Once upon a time, in a small, peaceful village nestled deep within a grand and impressive valley trapped between two towering mountains, I lived a quiet life, completely cut off from the affairs of the kingdom or the bustling capital. The valley, surrounded by a vast, dark forest, had always been a place of refuge and safety.

For generations, my family had called this valley home. My parents, my two younger brothers, and I lived simply, with little to disturb our everyday lives. We had no need for the politics of the kingdoms, no interest in the intrigues of the capital. Our world was small, but it was ours. And we were content.

But one day, that peace was shattered.

The ice soldiers from the enemy kingdom of Schilvoren descended upon our village. Their arrival was as sudden as it was violent. The ice they commanded tore through our homes with an unforgiving rage. The falling snow and the ice on the windows announcing their chilling arrival. They slaughtered the villagers and stole everything of value.

We had no defense, no protection. For centuries, we had been shielded from the cruelty of the world outside, too isolated to be a target, too naïve to ever expect such an attack. We were defenseless against their cold wrath.

As the chaos unfolded, I watched in helpless horror, clutching my two younger brothers, the twins, as they cried in fear. My parents, always so strong, so steady, stood ready to fight if needed.

Without a second thought, we ran into the forest, the only place that might offer us any hope of escape, but separated as I ran closer to the path desperately clutching to the idea that the capital would help. The deeper I ran, the further I got from the only home I’d ever known, and the less sure I was that I’d ever see it again.

When I stumbled upon an injured dragon, its massive body sprawled across the forest floor. The creature was unlike anything I had ever seen. I had invaded its space, and it had no intention of being kind to intruders.