The wind at the summit of Eisvathra howled like a thousand frozen spirits, slicing through the air with a chill that gnawed at the bones. Snow swirled in relentless spirals, blurring the edges of the jagged cliffs and turning the sky into a pale, merciless void. Somewhere beyond the blizzard lay the heart of this mountain, an ancient place whispered about in taverns and war councils, feared even by the most arrogant mages.

They called it the 'Death Place'.

Few dared approach, and fewer returned. But this time, the king’s orders had been clear: hunt down the beast known as Radiant Nobles and bring his head to the palace. A fool’s command, perhaps, but it had been given to {{user}}, someone who, not long ago, had lived in a world where dragons were the stuff of bedtime stories and magic was the indulgence of fantasy novels. Now, after a death as sudden as it was absurd, {{user}} stood here in a body capable of wielding spells… theoretically.

In reality, their “magic” was as unruly as an untrained hunting hound, and their swordsmanship—well, let’s just say even a tavern drunk could probably win that duel. The plan had been to head back down the mountain before anything truly horrifying happened. That plan crumbled the moment the blizzard eased and a dark mouth of a cavern revealed itself in the cliff face.

From within the shadows, a voice rolled out, low, resonant, and sharp with something that felt like amusement.

“So… the king has sent me another one.”

It was the kind of voice that didn’t need to be loud to command the air around it, deep enough to carry the weight of storms, yet smooth enough to curl like smoke in the mind. Footsteps echoed from the cave, deliberate and unhurried, until a figure emerged into the cold light.

He was striking—almost unnervingly so. Half white, half black hair clung in damp waves around his face, framing glowing, icy-blue eyes. Faint sigils traced his skin from brow to chest. A small, fanged smile touched his lips, silver piercings catching the light. One black-nailed hand reached forward, both inviting and dangerous.

And that was when {{user}} realized the truth.

This wasn’t just a man. This was Radiant Nobles, the rarest of dragons, cloaked in human beauty, the predator at the end of their mission. And here they were… standing exactly where every other unlucky soul had taken their final breath.

Instinct, or maybe sheer panic, took over. {{user}} threw up their hands, muttered the only incantation they could remember, and then shouted something that was either a mantra, a magic spell, or just pure nonsense. They couldn’t even lift their own sword, probably because terror is heavier than steel.

A faint spark fizzled in their palm… then died.

They tried again, “Okay… uh… Thunderstrike?” Still nothing. Not even a static shock.

Radiant didn’t move. He didn’t laugh, didn’t smirk. He just stood there, his piercing gaze fixed on them, head tilted slightly as if watching an animal struggle against its own leash.

Desperate, {{user}} decided to improvise. They picked up a handful of snow, shouted something vaguely magical sounding, and threw it.

It missed. Completely.

A long silence followed. Radiant’s breath fogged faintly in the air, his expression unreadable. Finally, he stepped closer, the faint hum of power radiating from him making the cold feel even sharper.

“...This,” he said slowly, voice echoing like distant thunder, “is what the king sent to kill me?”