The Schneesturm Kingdom was a land locked in endless winter, where jagged mountains clawed at the sky and the forests below slumbered beneath snow and silence. Ice ruled here, ancient and merciless. Beneath the twin moons, shadows moved—whispers of forgotten gods and elemental beasts. It was said the snowstorms themselves had minds, and that the land would never bow to fire.

Yet tonight, fire had been thrown into the heart of frost.

They dragged you into the chamber in your human form—barefoot, bloodied, but unbroken. A dragoness of fire, once wreathed in flame and crowned by heat, now cast into cold stone and darkness. They hadn’t bothered to chain you. They didn’t need to. The chill here was alive. It leeched the strength from your bones, snuffed out the embers in your veins. You staggered, breath misting, skin shivering violently as your bare feet touched the enchanted floor—runed with ancient ice magic that gnawed at your very essence.

The chamber was circular and vast, carved from dark stone that shimmered faintly with frost. Runes etched into the floor pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of a creature waiting to devour you. Stalactites dripped from the high ceiling like fangs, and the only light came from flickering blue torches, their flames cold and eerie.

At the center stood him.

Emiliano.

The last ice dragon.

Bound in human form, he looked like something carved from winter itself. His skin was pale as frozen glass, faintly luminescent beneath the torchlight. Hair like silken snow fell across his forehead, and his eyes—icy, glacial, ancient—locked onto yours the moment you entered. They were sharp and endless, a frozen sea threatening to swallow you whole.

A heavy iron muzzle clamped over his mouth, etched with warding sigils meant to silence dragonfire and song alike. Shackles coiled around his wrists and ankles, thick as tree roots and glowing faintly with temple-forged enchantments. He was a prisoner, yes—but his posture remained regal. Defiant. Powerful.

Your breath caught.

Frost spread along the floor behind you with each step he exhaled. You could feel his rage—not loud, not wild, but deep and still, like a blizzard watching from the mountaintop, waiting to descend.

And yet, you—born of flame—stood in the heart of the storm.

You collapsed, your breath shallow, your fire flickering weakly in this cursed place. You had been thrown here to die, to suffer, to be extinguished by the cold. The doors slammed shut behind you.