A moment on a night years ago.
The Northern Wastes were a blinding, endless expanse of white.
A howling blizzard tore across the frozen tundra, burying the jagged rocks and erasing any sign that life had ever existed here. In the center of this absolute desolation, a solitary figure pushed through the knee-deep snow.
It was an old woman. She wore a simple, tattered gray cloak that offered no real protection against the freezing gale, yet she didn't shiver. She leaned heavily on a twisted wooden staff, her boots crunching a steady, rhythmic march through the ice.
"Another failed attempt," the old woman whispered to the wind, her voice cracking with the weight of a million lifetimes. "The Void... why is the Void always the answer to whatever I do?"
She stopped, closing her completely white, blind eyes, pressing her forehead against the rough wood of her staff.
"No," she muttered, shaking her head fiercely. "I am thinking the wrong thing. I cannot let the despair take root. Not again. This time... this time I will do it right."
She opened her eyes and continued her grueling march.
It took her days of walking. She didn't eat, and she didn't sleep. She simply moved forward until the blinding white of the wastes finally gave way to the dark, jagged peaks of the Dragontooth Mountains.
Looming in the shadow of the mountains, built of black granite and iron, was the Kingdom of Aethelgard.
The old woman stood on a muddy ridge overlooking the lower city, the freezing rain replacing the snow. She looked at the towering gothic spires of the Royal Keep in the distance.
"Here is the place where all of it began," the Weaver spoke softly to herself. "And this is the place where all of it will end, once again."
She hobbled down the ridge and onto the muddy outskirts of the city. A hurried peasant, pulling a cart of firewood, nearly bumped into her.
"Watch your step, hag!" the stranger grunted, pulling his collar up against the rain.
"Forgive me," the Weaver said, grabbing his sleeve with surprising strength. "Tell me, good sir... what day is today?"
The stranger yanked his arm away, looking at her like she was mad. "It's the 14th of the Month! Today the Queen is giving birth! The whole city is holding its breath for an heir! How do you not know what today is?"
The man hurried away.
The Weaver froze. Her breath hitched in her throat. She closed her eyes, calculating the chronological threads in her mind.
"The 14th..." she gasped, panic flooding her ancient veins. "I miscalculated. I am behind my time."
She didn't head toward the towering Royal Keep. She turned and moved with unnatural, gliding speed toward the Whispering Woods—a dense, beautiful forest located just outside the capital's towering walls.
Even in the dead of night, beneath the rain, the forest held a haunting, serene beauty. Deep within the trees sat a sturdy, beautifully crafted wooden house.
As the Weaver approached, a piercing, agonizing scream echoed from inside the cabin.
The old woman crept up to the side of the house and peered through a glass window.
Inside, illuminated by the warm glow of a hearth fire, a woman was lying in a bed, exhausted and weeping with joy. A midwife was bustling around the room. And resting in the mother's arms were two tiny, squirming bundles.
A boy and a girl.
The Weaver pressed her hand against the glass. They survived the birth, she thought.
"Who are you?"
The voice came from directly behind her. It was deep, commanding, and promised absolute violence.
The Weaver slowly turned around.
Standing in the rain was a towering man clad in dark, battered armor. He had eyes the color of a harsh, unforgiving winter. In his hand, resting dangerously close to the old woman's neck, was a massive, pitch-black greatsword that seemed to actively drink the light around it.
Benedict. "What are you doing outside my home, witch?" Benedict demanded, the dark magic of Bellona humming angrily along the edge of the blade.
Before the Weaver could answer, a loud, shrill whistling sound tore through the sky.
Benedict looked up. A brilliant, blindingly bright red flare exploded high above the distant spires of the Royal Keep. It painted the low-hanging clouds in the color of blood.
It was a distress signal. The capital was under attack.
Benedict's winter eyes snapped back to the old woman, his jaw clenching in fury. He pressed the cold, dark steel directly against her throat.
"The castle is breached," Benedict growled. "You have something to do with this attack. Tell me who sent you!"
"There is no time for this," the Weaver said, entirely unfazed by the demonic blade at her throat. "It seems I arrived a little late. The shadows are already moving. You need to save your children."
