God's Law

A boy Running in the woods , his breath misting in the chill air. Frost clung to the fallen leaves, and a dusting of snow crowned the towering trees The air held a cold bite, the kind that seeps into bones. The boy ran, his breath coming in sharp, white puffs that spoke of both the chill and his exertion. Then a Sweet voice cut through the silent wood, warm as a remembered hearth.“Light, where are you?”It was his mother’s voice. A grin split his face, and a quiet hiss of joy escaped him. This was their game.“I am going to catch you!”suddenly His eyes found a crevice in the stone—a cave mouth, dark and promising. He ducked inside, pressing himself into the . Pride swelled in his small chest. A fine spot. A boy’s own hiding place. His mother’s voice called again, but it was fainter now, stolen by the wind. Then a new wind came, flowing from the deep dark behind him He turned.Not a sliver of light remained. Only a blackness so complete it felt like a weight. His mother voice fades away And from within it, a chilling growl rumbled, the sound of stone grinding deep underground. Two points of yellow light kindled, unwavering. A chill, sharp as a dagger’s point, traced his spine. He willed his legs to move, to flee, but they were stone, locked fast by a fear The thing in the darkness launched and light shoulted. “Breathing! Breathing!” A man (Light) jolted awake, the shout dying on his lips. The boy was gone, replaced by a man it seems it was a dream The sound of strong winds echoed through the cave he was sleeping in. There was a fire beside him for warmth and light. He heard the growling of a wolf biting his boot. He sat up. A white wolf, the size of a horse with fur like snow and yellow eyes like sunflowers, was pulling Light’s leg, trying to take him somewhere.Light said, while touching his fur, “What’s wrong, White Fang? You ruined a very good dream, you know. I heard her voice again. It was so sweet.”Suddenly, a strong wind came. The fire went out. The wolf looked at the entrance and started growling.Light stood and began to pack with frantic speed. He rolled the wool bedroll and shoved it into his pack. As he did, the ancient runes etched into the leather flared with a cool blue light, the bag accepting far more than its size should allow..White Fang still stood on guard, growling at the entrance. The winds from outside were getting stronger. Light was putting his things in his bag when suddenly the wolf rushed out of the cave.“Wait, Fang!” Light said.Then he wrapped his big dark cloak around him, the white wool trim attached to his coat, and went after White Fang Light emerged from the cave into a maelstrom of wind and snow that stole his breath and blurred his vision. He stepped carefully, knowing these peaks were called the Mountains of Cold Deaths for good reason. He shouted into the white void, his voice swallowed by the gale. “White Fang! Where the hell did you go?” He tried to follow white fang fading footprints, but the storm intensified with every step. His black hair whipped wildly about his face, and the world dissolved into a swirling grey smear. Suddenly, a primal instinct surged within him—his dark eyes glowed with a feral yellow light, mirroring his lost companion. He felt a presence, a pull, and he ran toward it, the wind screaming in his ears.Just as suddenly, he felt the presence shift, circling behind him. Light spun, his sword sliding from its scabbard in a single, practiced motion. The blade was forged of dark, shimmering steel, a sliver of night in the blinding white. He planted his feet, his breathing steadying as he focused on the unseen thing moving around him.Then the blizzard itself coalesced before him. The snow and wind accumulated into a colossal form, a shadow of a great white wolf the size of a dragon. Runic patterns, glowing with a cold blue light, swirled across its spectral form. It breathed, and the very air crackled, freezing solid. The blood in Light’s veins turned to ice. He fell to one knee, driving his black sword into the ground for support, his body shaking violently. He looked up at the elemental beast, his voice a strained, ragged whisper. “Don’t tell me… you are White Fang’s mother… or something.” The great white wolf spoke, its voice the sound of glaciers calving into a frozen sea. “You are a long way from home, Northner.”Light could only manage a single, strained word, his breath a cloud of agony. “Yes.”The great white wolf commanded “State your name.” Light replied with pride “Light D. Morgan.”“D…” the wolf mused, the sound a low rumble of shifting ice. “Hmm. Tell me, did the Black Knight send you here to die?” “No,” Light gritted out, the word a promise. “I am here on a mission. To find the Lost Kingdom and the Last Dragonborn.”“And why would a wolf look for a Dragonborn?” The beast’s voice was pure scorn. “Tell me, are you going to kill him, just like your forefathers did? Answer carefully, boy. Your life depends on it.”A defiant smile, more a baring of teeth, touched Light’s frozen lips. “No. I am not going to kill him.” He gathered the last of his will. “I am going to tame him.”The great white wolf grinned, a terrifying fracture in the storm, and threw back its head in a howl that shook the very stone of the mountain. The sound became a physical force—a hammer of wind that slammed into Light’s chest. He felt the air leave his lungs, the world tilting, the darkness rushing up to claim him.The wolf’s final words chased him into unconsciousness. “Good answer. By the way… the Dragonborn is not a ‘him’.” Far to the south, beneath the vast, golden dome that crowned the throne room of the Kingdom of Lions, the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms held their council. