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Prologue I

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P R O L O G U E

Year 50132 of the Arusömme Calendar,

Andyk,

Väl Tarrah Ice Plains

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Hope began to stir within the heart of Delia, a wanderer. Her lungs grew lighter and she turned to face a man enshrouded by a black cloak beside her. Light peered from afar despite the abyss overhead, internal warmth spread despite the prominent crisp whip of the chilling air within the northern region — plagued by ice and snow. Sighing, she felt slightly more at ease despite the silver glare from spatial eyes that hung low.

After all, they'd seldom be degraded to gasping for atoms that could barely survive in the extreme conditions of Väl Tarrah, the land of ice, once they reached civilization. The icy plains did wonders for the arrogance of mythical beings that neared extinction — namely the Ice Giants, but it could only bring a downcast mood to wanderers and those who've yet to adapt to the chill that froze one to the bone. Without any sort of external measure, even homeostasis would be rendered useless.

"W-would M-Magnus r-really uphold h-his end of the d-deal?" Delia, who'd appeared to be in her mid-twenties, had uttered her question with great difficulty to the man beside her. She had long, beautiful platinum locks of hair with eyes that radiated a silver hue. However, her lips had become a pale blue as she clung onto the last threads of life she could grasp within the icy fields. Her whole being started to fade as if a phantom had replaced her.

"Of course. Now, we should speed up our pace." The man's golden eyes flashed with concern as he craned his neck for an optimized view behind them, most of his features still a barrier away from exposition.

Delia released the breath she didn't know she was holding, "We'd be fools if we allow Terrance to catch up to us."

She steadied herself on the bright glaze of the glaciers, narrowing her eyes as snow forced its way past her face.

"Can you still continue?" The man asked hurriedly, the concern, worry and fear etched upon his face becoming more apparent. His gaze that reflected embers made its way down to the bulge of Delia, which looked to be growing steadily with each step they took by the minute.

"I-I'm fine." Delia gasped, forcing her trembling knees to stand upright.

Understandably, there was always something that disturbed locals when it came to the icy world of Väl Tarrah. Many who dared to cross the borders leading to the winter graveyard had never lived to tell the stories, only the words of prophets gave people the slightest ideas that'd make them shudder and tremble to the bone.

The man's facial features suddenly darkened as tiny dots appeared in the distance, multiplying by number and size. "We were double crossed by Arya. It's the second Nuberek faction, belonging to prince Camio." He grit his teeth in frustration.

"Ravenos, w-what should we do n-now?" Delia's voice came out shakily as she stared ahead, seemingly frightened by the numerous dots approaching.

"I'll hold them back... you must keep going north." The man, Ravenos had forced these words from his soul with great difficulty, bearing a solemn tone graver than disrespecting an ancestor's gravestone. However, his tone fluctuated with deep regret as his eyes that resembled a king's riches had sunk into Delia's silver hue.

"I-I'll stay! I'll h-help!"

Delia had tried to stay resolute, but the biting cold and Delia's wavering voice had already sent Ravenos' head shaking adamantly in apology. "I'm afraid that won't be possible." Sorrowfully, he cast a long, final glance in Delia's direction and looked down at his cloak in guilt. "My apologies."

"Wha-" Delia never managed to finish her words as she ceased movement. Petrified.

Eyes gleaming with fierceness that could only be gained by the most feared across the land, Ravenos placed his pale hand on the smooth sheath of his sword, gripping the hilt despite the frost that was obliged to pushing his sturdy hand away.

Drawing the magnificent blade, it seemed to be the voice of death with its stare as the messenger of the abyss. Darkness appeared to derive from this very weapon, attracting remnants of vigorous life for its own benefit. Howling from vengeful, mournful souls resonated across the icy fields, with the wretched, ear piercing cries of a banshee was its motivation.

"NO!" Delia was hysterical, eyeing the blade like it were a hungry tiger ready to start a feast — a hundred deer at its silver platter. Clenching a fistful of hair, she assumed a crazed expression as the howling grew in number. Countless shadows were emitted by the glowing red runes which represented evil.

