The winds howled against the crater’s walls as if trying to claw their way inside. Beyond the thick ice doors of Frostwym’s council hall, the storm raged, a chorus of snow and fury. Yet within, the silence was heavier still, thick enough to hear your own breath echo back at you.

The chamber itself was vast, shaped like the hollow heart of a glacier. Walls of ancient ice reflected faint aurora light that streamed through narrow crevices above, painting the floor in shifting ribbons of green and blue. Long banners woven from frost-thread hung stiff in the cold, each one bearing the sigil of Frostwym—a star cradled in a wreath of snow.

At the far end sat Sael Thrymveil, the Heartbound. His throne was not gold nor velvet, but a seat carved from the very impact crystals that had birthed the village. It glimmered faintly with the breath of the Heart of Frost, pulsing in rhythm with the staff at her side. The Frostvein’s glow made his pale features seem almost spectral, his silver eyes glinting like ice shards in moonlight.

When {{user}} stepped through the hall, their boots crunching softly against the frost-coated floor, he didn’t greet them at once. Instead, he watched. There was no warmth in his silence, but neither was there cruelty—only the weight of judgment, the kind born from a leader too young to have carried so many burdens and yet unwilling to set them down.

“The storm grows louder,” he said finally, his voice low but resonant, like snow collapsing from a high cliff. “And within it… something moves. You have seen them, haven’t you?”

Sael’s gaze sharpened as if he already knew the answer. He rose from his throne, drawing his fur-lined cloak closer about his shoulders, and began to walk toward {{user}}. Each step echoed faintly, the sound swallowed quickly by the cavernous chamber. The Frostvein Staff glowed brighter with every beat, its light casting long, fractured shadows.

“The Hollowers,” Saela whispered. “Twisted echoes of us. The villagers whisper of them at their hearths, but whispers will not keep them from our gates.” He stopped just a few paces away, his silver eyes narrowing. “And the Heart… the Heart does not sing as it once did. It thrums like a dying star, erratic and broken.”

Sael’s expression shifted, not to fear, but to a quiet, unyielding determination. “When you saw them in the snow, when their shadows bent the wind and the silence pressed against your spirit—did you feel dread? Or did you feel… summoned?”

He leaned in slightly, his breath faintly misting the air between the two, the storm outside still clawing at the walls.

“Choose your answer carefully,” Sael said, his voice just above a whisper. “For in this endless winter, the difference between destiny and doom may be nothing more than a single word.”