The sun had long risen, casting light on two ruined paths that no longer blazed nor glimmered.
The four elemental rulers, symbols of pride, war, and power now lay like lifeless corpses.
In the scorched plains, where ash still floated gently in the wind, Arson and Sylvia hadn't moved in nearly a day.
Arson's flames had long died out, his red armor dulled with soot. Sylvia's once vibrant green vines now hung limp, dry and colorless, still fused to his burned arm.
Their bodies lay curled slightly toward one another.
From the distance, two local residents — villagers wrapped in hand woven clothes passed by, drawn by the strange sight.
They paused, squinting at the strange figures.
"Are those... monsters?" one muttered, eyeing Arson's red skin and charred trail.
"Or maybe forest beasts," the other replied, nodding at Sylvia's skin, her vines curled like dead roots.
Neither recognized royalty.
They stared for a moment longer — not out of compassion, but out of boredom. And then, with a casual shrug, they moved on.
"Not our business."
The wind blew, scattering ash into the sky, and the silence returned.
Far away, in the chilled, mist-covered north, Glacius and Peggy remained collapsed beneath a blanket of frost.
Glacius's armor had taken on a crust of snow, and the feathers from Peggy's wing still clung, frozen in a crescent arc along his back. She lay curled behind him, light dimmed, her breath fogging faintly in the cold air.
Here, in a place where the cold never left, the residents were not humans, nor wanderers — but waterfolk.
They moved gracefully through the frost-thinned marshes — tall, sleek beings with gill-like ridges along their necks, webbed hands, and shimmering, scaled skin.
Two of them stopped nearby, staring with curious, blinking eyes.
The first tilted its head. "What are they?"
"Foreigners," the other said simply, stepping closer, webbed feet crunching the snow.
"They're... different," one observed, lightly poking Peggy's wing with the end of a fishing spear.
"They're not moving."
"They're not dead either."
Silence stretched between them.
"Should we help them?"
The taller one looked down at the frozen trail behind Glacius, then back at the crumpled pair. "Why? They'll get up. Or they won't."
A pause.
"Either way... not our current."
And just like that, the fishlike wanderers drifted away, slipping into the mist and leaving behind nothing but a few melting footprints.
The frost reclaimed its stillness.
_ _ _
Hours passed under the sun's quiet glare before a group of cloaked figures appeared. Their steps were cautious, hands on old tools and makeshift weapons more prepared for scavenging than battle.
They were villagers from a small neutral settlement.
The youngest among them halted, pointing toward the bodies. "There. Two... soldiers?"
The group approached slowly.
Arson's scorched armor glinted faintly in the sunlight. Sylvia's vine-tangled arms and emerald skin shined.
One of the older villagers, a lanky man with a frayed satchel, knelt beside them. He touched Sylvia's wrist first, then Arson's shoulder.
"Alive," he murmured. "Barely."
The others exchanged wary glances.
"Shouldn't we leave them?" muttered a woman with a rust-colored shawl. "That one's magma. They're always the ones burning our trees."
"They're enemies," said another. "Let the earth reclaim them."
But the leader of the group, an older woman with weathered eyes and a scar running down her jawline, stood firm.
"No," she said. "We don't leave anyone to die."
"But—"
"I don't care if he's magma or metal or shadowborn himself," the leader snapped. "We're not killers. We're healers."
The group hesitated. Finally, one of them sighed and dropped their satchel.
With practiced hands, they began to treat the two unconscious rulers.
Cloth was soaked, burns were cooled with salve, cracked skin mended with moss poultice and nectar paste. Water was dripped carefully into parched lips.
Then, they noticed it.
The vine.
It spiraled tightly from Sylvia's arm, its base burned into the skin, crossing into Arson's shoulder, where it had hardened like coiled roots fused to scorched stone.
"What... in the stars is that?" one whispered, fingers hovering over the connection.
"Nature vines... fused to magma?" another muttered, revolted.
"Feels like punishment," said the youngest, eyes wide. "Like some twisted curse."
"Maybe it is," someone else added. "Imagine being stuck to your enemy forever. Must feel like the worse punishment."
But still, they didn't stop.
They continued to heal them anyway — working around the vine, bandaging what they could, cooling what heat remained in Arson's skin, reviving what dryness overtook Sylvia's.
