Ancestral Lineage

The wind rustled the hair of the children lightly, cooling the sweat on their brows. Their faces were flushed with joy and exhaustion, shouts of names and tactics bouncing across the frozen field. Feet pounded against the frost-hardened earth, kicking the black-and-white ball as they chased it with boundless energy.

A boy with dark green hair and black eyes, clad in a blue jersey, intercepted the ball and shot forward like a streak. His friends' excited cheers filled the air as he weaved between defenders, the world narrowing to him, the ball, and the goal. With a stylish feint, he slipped past the goalkeeper and drove the ball home.

PAH! POM!

"GOAL!!!!" they screamed, joy echoing in the crisp air."That was awesome!""Good work, Felix!"

Their voices never had the chance to fade.

The earth groaned—deep, drawn-out, like the sound of a great beast breathing under the soil. The frozen ground trembled beneath their boots, tiny fissures zigzagging across the snow-packed field.

The first to notice it was the youngest boy, who frowned and asked, "What's that sound?"

The sound grew—metal scraping against metal, a scream without a mouth. The cracks in the earth widened, vomiting out bursts of icy steam so cold it burned the skin. The temperature plummeted in an instant; breath became a cloud of frost, eyes stung with biting cold.

The mountain looming over the town began to shift. Its serene white slopes shuddered and split, revealing something buried deep within—dark metallic ridges, like the spine of some colossal creature. The glint of frozen steel caught the light before vanishing under a sudden flurry of snow.

And then the sound came.

A hollow clang… followed by another. A slow, rhythmic pounding, echoing from within the ice. It was not the sound of collapsing rock. It was a heartbeat—slow, deliberate, ancient.

The ground erupted.

From beneath the field, jagged spears of ice fused with blackened, rust-stained metal tore upward, skewering two children instantly. Their bodies twitched as the frozen spikes impaled them, their blood sizzling as it touched the frost. Another spear shot up, cleaving a boy in half from hip to shoulder, spraying hot crimson across the untouched snow.

Screams replaced laughter.

Parents burst from nearby homes, only to be met with collapsing walls as the quake ripped through the town. Entire houses buckled, the wood and stone splitting as more of the metal-ice spikes erupted from below, tearing everything in their path.

And then, something moved inside the mountain.

The snow and ice cascaded down in an avalanche, but this was no natural slide. Great slabs of glacial ice tumbled forward—studded with enormous jagged blades, some the size of rooftops. They spun and tore through the air with unnatural precision, cutting down fleeing villagers mid-run. Limbs and torsos scattered across the ground, their blood painting wide arcs in the whiteness.

Felix turned, gasping, just as something slithered from the largest crack in the mountain. It was a tendril—no, a chain, covered in frost and ending in a hooked spike. It whipped through the air, faster than an eye could follow, tearing three people into halves in one stroke. The tendril recoiled into the crack, dragging the pieces of its victims with it, vanishing into the darkness within.

The heartbeat grew louder, faster.

From within the mountain, shapes began to move—hulking silhouettes that merged flesh, ice, and iron. Their bodies were armored with jagged metallic plates, their eyes faint white glows in the storm of snow. As they stepped forward, the air itself seemed to freeze solid, sound muffled, breaths turning into painful shards in the throat.

One of them opened its maw—metal teeth grinding, frost pouring out like smoke—and let out a roar so deep it rattled the bones of the survivors. The sound was almost… hungry.

The creatures did not attack in frenzy. They hunted. With deliberate, methodical movements, they stalked through the town, tearing down homes, pulling people from hiding, impaling them on their bladed limbs. The unlucky were crushed under their weight, their bones snapping like twigs. The lucky ones—if such a word could be used—died instantly.

Felix tried to run, but a shadow fell over him. A shape emerged from the swirling snow—a towering figure of black steel and frozen flesh, staring down at him with eyes like burning moons behind ice. Its clawed hand reached down, hooked beneath his ribs, and with a single motion, tore him apart. The pieces of his body were dropped into the snow, steaming in the bitter air.

And still, the creatures came.

By the time the sky turned dark with the storm they brought, the town was gone. No laughter, no shouts, no voices—only the metallic taste of blood in the wind, and the steady, monstrous heartbeat within the mountain, as if something far larger and older still slept… waiting.

...

