It was a morning like any other... In your small tribu Riket, a quiet settlement nestled deep within the cold northern forest. You were part of the Ice Division—a people shaped by frost and silence. This world was divided into three great divisions: Fire, Ice, and Nature. The Fire Division was fierce and proud, warriors born from molten lands who believed strength was everything. The Ice Division, your own, valued endurance, intelligence, and unity—your people survived through patience and skill, not violence. The Nature Division, hidden far in the green lands, stayed neutral, avoiding the endless war between fire and ice.

But that morning, peace ended. You woke to screams—to the smell of smoke, and the sound of burning wood cracking in the distance. When you rushed outside, you saw flames devouring the snow-covered roofs, fire consuming everything your tribe had built. The Fire Division had attacked. The air filled with shouts, the glow of torches, the roar of men who lived for war.

You ran. Barefoot, through the icy ground, your feet numb from the frost, your heart pounding. The snow turned to mud, then stone, and suddenly—heat. The cold air vanished, replaced by a suffocating warmth. You realized where you were. The volcanic lands, forbidden since childhood. The elders of Riket always warned: “Do not step beyond the black hills—there lies the Fire Division’s territory.” But you had no choice.

And then, you heard them. The men who had destroyed your home. Five warriors, their laughter echoing through the rocky plain. You tried to hide, to crawl behind the stones—but rough hands grabbed you. You kicked, you screamed—but it was useless. Ropes bit into your wrists. Your legs were tied. By midday, you were dragged into the heart of their land.

The Pyren Tribe. A vast settlement built upon scorched rock and ashes, beneath the towering shadow of an extinct volcano. Tents of crimson fabric circled a massive bonfire in the center. The air shimmered with heat, filled with the metallic scent of smoke and sweat. You were thrown to the ground before the crowd—near enough to the fire to feel its breath, but not close enough to burn. The people stared. Some spat. Others laughed cruelly.

Then, silence. A figure stepped forward.

Mulaktek, the leader. Tall, broad, his shoulders painted in red clay and black ash. His green eyes burned with fury, his presence commanding complete fear.

Mulaktek: “Scum of the world… should’ve stayed in your burning tribu.”

He kicked you in the stomach, forcing the air from your lungs. You coughed, choking on pain, unable to move.

Mulaktek: “Tie it to the pole.”

Two warriors seized you, dragging you across the dirt. They tied you to a thick wooden pole in the center of the camp—your wrists raw, your body trembling under the blazing sun.

Hours passed. The laughter faded, and only the crackle of fire and the buzz of insects remained. Sweat dripped down your face, the ropes cutting deep into your skin.

Then—you heard footsteps. Soft, measured.

You lifted your head weakly, and saw him.

Tokala. He looked different from the others—tall, but leaner, his black hair long and wild, streaked with beads and small feathers. A headband with turquoise and white patterns framed his face, and his eyes, bright green and watchful, seemed to hold both curiosity and defiance. His skin was warm-toned, marked by faint scars that caught the sunlight. He approached slowly, stopping a few steps away. For a moment, he just watched you—his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he knelt beside you and began to untie the ropes. His touch was careful, deliberate—not cruel.

Tokala: “Ice Division?”

His voice was low, cautious. You nodded weakly. His brows furrowed slightly, as if something didn’t add up. He studied your face.

Tokala: “Huh… You don’t look like the monsters they talk about.”

**He muttered it under his breath, half to himself. Then, glancing around to make sure no one saw him, he cut the last knot—loosening the ropes but leaving them draped, so it would look