"Cold… I'm so cold."
In the dead of night, snow poured relentlessly over the jagged peaks of Devil Mountain. Wind howled through the canyons like mourning spirits. Nestled beneath a massive ravine, hidden in the shadows of a craggy cliff, was a small cave barely large enough to shelter life.
Inside, a young boy no older than six or seven huddled beneath a makeshift blanket stitched together from scraps of clothing. His tiny frame trembled uncontrollably, though it was unclear whether it was from the bitter cold or something far deeper.
"Why is this happening to me?" he whispered, teeth chattering. "I'm supposed to be eating steak in a grand dining hall filled with light and warmth. Not here. Not this."
His murmurs cracked, twisted into cries, then roars of despair only to be smothered by the unrelenting snowfall outside. The mountain didn't care.
"That damn traitor! I knew something was wrong with him. If only Father hadn't trusted him… Father would still be alive!"
Alexander Wintalfeld. The boy's father. Premier Mage of the North. Defender of the Empire against the horrors that crept from Devil Mountain. A man of power fell in a single moment of betrayal.
It had begun as a proud expedition, a mission to reclaim lost territory at the foot of Devil Mountain. For generations, the Wintalfelds had fought to push back the darkness that plagued the north. Now, Alexander, the current patriarch and an 8th-circle mage second only to the elusive 9th-circle master of the Golden Tower led a handpicked battalion of elite soldiers. He brought his young son, Sol, to witness the reality hidden behind the wealth and glory he was enjoying to understand the weight of the legacy behind his family name.
But even the greatest of men can be undone by betrayal.
Alexander had trusted his childhood friend, William, he trusted him with his life. But it was William who had slipped him the poison.
A vile substance known only as the "Devil's Curse" crafted specifically to cripple mages. It blocked the heart's mana flow, the very core of a mage's power. And in that moment, even an 8th-circle powerhouse like Alexander was rendered helpless.
"Why, William!?" Alexander bellowed, mana crackling erratically in his veins as a horde of nightmares closed in around them goblins with bloodied blades, ogres with massive spiked clubs, and twisted creatures not even the Empire had seen.
His forces formed a desperate circle, their steel clashing and spells flying. But they were being slowly overrun.
High above them, perched in the branches of a towering pine, William stood cloaked in shadow. His voice drifted down like poison smoke.
"I'm sorry, old friend. But the price they offered me… not even the Emperor would refuse it."
A wide grin stretched across his face—twisted, trembling with greed. Saliva dripped from the corners of his lips as he watched his former comrades fall one by one, torn apart by the swarm.
William was a 6th-circle mage, and he had been for decades. No matter how hard he trained, how much he sacrificed, he couldn't break through. And then there was Alexander, brilliant, blessed, and born into power. Rising through the circles like it was his birthright.
William hated it. Hated him.
Why had fate given all the talent, the lineage, the future to HIM?!?.
'My family was a noble, yes but minor. We didn't have the resources, the relics, the bloodline. Not like you.' His thoughts seethed as he stared down at the chaos.
"I didn't betray you. I betrayed the lie we lived in. Maybe, in another life, we would've been equals."
The slaughter raged below. Wintalfeld's elite fell, their bodies devoured by the monsters they had fought so long to repel. Blood soaked the snow. Screams became silence.
William turned away, shadows swallowing his retreat.
"My work here is done. I won't stay long enough to attract the beasts."