In another place, far from the frozen mountain, the land basked in late summer warmth. Golden fields rolled toward the horizon, and the air smelled of ripe grain and sunbaked soil. The people here were used to long, dry afternoons, their work punctuated by the hum of cicadas and the creak of wagon wheels.

But at midday, the sun dimmed.

At first, the villagers thought it was a passing cloud. But then the air changed. The heat drained from it in seconds, replaced by a creeping chill that coiled around their ankles and crawled up their spines. Breath became visible mist, rising in quick, panicked bursts.

The wind picked up—not the gentle rustle of summer, but a shrill, slicing gust that smelled faintly of iron. Leaves stiffened and froze mid-fall, snapping like glass when they hit the ground.

From the west, a wall of white approached, swallowing the fields, the sky, and the road. It was not mist. It was winter itself—sudden, violent, and unnatural.

Within minutes, summer was gone. The crops that had stood golden and proud just moments before were reduced to withered, frost-coated husks. Livestock bellowed in panic, their breath steaming in the air, hooves slipping on the rapidly icing earth.

The first of the invaders arrived with the storm.

They were not the massive armored behemoths of the mountain's assault. These were smaller, faster—man-shaped, but wrong. Their bodies were a mixture of brittle frost and shards of something that looked like broken weaponry, fused together by an unseen hand. Their faces were featureless masks of ice, except for faintly glowing slits where eyes should be.

They moved without sound, darting between houses, stabbing and slicing with limbs that ended in jagged blades. But here, the villagers fought back.

Farmers took up scythes and axes. Hunters nocked arrows. The town guard—little more than a dozen men—rushed to the gate with swords drawn, barking orders into the chaos. The clash rang out sharp in the frozen air—steel on ice, flesh on snow.

For a while, it seemed they might hold.

One of the creatures collapsed under a barrage of arrows, its body shattering into icy fragments that skittered across the ground. Another was cleaved in two by a lumberjack's axe, its death releasing a brittle, keening wail that rattled teeth. The defenders roared in triumph, spirits lifting.

But winter was not their only enemy.

The snow itself began to move. It rose in small drifts, pulling itself into shapes—limbs, jaws, hollow-eyed faces—before lunging at the living. What had been shattered reformed, pulling itself back together from the icy fragments. The dead fought alongside the living storm.

The villagers' breaths came in ragged gasps now, not from exhaustion but from the creeping cold sinking deep into their bones. Fingers stiffened, weapons slowed, movements dulled. It was as though the winter itself was sapping their strength.

From the swirling storm outside the town walls, a new figure appeared—a tall, robed shape woven from wind and snow, its face hidden beneath a hood of frost. It raised one long, clawed hand, and the sky answered. The clouds above split open, releasing a spear of glacial ice the size of a tree trunk, which drove through the center of the village in an explosion of white shards.

The shockwave tore houses from their foundations. Screams became muffled under the weight of falling snow and ice. The survivors, scrambling to regroup, realized too late that their enemy was not just these frost-made assassins—it was the season itself, and it had no intention of leaving.

They had fought well. They had even believed they could win.

But by nightfall, the town was silent, buried under a fresh, perfect layer of snow. No footsteps marked the streets. No bodies lay visible. It was as though the place had never been touched by human hands—only by winter's claim.

...

Ethan and his council discussed the alliance with Fenrir, oblivious to the looming chaos approaching. He had excused Queen Emma and her entourage so as to discuss the next way forward.

As the Emperor, he had the authority to accept or decline even without the decisions of the council but Ethan had always worked with a team and wouldn't do that.

As they discussed the benefits the alliance could bring, Kaldaroth suddenly turned to face the west. His eyes flashed a pale blue before he turned to Ethan.

"What's wro... wait!" Ethan suddenly stood up, his expression changing to one of barely restrained rage. Feeling the change of aura, all of them used whatever skill in their arsenal to see what was happening in the direction Kaldaroth looked and their faces couldn't help but scrunch up in anger.

"1500 dead people!" Lamair growled, his green eyes glowing dangerously.

"Kaldaroth..." Ethan commanded.

"My Lord. This is the aura of the being I told you about. The one who is both human and mech," Kaladaroth answered.

"This aura..." Pisces suddenly spoke, her face turning pale and her expression showing shock.

"Honey?" Ethan turned towards her, feeling a bad premonition.

"That... that is the aura of my brother..." Pisces stated, still in shock.

"Leon?!" Trevor exclaimed, shock evident on his face.