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the weight of power.Upon the Sun-Throne, a massive seat of gold with lion-headed handles and glimmering ancient runes, sat a boy. King Edward the Third, at sixteen, was barely more than a youth. His skin was pale, his hair a crown of gold, and his blue eyes held a flicker of restless impatience. Flanking him was his council, foremost among them the Grand Magister, a severe man in white robes adorned with stripes of gold. “The council meeting is now begun, by your leave, Your Grace,” the Grand Magister announced, bowing his head slightly toward the throne.The first counselor stepped into the center of the marble floor. He was the Knight Commander and Guardian of the North, a mountain of a man encased in gold-plated armor. He dropped to one knee with a clatter of metal.“My Grace,” the knight’s voice boomed in the hall.A grin, sharp and tinged with cruel amusement, touched Edward’s lips. “The North. So, how are our dear friends?”The Knight Commander did not look up. “My Grace, I bring… ill tidings.”Edward’s grin vanished, replaced by a mask of frustrated irritation. “What is it?”“The matter of the Holy Bell,” the knight said, his voice lowering. “It has been twenty years. We believed their hope would fade with the passing seasons, that their resolve would break. We were wrong. The people of the North are relentless.” “For twenty years, they have thrown themselves upon our steel, desperate to ring that bell. Our own soldiers die guarding it. They will not stop until they succeed, or it is destroyed. I say we shatter it and crush their hope forever.”Edward tapped a finger on the lion’s head of his throne. “So, destroy the bell.”“An excellent and decisive solution, Your Grace,” the Grand Magister purred.Suddenly, a man in red robes adorned with a pattern of golden flames stepped forward and bowed. “My Grace, forgive my interruption, but that is not an excellent idea.”The Grand Magister’s eyes narrowed. “I am the Grand Magister, Lord Vesper. You will mind your place.”“Why not?” Edward cut in, his interest piqued by the challenge.Lord Vesper bowed again. “My apologies, Grand Magister. Let me ask you this: why do they try to ring the bell?”“It is a primitive tradition,” the Grand Magister scoffed. “Their so-called ‘Gods Law’ demands that every four years, their youth undertake a pilgrimage and fast from food, s*x, and violence for one month. The fast is broken by ringing the bell. Twenty years ago, while they were weak from fasting, our Lions took the North after their king, Hope D. Morgan, poisoned our beloved Edward the Second.”The sharp clatter of silver and the shatter of a wine glass echoed through the hall. A maid, trembling, scrambled to pick up the fallen tray. All eyes turned to her before returning to Lord Vesper.“So,” Vesper continued calmly, “they are devout believers. They think the bell is protected by their God. If you destroy it, what message does that send?” The Grand Magister laughed. “It proves their God does not exist!”A few nervous chuckles echoed his, but they died as Lord Vesper spoke. “Absolutely not. If you destroy the bell, they will not see it as a defeat. They will see it as their God’s will. They will believe their fast is over, that divine permission has been granted. After twenty years of disciplined suffering, the people of the North are not just hungry for a meal, Your Grace. They are starving for revenge. They will tear apart everyone who has wronged them.”The air fled the room. Every councilor who had laughed now found their breath stuck in their throats, the ground feeling unsteady beneath their feet.“The main Morgan line is extinct,” the Grand Magister countered, his voice tight. “Their women are our prisoners. There is no one left to lead them.”“Yet one lives,” Lord Vesper stated, his voice dropping. “A last male heir of the blood. He was on the pilgrimage when his family was slaughtered. The last we heard, he had joined the Black Knights on their mountain.”“Conspiracy tales!” the Grand Magister spat. “Stories the Northerners tell themselves to feel they still have a king!”“You are right, we killed the main family,” Vesper conceded. “But he was not of the main line. A cousin, perhaps. The rumors say the Knight Commander of the Black Knights has trained him himself. They say he has blades for hands… and that he has Embraced the Cold.”A collective, furious gasp went through the council. The Grand Magister took a step forward, his face livid. “How dare you speak of that… abomination in the presence of our King!”But King Edward did not hear him. A familiar, chilling presence had settled over him. A devilishly dark-skinned hand materialized on his shoulder, unseen by the rest of the room. A voice, like a whisper of frost, breathed in his ear, “The man speaks the truth. But do not worry, my grace. I have a plan.”