Frost-Saint
Far to the north, beneath the dead stars, the Pale Choir gathered in silence.
Their shrine was a cathedral of ice and bone, carved into the glacier known as The Bleeding Maw — a wound in the world where no fire dared linger. The air did not move here. Sound was swallowed whole.
In the heart of the shrine stood their champion.
The Frost-Saint.
He wore no crown, but every priest bowed before him. He bore no blade, but the cold curled around his limbs like obedient serpents. His eyes were pits of void-ice, his voice lower than breath.
He listened to the news without moving.
"The Ashborn has awakened," whispered the Speaker of the Choir, kneeling in frost. "He bears the weapon. He slaughters the Songless. He knows flame."
The Saint raised one hand.
The Speaker froze — literally — cracking into white shards, his words ending in a gasp of shattered ice.
"I know," the Frost-Saint murmured.
"I dreamed his fire last night."
He turned to the altar behind him — where a corpse lay frozen in glacial crystal. Once, this had been a god. The last to resist the Choir. Its ribs stuck through its chest like broken mountains.
From beneath its heart, the Saint withdrew his weapon:
A sword made of crystallized tears and forgotten winters.
Shiverbane.
Meanwhile, Kael sat beside Lira in a hollowed-out watchtower near the ruins of Emberwatch Keep. Her wound still glowed faintly from his fire. She slept now — fitfully — but alive.
He couldn't rest.
Ashmourne lay across his lap, its surface dim but alert. Outside, the wind howled through the burned forest. Ash fell like snow.
Cynen's words echoed in his mind:
"The Pale Choir will send more. They cannot allow your flame to rise."
Kael stood, walking to the edge of the tower. Below him, the valley stretched wide, scarred and empty.
Then the fire in his chest flickered violently.
Not fear.
A warning.
The clouds above froze in place.
The stars stopped twinkling.
The world held its breath.
A figure approached from the north, walking across the snow — barefoot.
His cloak trailed frost that never melted. Each step killed the ground. He did not carry his blade in his hand.
He was the blade.
Kael gripped Ashmourne. "Lira."
She stirred.
The flame within her pulsed in rhythm with his own.
She knew, even before she opened her eyes.
"He's here."
The Frost-Saint stopped at the edge of the ruined keep, looking up at the tower.
He did not shout.
He simply whispered.
And his words froze the air:
"Ashborn. Come forth.
Let the Choir unmake you."
Kael stepped forward, Ashmourne pulsing hot.
"No."
He leapt from the tower.
The ground shattered beneath his landing — flame rippling outward in concentric waves. He rose from the cracked stone, the fire around him forming a cloak of burning shadow.
The Saint smiled faintly.
Then the battle began.