Benedict frowned, his grip tightening on the sword. "What do you mean?"
The shadows of the Whispering Woods suddenly detached from the trees.
Dozens of figures clad in shifting, dark smoke dropped from the canopy. They didn't speak. They simply threw torches and vials of alchemical fire at the house. In seconds, the roof of the beautiful cabin caught fire, the flames roaring into the rainy night.
"Eleanor!" Benedict screamed, turning toward the burning house.
He didn't hesitate. Benedict lunged at the Shadow Stalkers, swinging the massive Sword of Bellona. Black fire erupted from the blade, cleaving three assassins in half with a single, devastating arc.
The Weaver raised her twisted staff, slamming it into the mud. A pulse rippled outward, slowing a group of attackers to a crawl, allowing Benedict to shatter their defenses.
"Get in the house!" Benedict yelled to the old woman, blocking a barrage of arrows with his dark blade. "Get them out!"
Before the Weaver could move toward the door, the ambient temperature in the forest skyrocketed. The rain around them instantly turned to hissing steam.
A figure walked out of the burning treeline.
He was tall, wearing jagged armor that looked like cooling magma. His hair was white, and his eyes were burning coals of pure, destructive hatred.
Malphas. The Ash King.
"Stand down, mortal," Malphas's voice rumbled like grinding continents. "The Master wants the bloodline erased."
Benedict roared, charging the Devil with his sword raised high.
Malphas didn't even draw a weapon. He stepped inside Benedict's guard, caught the flat of the greatsword with a bare, superheated hand, and delivered a brutal, devastating palm strike to Benedict's chest.
The General was thrown backward with the force of a cannonball, crashing violently through the heavy wooden wall of his own burning house.
"Benedict!" the mother screamed from inside.
The Weaver stumbled back as Malphas dusted off his hands.
Through the shattered wall of the cabin, the old woman could see Eleanor clutching the two crying babies to her chest, backing away from the flames.
Malphas stepped through the hole in the wall, a terrifying, arrogant smile spreading across his face as he looked at the mother and her children.
The Weaver knew the history. She knew Benedict would somehow find the strength to rise, fight the Devil to a standstill, and seal him in the ring. She could not interfere with the forging of the Ash King's cage.
But the Queen, the Weaver realized in a panic. The red flare.
She turned her back on the burning cabin and ran.
She moved with impossible speed, folding the space around her, practically flying through the muddy, rain-swept streets of the Lower City until she reached the outer courtyards of the Royal Keep.
The castle was in absolute chaos. Guards were dead on the cobblestones. Smoke billowed from the Queen's wing.
Sprinting frantically across the courtyard, his silver armor covered in blood and soot, was a giant of a man.
"Conrad!" the Weaver shouted.
The Last Guardian slid to a halt. His eyes were wide with sheer, unadulterated terror—an expression entirely alien to the legendary knight.
He wasn't holding his broadsword. Tucked tightly against his massive, armored chest were two tiny, crying bundles. Two baby girls, absolutely identical, wrapped in royal silk.
"Who are you?!" Conrad demanded, stepping back protectively.
"You saved them," the Weaver breathed, looking at the two infants. "But you know the ancient law of this kingdom, Guardian. You know what the nobles will force the King to do to the younger twin. They will demand a sacrifice to keep the bloodline pure."
Conrad looked down at the two babies, his scarred face twisting in agony. He was a knight of the law, but he could not murder an infant. He didn't know what to do.
"Give the younger one to the Queen's maid," the Weaver commanded, stepping closer and pointing a wrinkled finger at the bundle on the left. "A servant named Rose. Give her the child and royal gold. Tell her to run south, to the Iron City. Tell her to never return."
Conrad stared at the strange old woman. The instructions offered a desperate, perfect lifeline.
"Who are you?" Conrad asked again, his voice trembling. "How do you know this?"
The Weaver didn't answer. She took one last look at the babies who would one day change the world, pulled her gray hood low over her face, and ran off into the stormy night, leaving the Guardian alone in the rain to make the choice that would shatter the royal family.