On the colossal mountain range that crowned the western edge of the Calradian Continent, the first light of dawn pierced through the narrow gaps between the peaks.
Golden rays streamed down into the deep canyons below, painting the jagged cliffs and frost-covered slopes with a faint warmth.
On the hillsides beside the valley, patches of snow still lingered — the stubborn remnants of a harsh winter. The air was sharp and cold, carrying the crisp scent of pine and distant mist.
High above, at the heart of the Uchalion Massif, lay a vast and tranquil lake — a body of water so deep that no one could see its bottom. Gentle ripples disturbed its surface as fish darted beneath the reflection of the pale sky. Life thrived quietly within.
This was Llyn Twal — a natural lake formed long ago from the caldera of an ancient volcano, said to have erupted thousands of years in the past.
To the southeast of this lake stood a humble settlement of timber and stone, home to barely a thousand souls.
It was called Dalmengus Village, one of the many small villages belonging to the Kingdom of Battania.
Once, Dalmengus had been known for its fertile fields and lively markets.
It was said — though only in fading legend — that a High King of Battania had been born here, centuries ago, when the land was still bountiful and proud.
But legends did little to feed the hungry.
Now, the village was poor — its fields barren, its barns half-empty, and its people frail from endless winters. The snow had only just begun to melt, yet the wind still bit at exposed skin like a cold knife.
Their wheat and barley, the lifeblood of their livelihood, had withered during the last frost. The harvest failure was a curse they could ill afford.
And as if fate mocked them further, the royal tax collectors had not eased their demands.
The heavy levies had drained the village of what little coin remained. There was barely enough to buy food for the coming months, let alone charcoal to warm their homes.
'creak'
A wooden door opened from a stone house near the center of the village.
A middle-aged man stepped out, wrapped tightly in animal hide. His brown beard was tipped with frost, and his weathered face was red from the cold.
For a moment, he stood still, staring at the pale morning sun breaking through the clouds. His eyes were tired — not just from sleeplessness, but from years of quiet endurance.
'I don't know how many of us will survive this year...'
He exhaled slowly, a cloud of vapor rising before his face, then began walking toward the village square. His leather boots crunched against the thin layer of frozen mud.
His destination — the bell tower that stood silently in the heart of Dalmengus.
Reaching it, the man grasped the frayed rope with callused hands, rough from years of work and hardship.
He pulled.
CLANG—CLANG—CLANG!
The ringing of the iron bell echoed through the valley — sharp, somber, and urgent — rolling over rooftops and winding streets, reaching every corner of the sleeping village.
The stone houses that lined the frozen street began to open, one by one.
From behind creaking doors, the villagers emerged — faces pale and hollow, eyes dulled by months of starvation and cold.
They had endured a long and merciless winter, and it showed in every hesitant step, every trembling breath clouding the air.
The middle-aged man, Gilbert, the head of Dalmengus Village, stood silently beside the bell tower. He scanned the growing crowd, his heart heavy with dread.
He could only hope — pray, even — that the faces before him were all still familiar. That none were missing.
Of course, that was only wishful thinking.
Some villagers carried burlap sacks, clutched tightly against their chests.
Gilbert's chest tightened at the sight. He didn't need to ask what they held.
He already knew.
Those who didn't survive.
'When will this war end?'
The bitter thought burned in his mind. Yet outwardly, his voice remained steady — soft, almost trembling.
"...Gather them here," he said.
It was a voice shaped by grief — one that had given the same command too many times before. No matter how often it happened, he could never get used to it.
One by one, the villagers stepped forward and laid their burlap sacks at the center of the plaza. The shapes beneath the rough fabric were unmistakable — some small, some grown.
Then came the cries.
Wails of mothers who had lost their children. Husbands collapsing beside the still forms of their wives. The old weeping for the young, and the young for the old.
Seventeen.
Seventeen dead this year — more than the last.
Gilbert looked upon the faces of the departed as the coverings were pulled back for the final rites. Each one was familiar. Each one once laughed, worked, or greeted him in passing.
He forced himself to remember them — to etch their faces into his memory, because someone had to.
But as his eyes passed from one body to the next, something struck him.
A jolt of realization — like thunder splitting the sky.
His gaze darted to the gathered villagers. He scanned their faces, his heartbeat growing louder, faster.
Once. Twice. Again.
The more he searched, the colder his blood ran.
"...No," he whispered. Then, louder — "No."
Finally, panic tore through his restraint.
"RUFUS!"
A bald man with a scar running down his cheek stepped forward quickly. "Y-Yes, Village Head!"
"Where is Magnus?" Gilbert demanded, his eyes sharp, voice trembling with fury and fear.
"I… I don't know." Rufus stammered, shrinking under his glare. His voice quivered — not from cold, but from fear.
Everyone knew Gilbert had once been a soldier, and his temper was as fierce as his past.
"What do you mean you don't know? His house is right beside yours!"
Gilbert's restraint snapped. He seized Rufus by the collar and lifted him off his feet, shouting inches from his face. "Don't you dare lie to me!"
Then, with a growl of frustration, he threw the man aside. Rufus stumbled, barely catching himself.
"Check on him. Now!" Gilbert barked, his voice cracking from the strain.
"R-right away!" Rufus replied and dashed toward the western edge of the village, disappearing behind a row of huts.
Gilbert stood still, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. He didn't follow — he couldn't.
Because deep down, he was afraid of what he might find.
The wait stretched endlessly. Every passing second gnawed at him like a hungry beast. His breath came shallow, his mind racing with dread.
Then, at last — Rufus returned, breathless, eyes wide.
"Magnus is… Magnus is—"
"SPEAK CLEARLY!" Gilbert roared, his patience breaking.
Rufus gulped, chest heaving.
"He is alive!"