Flameheart soul of the frozen King

Ashes of the Past

Smoke carried the smell of burning flesh across the frozen sky long before the village came into view.

"Faster," Soren urged, digging his heels into the rough scales of the frost drake.

"Hiss!" The beast let out a sharp cry, its heavy white wings beating hard against the howling blizzard as it glided low over the snow-covered valley.

The cold wind sliced through Soren's thin rags, but he barely felt it. His eyes were fixed on the valley floor below. Where a peaceful mountain village had stood just hours ago, only black ruins and towering pillars of fire remained.

"Get us down there," Soren commanded, his voice tight.

The drake banked hard to the left, dropping down through the thick smoke and landing with a heavy thud on the icy main path of the village. Snow, ash, and black soot blew into the air around them.

Soren jumped off the beast's back before it had even stopped moving. He wiped ash from his eyes and looked around. Wooden cabins were crushed into burning piles. Storage huts were blown open, their winter supplies looted or trampled into frozen mud. Bodies lay scattered across the central square, frozen in the snow where they had been cut down while running.

"They did not leave a single stone standing," Soren whispered, his boots crunching over charcoaled wood.

The original Soren Gray had grown up in this small, quiet village. Memories that belonged to the dead boy rushed through his mind: shared meals around small hearth fires, elderly neighbors giving him bread, young children playing with carved wooden toys in the snow.

Soren squeezed his right hand into a hard fist, feeling the hidden royal mark throb beneath his bloody bandage. In his past life as a prince, he had fought battles to protect his crown. He had watched soldier die for honor. But this was not war. This was pure butchering of helpless people who owned nothing. A deep, cold rage burned through his chest, settling into his soul like molten iron.

"I swear to you all," Soren said quietly to the quiet dead, "the noble bloodlines will pay for every life taken here."

The drake clicked its sharp jaw, tilting its head toward a long row of burning storehouses near the back of the village.

"Shh," Soren raised a hand, ducking low behind a partially collapsed wooden wall. "Stay down."

Heavy footsteps echoed from the far side of the square. Soren peeked around the scorched wood. Three Iron Clan scavengers clad in dark leather and steel plates were walking through the debris, kicking over bodies and tossing silver coins into heavy canvas sacks.

"Check that hut!" one scavenger yelled, pointing his spear toward a half-burnt cottage. "If anyone is still breathing, cut their throat and check their pockets!"

"There is nothing left here, Marko," another scavenger grumbled, spitting into the snow. "The cavalry swept through like a storm. We are just picking up crumbs."

"Commander Vane said no witnesses," Marko snapped, turning his eyes toward the narrow alley where Soren was crouched. "Keep looking. If we miss one slave relative, the captain will have our heads."

Soren pulled his stolen broadsword out, staying flat against the cold ground. His physical body was still battered, his lungs aching with every breath, but his tactical mind was sharp as a razor. He knew he could not take three armed scavengers head-on without risking another loud fight that would draw more patrols.

Suddenly, a faint, ragged cough sounded from directly beneath the collapsed timber behind him.

Soren turned his head fast. Under a pile of burnt beams and frozen thatch, a hand was twitching.

"Hold on," Soren whispered out loud to himself. He crawled over on his hands and knees, keeping his body below the smoke line. He dug his fingers into the burnt wood, carefully pulling away two heavy beams.

Lying under the rubble was an old man with white hair covered in soot and blood. It was Elder Orin, the village record keeper.

"S... Soren?" the old man gasped out, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus on the boy's face. "Is that... really you?"

"Be quiet," Soren whispered, gripping the old man's shoulder. "Iron Clan soldiers are ten feet away."

"You are alive," Orin wheezed out, fresh blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "We heard... they took the bait boys to the ice pit. We thought..."

"I survived," Soren said, looking back over his shoulder. The heavy footsteps of the scavengers were growing closer, moving slowly down the alley toward their exact position.

"Hey! Did you hear something over by those beams?" Marko's voice boomed through the quiet air.

"Probably just the wood settling in the fire," a second scavenger replied.

"No, I heard coughing. Move up and check it!"

Soren cursed under his breath. "Elder, I am going to pull you out. Stay silent."

"No," Orin rasped, his cold, weak fingers reaching up to grab Soren's tunic with surprising strength. "It is too late for me, boy. My chest is crushed. I am not leaving this pile."

"I can drag you to the drake," Soren insisted, his eyes darting toward the alley opening. The shadow of a tall spear was already stretching across the snow toward them. "I will not leave you here to be butchered by these scum."

"Listen to me!" Orin whispered urgently, pulling Soren down closer to his mouth. "They did not come here just to kill us, Soren. They were looking for something. The Iron Clan lord... he knows about the ancient blood."

Soren's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Our ancestors... we were not just common farmers," Orin gasped out, his voice growing fainter by the second. "We were the keepers of the northern gate. We guarded the frost key."

"Elder, the guards are right outside," Soren warned, slipping his hand onto the hilt of his sword.

"Take this!" Orin jammed his cold, wet hand straight into Soren's open palm.

Soren felt a heavy, metallic object being pressed into his fingers. It felt icy cold, far colder than the snow around them, and sending a strange vibration straight up his arm to his royal hand mark.

"What is this?" Soren asked, looking down.

"The Frostfall Crest," Orin whispered, his breathing becoming shallow and erratic. "It belongs to the old king. Protect it with your life. Find the girl in the northern pass... tell her... the crown still burns..."

Orin's eyes rolled back into his head, his chest giving one final, heavy heave before falling completely still.

"Elder!" Soren called out softly, shaking the old man's shoulder. There was no answer.

"Found you!" Marko shouted, rounding the corner of the burnt wall with his spear raised high. "There is a survivor here!"

Soren did not hesitate. He spun around from his knees, swinging the heavy broadsword in a sharp, upward arc. The steel blade sliced directly through Marko's wooden spear shaft and tore through his leather chest guard.

Marko let out a wet choke, dropping his broken spear as he collapsed into the red snow.

"Marko!" the second scavenger yelled from the alley, drawing his sword. "He killed Marko! Sound the horn!"

Before the guard could lift his horn to his lips, Soren's white frost drake swooped down from the burnt roof above, slamming its heavy claws into the scavenger's back and pinning him face down into the ice.

"Quiet," Soren said coldly, wiping his blade clean on Marko's cloak. He turned away from the bodies, stepping out into the open square to examine the object Elder Orin had given him.

It was a heavy, hexagonal medallion made of strange, translucent blue metal that did not melt despite the heat of the burning village around it. Etched into its center was a crown frozen inside a dragon's jaw.

"The Frostfall Crest," Soren muttered, staring at the detailed metal. "Why would a small village Elder have a royal artifact from my era?"

Before he could process the thought, the air pressure behind his neck dropped violently.

There was no sound of footsteps. No crunch of snow. Just a sudden, terrifying drop in temperature that froze the air in his throat.

Soren reacted on pure instinct, trying to roll to his right and pull his sword up to block.

He was too slow for his weak body.

A dark shadow dropped silently from the high branches of the snow-covered pine tree above. A foot kicked Soren's broadsword straight out of his hand, sending it spinning into the snow drifts. In the same second, a cold, heavy body slammed into his back, forcing him down into the frozen mud.

"Do not move," a sharp, feminine voice hissed directly into his ear.

Soren tried to push up, but a thin, ice-cold dagger was pressed so hard against his throat that it cut through his skin, letting a tiny bead of warm blood run down his neck.

"If you breathe too loud, I will open your neck from ear to ear," the voice warned, completely devoid of mercy. "Who are you, and why do you have my father's crest?"