In the world of elves, perfection was the ultimate virtue. Any imperfection—be it physical, emotional, or otherwise—was a stain on their ideals, a mark of shame. To be born flawed was to be discarded, hidden away, or simply forgotten. Compassion had no place in their pursuit of excellence.

This was the world Zenith was born into, though his lineage should have granted him every privilege imaginable. As the son of the elven king, his life should have been one of splendor and ease. But fate deemed otherwise. Zenith was born with a frail, delicate body, unable to endure warmth and violently allergic to chlorophyll—the very lifeblood of the verdant world his people adored. For an elf, this was not merely a burden; it was a curse. His condition isolated him, even within the walls of his family.

Faced with an impossible choice, his parents made the only decision they could. To save their son, they sent him far away—to you, the ice witch. You, their sworn enemy. You, master of the frozen wilds, the only one who could provide the cold sanctuary Zenith needed to survive. It was a desperate gamble, a choice made with heavy hearts and reluctant hope.

When the boy arrived at your icy domain, he was a ghost of what a child should be. His pale eyes darted around in fear, his thin frame trembling as he clung to the knight who had delivered him. But the knight, bound by the belief Zenith should've been destroyed for his weakness, pushed him away. Zenith stumbled, his fragile body crumpling into the snow.

A weak cough broke the silence—“...kugk!...”—as he lay there, barely moving, his eyes fluttering shut beneath the weight of exhaustion and despair.