FrostCrystal City, Arian
A major trade center for CrystalFrost wood, FrostCrystal City lay four days' horseback ride from the Arian Core. A vast city, it was encircled by Crystalfrost orchards that stretched for miles, their pale leaves glinting like frozen glass under the sky.
Basement — Jerald Trestine's Mansion
A red velvet carpet made from fur blanketed the floor, its surface swallowing sound. The bed—heavy, ornate—was embroidered with silken beads and dressed in the softest woolen sheets. Dim lamplight spilled across the wooden walls, casting long, wavering shadows.
Silence hung thick in the air.
"Arrgh… let me go…"
A small, trembling voice echoed from behind the door.
"Let me leave!" another voice followed—louder, sharper.
THUMP!
The door burst open.
A man clad in a black coat and trousers, a stark white shirt beneath, strode inside. Without a word, he dragged two girls across the floor by heavy chains fastened to metal collars around their necks.
One wore a vintage, scoop-neck, backless red bodycon dress. Her hair was neatly combed and braided into a single thick plait that fell down her back. Her face was twisted in a scowl as sharp navy eyes darted around the room.
The other was dressed in a black, draped bodycon gown with a cowl neck. Her hair was braided the same way—but her face was blank, her eyes dull, lifeless.
"Untie me—RIGHT NOW!" the girl in red screamed.
The man didn't spare them a glance. He flung the chains onto the bed with a metallic clatter, turned on his heel, and walked out.
Click.
The lock slid into place.
Rosy Trstad yanked herself upright and ran to the door, gripping the handle with both hands.
"Ugh! It's locked!" she snarled, shaking it violently. She tried again, harder.
"You must be new here…"
The girl in black spoke softly.
She walked to the bed and sat down.
"I want to leave," Rosy said, letting go of the handle. Her anger wavered as she turned toward Greya Forest.
"I advise you to stop acting like that if you really want to leave," Greya said quietly. "Just sit beside me. Comply when he comes. Maybe then… it'll be over sooner."
She lay back against the pillows with a small, exhausted sigh.
"HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT?" Rosy shouted. "Don't you want to leave?"
There was no answer.
Only silence.
After a while—
Click.
The lock slid open, and the door creaked inward.
Rosy's breath hitched.
"Huh?" Her eyes widened as a man entered, clad in a loose black bathrobe, closing the door behind him.
"Ugh… that lazy fool," the man muttered, glancing toward the bed. "He forgot to secure the chains properly."
A black mole sat beneath his left eyelid. His moustache curved neatly above thin lips; black eyes, black hair—every feature deliberate, maintained.
"Jerald," Rosy hissed, stepping back.
"At least he remembered not to discipline her beforehand," Jerald said mildly, lifting one hand.
SLAP.
Rosy cried out as she fell back onto the bed.
Jerald's gaze shifted.
Freya said nothing. She only crawled backward toward the pillows, slow, silent, practiced—as though she already knew resistance was pointless.
The door closed behind him.
Next Morning
Knock. Knock.
"What is it?" Jerald groaned from behind the basement door.
"My apologies for disturbing you, Mr. Jerald," came a firm voice. "It concerns the missing slave. There is also the CrystalFrost wood export report. Your wife has returned from Arian Core and requests an audience this afternoon."
The speaker was the same man as before, unchanged save for the metal nametag pinned to his chest.
Bash Plenton.
"Fine," Jerald muttered. "Come in."
The door opened.
Bash froze.
Only for a fraction of a second—but it was enough.
His eyes moved first to the bed.
Rosy lay restrained at each corner, chains pulled taut. Her body was still. A blood-soaked cloth hung loose near her mouth, darkened and stiff. On the floor beneath the frame lay something small.
Something that should not have been there.
Bash looked away.
Then his gaze shifted.
Freya lay beside the bed.
She was very still.
There was blood—on the sheets, on the floor, at her neck, And it wasn't there… her ****… It was *** off…
Bash swallowed. "She's dead."
Jerald yawned. "She was too compliant. Got boring." He shrugged. "Dispose of her. Send the other one back to the cell—she needs grooming again. Feisty little thing, she bit her own tongue off to escape... Sadly I am not kind enough to let her."
He stepped past Bash and climbed the stairs.
Bash closed the basement door behind him with a quiet click.
"I'm the one who has to clean this," he muttered. "Leaving it like this is how people get caught."
"What was so urgent?" Jerald called dismissively as he continued upward. "Yale's back from Arian Core—what else?"
"The missing slave," Bash replied. "I found her."
Jerald stopped.
"She wasn't alone," Bash continued. "There was a child with her."
Jerald didn't turn. "A child?"
"Yes, sir." Bash hesitated. "The resemblance is… notable. It is most likely yours."
Silence stretched.
"That's inconvenient," Jerald said finally.
He turned.
"Bring the child to me."
"To you, sir?" Bash blinked.
"Yes." Jerald's expression hardened. "I'll deal with it myself—before it grows old enough to speak."
Four Days Till the Coronation
Frost Forge Cliff, Arian Core
Despite its name, Frost Forge Cliff was no cliff at all—just a blacksmith's shop tucked near the edge of the Main Market. The wooden sign outside bore no ornamentation, only a name burned crudely into its surface.
Inside, the only light came from the forge itself. Flames roared steadily, casting orange reflections across a wooden worktable, a blast furnace, an anvil, and a scarred smithing bench. The air smelled of hot metal and soot.
An extremely short man stood at the anvil, hammering a blade that glowed a dull, burning red. A thick, unkempt beard framed his face, nearly swallowing his big round nose as sparks leapt with every strike.
"How far along has the task proceeded?"
A man clad in Arian Knights' armor stepped inside.
He had brown hair, blue eyes, and a face that looked perpetually a little too earnest for his station. His beard was neatly trimmed, as though shaped with a blade rather than patience.
"Varyn?" the dwarf said, glancing up only once. "Good timing. His Majesty's sword is ready for the coronation."
He nodded toward a silk-wrapped bundle resting on the table. "Help yourself."
Without waiting for a response, he returned to hammering the blade before him.
"Great," Varyn said, exhaling in relief as he walked toward the sword. "Captain Mellus wouldn't stop pestering me about this. Now I can finally rest easy."
"And yet," the dwarf replied dryly, eyes still fixed on the glowing metal, "I don't sense even a trace of gratitude toward the greatest weaponsmith in all of Arian."
"Troy," Varyn said with a faint smile, carefully lifting the silk-wrapped sword, "you know I'd thank you—if you ever paused long enough to hear it."
The hammer fell again.