"Child whom has the gall to disobey me! I always told you not to speak a word to that demon!" From one shadow came a sinister, shrill voice.

"You were warned, my sweet Delia, you were warned and never heeded our warning — the warning your own father gave." Innumerable remarks were thrown at Delia. Like a pinball hits the flipper, her head pounded as if she were ball. But the shadows immediately froze.

In came a moment of silence. Each figure had morphed into small snakes, which gradually clumped together like clay to form six people. They all exuded an elegant aura, holding their chins towards the sky making anyone who crossed their path feel like ants. Three males, three females, and they weren't strangers to Delia — not at all.

Never would anyone forget the moment where their lives changed drastically.

"Lady Cassia deeply mourns for the loss of her child. Such a pity, a pity indeed.."

"What fate does that little girl get?"

"Humph. A disgrace, in cahoots with the lowest of the low."

"Shh... the descent is starting, the trial is about to commence..."

"It's Julia and Julian, the guardians of all trials!"

"The fair master, the Sovereign of Trial, has decided on a suited method to maintain serenity within the Casnovête Isles."

The icy plains became the embodiment of silence as each shadow leaned forward with indescribable eagerness. They wished for a plight to befall upon anyone whom they seldom agree with.

"The Beaumont lineage deeply insults the great ancestor with Delia Casnovête Beaumont, especially with the status of a descendant living in our midst. Thus, we shall sentence this fallen one to..."

"Exile."

Harsh words attacked the ear drums of Delia one by one, beating at her spirit with a sledgehammer. She felt herself despair — reach a breaking point. One must know the past she'd revisited briefly was not a pleasant one.

"Snap out of the illusion!" Every voice she heard was distant, like she had fallen through the ice and reached the ocean floor. But this one bellow allowed her to inhale sharply, letting the biting frost force her into reality.

"This world of your design is the bane of my life... Ravenos."

A final whisper was heard, fading with fragility that could only be obtained by bones worn down by time — ready to disperse into dust whenever it pleases. As the roaring wind split the plumes of black smoke, each strand representing a spirit had eroded and faded — leaving the sword in a peaceful state.

Desolovik: this was a sword built on the sacrifice of an ancient paradise, each disgruntled spirit feeding upon the negativity of the living. Desolovik... the bringer of ultimate desolation and solitude indeed. Not one person had survived the m******e prior to Ravenos' ownership, creating a desolate ghost town spanning for miles. The unbreakable black sword's red runes of foreign symbols had also contributed to its devilish appearance.

Blinking, Delia had awakened to reality with the chill of the floor's surface running up her spine. "W-what h-happened?" Her eyes wandered towards the glowing red runes of the sword and she froze immediately.

"You're not in any condition to use that." Delia stated in a flat tone, making no attempt to beat around the bush. She grimaced as she saw a glint of craftiness on the blade's surface. Despite this, Ravenos only shook his head at Delia, turning his amber eyes away from her own whilst treading forward.

Alustriel's wind from the north swept Delia's platinum locks of hair to the side, it's ghostly hand never ceasing to cause another chill to run up her spine. Shuddering, a wise being was grinning at her like a Cheshire cat at the forefront of her mind; a blanket of shadows lingered.

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"Error. Please state your name."

A mechanical voice rung in the ears of a man who had red hair that spouted flames. Frustrated, he gave the iron doors an icy glance through his arctic eyes — the man grit his teeth. "Dammit!" He bellowed.

"User [Dammit] does not exist. Initiating lock-down and inspection in ten, nine, eight-"

"Jelal Rúchfur!"

"User [Jelal Rúchfur] does not exist. Continuing lock-down in six, five, four-"

"L-L-Little Jelly..." Unwilling to say more, he grit his teeth as he ducked his head down, letting his hair cover his darkened expression.

"User [Little Jelly] has been verified, the doors will now open." Jelal straightened his black furred coat, staring ahead; his eyes glinted with a trace of desire for revenge.