Eventually, the worst of the exhaustion was soothed. Their breathing steadied.
The leader stood up, brushing ash from her knees.
"There. They'll wake soon."
One of the others already had their bag slung across their shoulder. "Then let's leave before he wakes up and turns us all into charcoal."
The leader nodded. "Let's move. We've done enough."
A final glance at the resting forms — the unlikely pair, one faintly glowing, the other tethered by living green.
No names.
No titles.
Just two rulers, mistaken for ordinary lives.
And with that...
The villagers disappeared into the horizon.
Meanwhile on the other side...
The air was colder.
Glacius and Peggy lay still and motionless, as if the world itself had chosen silence to mourn their collapse.
Near dawn, movement stirred along the edges of the frozen lake trail.
A group of amphibious villagers — pale-skinned with webbed hands and fins along their arms emerged from the icy waters. These were water dwellers, known for neutrality and curiosity, not war. Their fish-like eyes blinked as they spotted the two figures collapsed near the shore.
They approached cautiously.
Peggy's golden wings were dulled, the frost around her body still clinging to Glacius's back.
His breath was shallow, skin near-frostbitten in patches even from his own elemental backlash.
Ice prince or not, two days of battle and exhaustion had pushed him past even his own limits.
"Are they... fairy and ice?" one of the villagers whispered.
"Looks like it," said another, nudging Peggy's wing with the tip of a long staff. "Strange pairing."
"They're alive, though."
One younger villager stepped back nervously, arms crossed. "We can trust the fairy one. Her kind are known for light and healing. But the ice one?" His voice dropped to a wary growl. "They're cold-hearted. He'll just freeze us the moment he wakes up. Probably thinks we're below him."
"Agreed," said another. "Let's just warm the fairy girl and leave the prince of ice to his frost."
But the elder turned slowly, leaning on his curved coral staff. His deep-set eyes scanned Glacius's face, rimmed with soft ice, and then looked over the protesting villagers.
"We don't judge life based on tribe," the old man said firmly, his voice hoarse but unwavering.
"Even if they never return the favor... even if their history is written in frost and silence... we still help. We must give every soul a chance to change. Or what's the point of healing at all?"
"But—!" one began, but the elder raised his hand.
"If none of you help, I'll do it myself."
A heavy silence followed.
No one wanted to assist the Ice Prince. But no one wanted to abandon the old man either. One of the younger villagers finally groaned in defeat. "Fine. But the moment he twitches—I'm diving back into the sea."
Grumbling, they got to work. Some began wrapping Peggy's damaged wings in water-activated balm while the others focused on Glacius.
They gently chiseled away the frost from his fingers, rubbed salves over the bruising around his arms, and poured drops of heat-rich sap at key pulse points to prevent internal freezing.
Partway through the treatment, one villager paused as he noticed something strange.
"Hey... his back," he whispered.
They gently shifted Glacius slightly, revealing where golden feathers had been frozen into the back of his cloak. Still faintly stuck, a few threads of golden fluff shimmered against the pale blue fabric.
"Are those... fairy feathers?" another gasped.
"Wha—he is stuck to her?!"
"That... must be the worse nightmare ever," someone muttered. "Imagine waking up frozen to your enemy's wing."
Another shook their head. "They're not gonna be thrilled when they realize what happened. That's gonna be one nasty awakening."
They worked faster now — urgency growing not from danger, but from dread.
As the finishing touches were done — pulses steadied — the elder gave one last glance toward the two unconscious rulers. Glacius's chest now rose and fell with a slow steadiness. Peggy's wings glowed faintly under the healing wraps.
"They'll live," the old man nodded.
"Should we leave now?" a younger voice asked trembling in fear.
The elder smiled faintly. "Yes."
And so, with the tension high — the villagers packed up quickly. The younger ones hoisted the elder onto their back like a sack of wisdom, his staff slung beside him. The group began running, half-laughing, half-panicking.
"They're not gonna know we helped, right?" someone whispered breathlessly.
"Let's hope not," said another. "Last thing I want is to be remembered as the guy who patched up an Ice soldier."
Their laughter faded into the cold breeze as they vanished into the fogged trails beside the lake.
Once again, silence returned.
Glacius and Peggy lay there, breathing softly. Unconscious. Healing.