Far from the North's frozen decay, sunk low beneath the mountains of Zhuul's far end, Naboth gleamed in the western valleys. Its limestone walls caught the dying sun's glow—a defiant beacon against the North's creeping frost.
The amber hills rolled like silent waves, their grasses whispering beneath a dimming sky. Beyond the gates, vineyards bore vines heavy with gold-flecked fruit—Naboth's emblem of endurance. Yet even amid its bounty, the air trembled with unease, as if the land itself waited for some shadow to fall.
Within the towering walls, banners snapped in the warm western breeze. Spires clawed at the heavens, their long silhouettes dragging across the cobblestone streets.
Below, the markets murmured with life. Merchants called their wares beneath striped awnings; children's laughter broke through the din, bright yet fleeting—like light before dusk.
There was a stark beauty here, carved by toil and tempered by time. Yet in every corner, whispers spread. Caravans lost beyond the northern pass. Cargo untouched. Horses found frostbitten and torn. No blood. No bodies.
In a dim tavern, a heavy-set merchant, Pruitt, leaned close to his friend, mug trembling in his calloused grip.
"Another caravan gone beyond the northern road," he muttered, nudging his companion's shoulder. "The fourth this season, Christen."
Christen frowned. "Aye. The king's council keeps silent on it. Too silent." He sipped, eyes narrowing. "Isn't your son among the scouts?"
"Aaron," Pruitt said, voice low. "Aye. He was sent north to search the wreckage. They found the wagons. Cargo still there. But the horses…" His words faltered. "Frozen stiff. Throats clawed open."
Christen's mug froze halfway to his lips. "No bandit does that. Who kills the beasts and leaves the gold?"
Pruitt's eyes darted to the fire. "That's just it. The drivers were gone. Vanished. No blood. No tracks. Only the cold."
Christen swallowed hard, the ale turning bitter in his gut. "By the gods…"
Pruitt nodded grimly. "Trade's slowing. Word is, Zhuul's road is cursed. Some are raising their prices—won't risk the Mog swamps, even if it's safer."
The two fell into uneasy silence, the tavern's warmth unable to chase the chill settling between them.
Meanwhile, high within Naboth's observatory, the royal clergy huddled about Elder Latta, their city's spiritual guide. Maps and tomes blanketed the oak table, constellations traced in trembling hands.
Outside the great windows, faint green flickers bled across the night sky—brief, pulsing, then gone.
"What omen is this?" murmured a priest, fingers twisting his beard.
"Unclear," another whispered, riffling through a dust-caked tome.
The chamber doors burst open. A pale boy stumbled inside, gasping. "Doom!" he cried, clutching the frame. "Doom comes to Naboth!"
Latta rose, robes brushing the floor. "Compose yourself, child. What doom?"
The boy steadied his breath. "I—I was in the library…"
"Speak," Latta snapped.
"The Book—the Book of Shadows, Elder."
A murmur rippled through the robed circle. One priest paled; another struck his staff against the floor.
Latta's face darkened. "You read what was forbidden?"
"I did," the boy said, voice trembling but firm. "Because no other text could explain the lights."
Silence gripped the chamber.
"That book," Latta whispered, "is not meant for mortal hands."
The boy withdrew a wrinkled parchment, raising it high. "It speaks of this night. When green fire stains the northern sky, and stars turn black where cold winds sigh, the Great Hunger stirs beneath the snow…" He read on, voice quivering:
From frozen earth, where hunger never sleeps,
The Wendigo rises, ravenous, to reap.
No blade can pierce its icy heart,
But one, forged in gloom, may tear it apart.
The words hung heavy as stone.
Latta's eyes clouded. "Wendigo," he breathed. "That name should never be spoken."
"What is it, Elder?" the boy asked.
"A curse," murmured Latta. "Older than any kingdom. A shadow that devours men and leaves only the shell of their hunger."
"Surely it can be slain," the boy pressed.
Latta's gaze fell. "The Wendigo is not flesh alone. It moves through men's souls—corrupting, hollowing, remaking them. Only a weapon forged in the dark might wound it."
His voice faltered; color drained from his face. The Elder collapsed back into his chair.
"Elder!" the clergy cried, crowding close.
Latta's breath rasped. "Fetch me… to the king."
The boy nodded, snatching the Elder's carved walking staff—vines coiling up its shaft like grasping fingers—and helped him to his feet.
They hastened through Naboth's grand hall, where the marble columns loomed ghostlike in the wavering torchlight, pale as the bones of saints. The frescoes upon the walls—once proud chronicles of valor and triumph—now stared down with averted eyes, as though the painted heroes themselves recoiled from what lingered unseen.
At the door of the king's chamber, Latta came and struck his hand upon his breast, the royal sign of loyalty. The guards gave way, and the heavy doors swung wide upon their iron hinges.
Within, a cold, noble splendor met them. The marble table, worn by the hands of ages, gleamed pale beneath the torches' sullen glow. Chairs carved with the vine's sacred curve sat in solemn array, their faded cushions speaking of glories long past.
There sat King Jarec, wise in age and unyielding in spirit, his hair silver as frost, his eyes keen as tempered steel.
To his right, his eldest, Luther—stalwart and grim—his armor casting shards of light as though defying the encroaching shadow.
And to his right lounged Jack, slender and proud, the gold of his rings mocking the simplicity of his father's crown. His eyes—green, watchful, restless—smoldered with envy that the sword commanded more love than the dream.
Then the clergy bowed low, their hands upon their hearts, and the hall was hushed save for the sighing of torches.
King Jarec arose, tall and grave. "Latta, my faithful counsellor," he bellowed with a warm laugh, "what tidings bring you from the cloister?"
He led the old man gently to a seat and beckoned Luther to aid him. Jack came also, but his father's look withheld him.
"A jest, perhaps?" Jarec murmured with a weary smile, his hand resting kindly upon Latta's shoulder. "Have you absented yourself from holy communion again?"
The priest's face darkened as thunder before the storm. "No jest, my liege," he said softly. "A dire omen."
The king's mirth faded. "Then speak it plain, Elder."
"Green fire in the heavens," Latta whispered, "and with it, a plague of darkness that moves upon the wind."
Jarec's brow knit. "Green fire? I was no scholar of theology in my youth—enlighten me."
"A beast, Majesty," breathed Latta, "the Wendigo. It is hatred made flesh—a whisper from the void that defiles all it touches."
At the window, young Jack gazed upward, the stars glittering like distant laughter. His heart smoldered with envy, caged by his father's will.
"Wendigo?" he murmured. "A name fit for a god of the North."
"Aye," said Jarec, the word falling like a stone. "Harrod's god."
"Harrod?" Jack's voice grew sly. "The northern scourge himself?"
The king's jaw set. "A tyrant," he spat, "who bought a child for coin and called her queen. I saw her once—pale, broken, and bound. My father refused his trade, and the North has hungered for vengeance ever since."
Jack's lips curled. "They say she is beautiful now."
"Beauty hides rot, boy," thundered Jarec. "And her soul is the blackest of his brood."
Latta lifted trembling hands. "Sire, The Book of Shadows foretold this hour. We must prepare."
As the guards ushered the clergy from the hall, a stillness fell. Jack lingered, eyes fixed upon a strange green star that pulsed beside the moon. Its baleful glow seemed to quicken his blood, and a smile, proud and perilous, touched his face.
And Naboth, bright city of the West, shuddered beneath a wind that carried whispers from the snow.