The doors had finally parted to reveal a large, heavily guarded metallic room with eighteen, black velvet seats around a large, round table. A shrill squeak of friction was heard as a woman had planted her feet on the ground firmly, narrowing her eyes in Jelal's direction through her devilish, violet eyes as her dark hair swayed — airborne, showing that it hadn't been long since she stood abruptly.

"AH!" To his surprise, a man had been jolted out of the metallic hell ahead, zooming past his face as a bullet.

Crackle...

Flabbergasted, Jelal's eyes widened as he witnessed the sorry state of the haggard man, whose armor was torn to shreds, whose long hair was left unbound and wild, whose posture had become tainted with imperfection as his bones threatened to appear; the tall, fortified walls behind harbored a large crack. "Khasmier!" He cried out, hurriedly rushing to the unfortunate man.

Now he'd realized this female Lieutenant General wasn't glaring at him, but calculating Khasmier's trajectory.

"Miya! What is the meaning on this?" Outraged, one of the men sat at the table found this outcome unbearable. Khasmier had good relations with the priestess of Sal, whilst Miya was merely a commoner who'd gained the recognition of the Nuberek Academia of the Profound Arts and Leadership.

Jelal found this moment as a good opportunity to take Khasmier away from the scene, thus he inched forward from his freezing stance.

"If you know what's good for you, stay your hand, Jelal Rúchfur!" Miya roared, her eyes glinting with a fierceness like no other as she tossed Jelal a ruthless glare. "That man is a traitor to the Emperor Sirius, the empire of Nuberek — a man undeserving of the Sal excellency's favour!"

Immediately after Miya's accusations, the hall broke the resounding echoes with murmurs. One of Khasmier's friends, Scheherazade, couldn't accept Miya's accusations.

"What proof do you have, Miya of the Tsunderland army?" Scheherazade appeared to be an angel in comparison to Miya's devilish looks. Her blonde hair was kept in a high ponytail, with unbound strands framing her face and sky blue eyes. Lips parted, her soft voice had gone against her intent to make Miya uncomfortable. However, she still stood aloof; her white, flowing dress made her entire being ethereal.

Grinning, Miya slid a bloodstained envelope towards Scheherazade. Eerily, the blood that strangled the envelope had shifted slightly, making Scheherazade reluctant to open it with her pale hands that was an inch from making contact. "Open it. You might find something of interest." Miya stated calmly.

Finally, Scheherazade had slowly lifted the envelope from the table, eyeing Miya wearily. Miya shrunk back to her seat, watching the outcome with anticipation.

As Scheherazade pulled out a letter from the envelope and began to read the contents, Miya narrowed her eyes and let a malicious grin slip beneath her hand — her elbow resting on the table as her fingers curled to hide her expression.

"I've mislead the Tsunderland army towards the south, which should give the Lady and Lord more time to escape the grasp of Nuberek's ally, viceroy Melania of the Mountlands. Scheherazade of the Nuberek inner circles has been successfully deceived..." Scheherazade shook — clenching the hand which held the letter with tears spluttering across her face, tainting the calm beauty that was once there.

"S-signed... Khasmier Del Ruth..." Closing her eyes, Scheherazade slowly nodded twice with her lips becoming a thin line as she inhaled this information.

Miya forced a smile, "Don't you see? He's the one in the wrong, he's the traitor, he's the one who's killed my subord-"

"Silence!" Scheherazade bellowed, shooting a fearsome glare towards Miya. Scheherazade rendered the entire hall useless, with no one able to make a movement or sound.

Turning her head towards Khasmier, who'd lay unconscious on the ground, her expression darkened as she pursed her lips. "I trusted you, you know. You'd earned my trust and broke it..." She muttered under her breath.

Nodding slightly, she seemed to have made a final decision as she exhaled.

"Execute him at the Dawn Tower at seven. We'll advance towards the north, Godspeed." Scheherazade left the hall, her echoes laced with bitterness as she clenched her jaw and held back her tears, letting her hair and silk dress flow behind her.