The first snows of winter fell like scattered feathers across the kingdom, dusting the rooftops and cloaking the fields in white. In the village of Greymoor, nestled on the edge of the Frostwood, children chased flakes through narrow streets while their parents huddled by hearths.
They did not know that doom was riding toward them.
At dawn, the sound of drums shattered the peace. Soldiers marched in black armor, their banners painted with the sigil of King Malrik—an iron crown wrapped in chains. At their head rode Lord Garrick, the king’s hound, a brute of a man with a scar cleaving his face and eyes as cold as stone.
“By decree of King Malrik,” Garrick thundered, raising a scroll high, “this village is condemned. You fed the Stag. You sang his songs. For this treason, you shall burn.”
