Prologue: Revolution

The north is a mysteriously hellish place. Legends say the snow is at least three feet thick, covering every last blade of grass. The animals are all covered in blue crystals which look like ice, but which couldn't possibly be ice because they'd die if it really was ice. The spirits in its dense forests seem to have their beady, horrific eyes on you at all times. The cold itself should kill you before anything else.

Despite all that, the tundra is teeming with inhabitants. Its people are ghostly pale, seemingly immortal, and they somehow have not only survived, but have slaved over a glorious, impenetrable fortress of a kingdom. Enormous granite walls surrounded the place, stained a deep, dark blue with the blood of the workers who were crushed, or who fell, names erased to history. The main city, HS01, or Lifsblod, as the locals called it, was constructed in a massive crater, stretching across thousands of acres of land.

This was where the palace was housed. Made almost entirely of marble, it glows a pure white in the moonlight, blending in with the deadly snowstorms, both in grandeur and in hue. There was a turret each on all four sides, serving as watchtowers and places of residence and study for the royal mages, the pointy tops of their black domes crusted with gold from the desert, bearing the royal flag. The Palace itself was large and decorated generously, not gaudily, as though it brags of its own splendor, but just enough to take your breath away to have to stare with your jaw ever so slightly dropped, and to have the Rulers of the Land of Frost seem ever so slightly above; matching the solemn-with -subtle- disgust expressions on the faces of the nobles who were allowed to be seen making expressions at all.

And it is this beauty of the Palace that made it an all the more wondrous sight to see it going down in flames. For you see, the commoners of the Land of Frost were sick and tired of being degraded, being scorned and treated like offal. The nobility that resided in opulent mansions and basked in their decadent lifestyles, were not oblivious to this, but rather worsened the plight of the peasants.

Gone were the days when the poor were beaten for a slight offence, and the rich would sin to no end, hidden behind their money. Gone were the days the true people of this kingdom were slighted by those who had enslaved those who were supposed to be their brethren. Gone was that damned palace, that bloody mockery of those who were wrongly imprisoned, executed!

The blazing, crimson flames that swallowed the palace leapt and danced to the song of the people's cheers. It was a good omen that the first snowfall was on that night, the flakes complementing the burning palace. And among the ashes stood the head of this revolution : The King.

It raised its hands to its sides jubilantly, as if to say, "Look at our once glorious rulers, who now sit neath the rubble! None shall be left untouched, let the flames of our wrath bring forth a new order!"

But it never said a thing, for everyone knows the King is mute.

The royal family had been imprisoned. The adults were set to be beheaded, and the children would be reintegrated into society.

But there was one variable unaccounted for - who they really should have noticed, but what is one Duke when every single noble has been decimated?

(hi so I have no fucking clue what I'm doing<3 don't expect updates too often, or at all )

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