The wind bit like teeth against the mountain's side, the clouds above scudding past like silent witnesses to a world cracking open. In the deep forests of Eldrim Hollow, far from the shattered ruins of the Warethal kingdom, a girl cloaked in shadows moved without sound. Her breath left wisps of vapor in the cold air, and her footsteps hissed as snow evaporated beneath her soles.
She had no name here—only whispers followed her.
"Ghost of the Hollow," they said.
"She burns and freezes," others muttered.
But in the girl's mind, she had a name. A past. A purpose.
Ais.
It had been three years since the fall of her kingdom.
Three years since her parents vanished in a blizzard of flame and ice.
Three years of wandering, hiding, learning.
Eldrim was a place forgotten by empires, where nature ruled in ancient silence and the beasts spoke in growls. Ais had arrived there near death, her clothes in tatters, her powers surging wild and ungoverned. She remembered the way villagers had recoiled from her, the way their fear turned to awe, then to silence. She hadn't stayed long in any one place. Safety was a mirage. Trust a luxury.
But one village—Fennar's Hollow—had not turned her away.
She remembered the old woman who'd taken her in. A healer with hands calloused from decades of stitching flesh and mixing herbs. Elithra. That was her name. Wrinkled eyes that had seen too much. A spine that bowed from time but not fear.
"You're broken," Elithra had said without pity, placing a bowl of steaming root broth in front of the girl. "But not beyond repair."
Ais hadn't answered. She had simply eaten, the heat of the food barely registering on her tongue.
Weeks passed. Then months.
Elithra never asked questions. She only watched. Listened. Taught.
"Control isn't about suppression," she said once, as Ais sat beneath the frost-covered eaves of the cottage, trying to freeze water in one hand and boil it in the other. "It's about harmony. Fire and ice are not enemies, child. They are twins."
Ais had glared at her then. "Twins burn each other."
"Only when they are left alone."
And so began a new kind of training. Not one of swords and scars, but of stillness. Of breath. Of knowing where her power began—and where it fractured.
But peace never lasted long in the life of the girl born of frost and flame.
One evening, as the village gathered for the harvest moon blessing, Ais stood at the edge of the fire circle, watching shadows dance across the clearing. Children laughed. Elders passed cups of mulled berry wine. There was music—rough, out-of-tune flutes and beaten drums—but it was music nonetheless.
A part of her wanted to join.
A larger part stood stone-still, eyes scanning the dark woods.
Then she felt it.
The change.
A tremor in the earth. A shift in the air. Like something old had stirred from slumber.
Her eyes flicked to the treeline.
Figures emerged—not villagers. Soldiers. Cloaked in dark steel and bearing the sigil of the Black Coil.
"Run," she whispered.
But it was too late.
Chaos burst from the trees. Fire arrows streaked the sky. Screams ripped through the night. The village erupted into panic.
Elithra grabbed her hand.
"Go!"
"No," Ais growled, eyes glowing gold and pale blue at once. Her breath steamed in the air. Her hands rose. Power surged.
Fire met frost in her veins.
She stepped into the clearing.
The soldiers paused. One barked a command.
But they didn't reach her in time.
With a roar that shattered the night, Ais unleashed a torrent of elemental wrath. Ice spears exploded from the ground, impaling armor. A ring of fire swept outward, burning through their ranks. Screams turned to silence.
When the last body fell, the forest was still.
The villagers stared at her—not with gratitude. Not with awe.
But with fear.
Elithra stepped forward.
"You saved them," she said gently.
Ais turned away. Her hands trembled.
"No," she whispered. "I reminded them why they fear me."
That night, she left Fennar's Hollow. No goodbyes. No trail.
Just a shadow moving through trees.
Beyond the Hollow, the world whispered of a girl who could melt mountains and freeze rivers. A girl hunted by empires and myth alike.
But not all whispers feared her.
Some followed.
One such whisper wore a black hood and rode a horse with silver eyes. He watched from a ridge as Ais crossed a bridge of stone and frost. His lips curled into a smile.
"She moves like a queen," he muttered. "And queens attract war."
He turned and vanished into the trees.
Ais didn't know where she was going. Only that forward meant survival.
But in the days ahead, she would learn truths that bent her past into something unfamiliar. She would meet those who claimed to be allies—and those who hid knives behind their backs. And through it all, she would carry the weight of her power, her grief, and the question that haunted every step:
What kind of queen would she become?
A conqueror?
A savior?
Or something far more dangerous?
The frost burned. The fire froze.
And Ais walked on.