In the bitter cold of the Rayghnegs of Cronos, a young boy dragged a battered sled across the endless frozen wasteland. His small hands clutched the rope tied to the crude sled, his body leaning forward against the howling wind. Wrapped in tattered blankets and trembling from fever, his mother lay atop the sled, barely alive.
The boy's name was Harvir, a son of the Beduin people—wanderers who once thrived in these frozen lands by mastering the art of warmth. But warmth had long abandoned Harvir, just like everything else. After his father's death at the hands of Darnim, a traitorous soldier from their own tribe, Harvir and his mother had been banished—stripped of home, honor, and protection.
Now, after nearly two weeks of surviving on scraps and frozen roots, Harvir's mother had fallen gravely ill. A Rondi Worm had attacked them one night beneath the bones of a dead ice beast, and its venom had poisoned her blood. Each hour, her condition worsened.
Harvir had only one hope: Rokland. A cursed city at the far edge of the Rayghnegs wasteland—a place ruled by the Governor of Ares, known for its chaos and cruelty. It was a lawless land where only the rich and powerful hoarded medicine. It was dangerous, but it was their only chance.
The frozen desert stretched endlessly ahead. Only a tiny black speck shimmered on the horizon—Rokland. Hope. Salvation.
Harvir's stomach twisted with hunger, his ribs jutting out sharply. But he kept moving, each step a fight against death.
Suddenly, a low growl echoed across the ice.
Harvir's heart stopped. He stumbled, the rope slipping from his numb fingers. Slowly, he turned.
From behind jagged rocks, shadows began to emerge—massive shapes with fur as white as the snow, their eyes glowing a sickly yellow. First one. Then two. Then an entire pack.
Winter Wolves.
The beasts padded silently across the snow, their paws leaving no tracks. They were ghosts of the blizzard itself.
Harvir stepped protectively in front of his mother, trembling. His mind screamed for him to run, but he knew: running would mean death.
The lead wolf crouched low, ready to strike.
Harvir squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the end.
Then—
A blinding flash tore through the storm.
Steel sang through the air. A shriek echoed as the lead wolf was knocked aside, blood spraying onto the snow.
The beast collapsed with a heavy thud, blood steaming in the cold.
A woman now stood between Harvir and the wolves, tall and commanding, wearing a thick crimson cloak that billowed like a flag of war. Her face was shadowed beneath a heavy hood, but a lock of black hair whipped free, gleaming against the snow.
Beneath her hood, when the wind shifted, glimpses of her skin showed—pale and flawless, like something carved from winter itself. Her lips, full and dark red, curved into a fierce grin. Even hidden beneath heavy furs, her figure was striking, every movement full of a cold, dangerous grace.
Selira.
Her beauty was not soft or gentle. It was a blade—sharp, deadly, and impossible to ignore. Every step she took, every pivot of her lethal dance against the wolves, was both a battle and a performance. Even death looked elegant in her hands.
Another wolf lunged at her. She sidestepped smoothly, her dagger flashing up to bury itself deep beneath its jaw. The beast shuddered once before collapsing.
Selira moved like a wraith, graceful and merciless. She fought without hesitation, as if she had already decided the outcome long before the battle even began.
The surviving wolves, sensing something far more deadly than themselves, retreated into the storm.
The fight was over. For now.
Selira wiped her blade clean on the thick fur of the dead wolf and turned her gaze toward the boy.
Harvir knelt in the snow, shielding his mother's unconscious body with his own.
Small. Frail. But stubborn.
Selira's mouth curved into something resembling a smile. She walked toward him slowly, her crimson cloak dragging behind her like spilled blood.
She crouched low, her pale face level with his.
"Easy now," she said, her voice low and warm. "You're lucky I found you."
The boy shivered, his teeth chattering.
"My... my mother... she's sick," he managed to say.
Selira's smile deepened."Is that so? Well then... you should come with me."
Harvir blinked at her, wide-eyed.
"Really?" he whispered.
"Really," Selira purred.
Without another word, she lifted his mother onto her shoulder as easily as lifting a sack. She jerked her head at Harvir, and he hurried after her, stumbling through the snow.
Inside a nearby cave, the air stank of rot and something worse. A faint mist oozed from a deep crack in the stone—the Rift. It pulsed faintly in the darkness, like a wound in the world.
Selira ignored it. She had more important work for now.
She dropped the woman roughly onto a clean patch of rock and pulled a strip of bloodied meat from inside her cloak. Tossing it at Harvir's feet, she said, "Eat. It's Winter Wolf meat. Tough, but good for strength."
Harvir hesitated, then snatched the meat, tearing into it with desperate hunger. He even tried to feed some to his mother, who only moaned faintly in return.
Selira watched in silence, amusement flickering in her pale eyes.
Satisfied, she stood and whistled sharply. From the rocks, a battered hovercar rumbled to life. Its metal was dented and scarred, but the blue lights along its sides still flickered stubbornly.
"Come," she ordered. "Rokland's not far. medicine there could treat your mother."
Harvir clutched his mother's hand tightly, hesitating.
Selira smiled at him—a slow, sweet smile full of promise.
"You want her to live, don't you?"
The boy nodded quickly.
She lifted them onto the hover car, wrapping Harvir in a thick cloak and strapping his mother down beside him.
As the hover car skimmed across the frozen waste, Harvir kept glancing up at her, his small heart swelling with gratitude.
Each time, Selira met his gaze with a wider, more inviting smile.
'Trust me, little boy. Trust me all the way to the altar. Your blood will sing sweetly when the One-Eyed God drinks it.' she couldn't help but think happily, as she drive the new sacrifice.