gaze shifted to him. "Make them… how?"
"They will not come for compassion," the advisor said evenly. "But they will come for fear. If Ro believes the East moves to claim Eldara, and the East believes the same of Ro—they will march at once. And in their haste to deny each other, they will have to give us the supplies we need to survive."
The king's breath stilled. The hall seemed to shrink around him. "You are asking me to lie to two armies that could crush us flat. To pit giants against each other while we stand beneath their feet."
"I am asking you to live, Majesty," the advisor replied. "And to let your people live with you."
The words cut deeper than the winter wind. Live. Survive.
But at what cost?
The king's gaze fell to the flagstones, where frost crept in spiderweb patterns between the cracks. He thought of the men who would die when those armies marched—soldiers who had never seen Eldara, whose only crime would be answering the summons of a lie.
He thought of the rivers that would run red before the snow melted. He thought of the children whose feet were wrapped in the torn remnants of his robe, and whether their lives could be bought with the blood of strangers.
His hands trembled on the throne's arms. Was survival still survival if it left his soul hollow? Was a kingdom saved if it rose from the thaw built on the bones of the innocent?
A gust rattled the shutters, cold seeping in around the seams. Somewhere in the city below, a dog barked once before falling silent.
Finally, he drew in a long, unsteady breath. The decision felt like swallowing ice.
"So be it," he said, each word slow, heavy, and sharp enough to cut.
The advisor bowed his head in satisfaction, but the king's eyes were elsewhere—fixed on nothing, lost in the shifting haze of memory.
He saw his eldest daughter, pale and fevered in her bed three winters past, her small hand gripping his with surprising strength as she whispered, Don't be sad, Father… I'm not cold anymore.
The healers had done all they could. It hadn't been enough.
He saw Captain Fin—loyal to the last—who had led a doomed caravan south to fetch grain before the mountain passes froze shut.
A man who had laughed easily, sung loud at feasts, and returned home only as a bundle of bones wrapped in cloth.
And he saw his people.
The weaver in the southern market who, when the royal guards came to collect cloth for the army, had slipped him a pair of wool gloves she had made herself—"for your hands, Majesty, they look so cold."
The miller's wife who, during the last frost famine, had left a loaf of bread on the palace steps in the night with no name and no note, only hope.
Kindness like that was rare in kings, rarer still in kingdoms. And yet here it lived, stubborn as the fires that still burned in every hearth no matter how meager the fuel.
The king's throat tightened. These were the people he was swearing to save. But to do so, he would condemn others—sons, fathers, daughters, and mothers in distant lands who would never know why they bled.
Their deaths would not even bear the honor of truth.
He pressed his palm to the armrest, feeling the frost bite at his skin. The great hall suddenly felt smaller, the walls bending inward as though to trap him with his choice.
Outside, the wind howled, driving the snow into the city streets, where somewhere a child was laughing despite the cold—proof that innocence could still exist in this siege of ice.
It was that laughter, fragile and fleeting, that anchored him in the choice he had made.
Still, the shadows of the dead would follow him.
They always had.
The advisor's voice broke into his thoughts. "Shall I prepare the messages, Majesty?"
The king nodded once, slow and deliberate. "Yes. And may the gods forgive me."
Two messengers were summoned.
To the first, the king gave a letter bearing the royal seal: Eldara under attack. Eastern banners on our soil. Request immediate aid. The man rode west toward Ro.
To the second, another letter, identical in urgency but reversed in blame: Eldara under attack. Ro's legions cross our borders. Request immediate aid. The rider turned east into the teeth of the storm.
By dawn, both were gone, swallowed by snow and silence.
It was a scheme of desperation—one that might save Eldara or burn it to ash.
And far from the frozen valleys, in the war rooms of Ro and the Eastern Allied Nation, two messages arrived within hours of each other.
In Ro, the council chamber fell into a tense murmur. The Eastern Alliance had denied any recent movements toward Eldara… yet the reports of Eastern banners on the snow could not be ignored.
In the Eastern capital, ministers slammed fists to the table. They called for action. The Empress delighted, for the chance of a grand clash with Ro finally arrived.
Ro's western battalions had been quiet for months—too quiet. Now, it seemed, they had chosen their moment to push eastward under the cover of winter.
Troops began to mobilize.
Armored columns moved toward the snowbound border.
And in Eldara, the king watched from his frost-bitten tower as smoke from distant camps began to rise on both horizons.
He had wanted attention.
Now it came, heavy with the scent of war.
Neither Alexis nor Hiral had anticipated this sudden surge toward confrontation. But the spark had been struck, and in the heart of winter, sparks were all too eager to find kindling.