Frozen: The Queen and Her Star

CHAPTER 1: [The Tale of a Shooting Star]

-

In a tavern far, far away...

"I heard rumors from a merchant this morning—there are fewer sightings of wolves and bears!"

The local guard who manned the gate mentioned with importance as he took a sip of his ale. Sitting beside him were frequent visitors of the bar, listening intently, as he was the usual person to obtain crucial information from the outside world.

"That aligns with what Lukas the hunter mentioned. Fewer predators in the forest, but more game in his usual haul!"

"How sure is this information? If it's true, the village can rest easy with this season's harvest."

Another villager said, his tone cautious but hopeful.

"Oskar! Did you ask why the predators are disappearing?"

Someone questioned, leaning in closer.

The guard, upon hearing the question, downed his ale before slamming the wooden cup onto the table. He looked at every single person around the table before whispering.

"From what the stories say, it's the Silver Star again."

Gossip erupted instantly, a buzz of speculation filling the room.

The Silver Star, a name spoken with a mix of awe and fear. Sightings of him were as rare as a midsummer snowstorm, but his legend grew with each whispered tale amongst the rural villages around the city of Weselton.

Cloaked in a snow-white mantle that concealed his form, a silver longsword of exquisite craftsmanship at his side, and a mysterious gauntlet covering his entire right arm, nobody knew who he was even after only 3 years of activity. The only clue to his identity was the deep, resonant tone of his voice, suggesting he was a man.

However rare the sightings of him were, despite his good deeds, dispelling predators, warding off bandits, and ensuring the safety of remote villages, the arrival of the Silver Star was never a cause for celebration.

Quite the opposite; his presence was akin to the coming of danger, the eye of the storm before it hit. A grizzled old man, the local farmer hunched at the corner of the tavern, spoke up with a sigh.

"The last time the Silver Star came close to the village a winter ago, he arrived just before the first signs of trouble, warding off bandits that came to steal our harvest. Then, the next moment when he left, heavy hail swept through homes and crops."

"If that's the case, then we must start storing our food. Tomorrow we deliver this news to the mayor and prepare for the worst to come."

The villagers nodded in agreement as the topic changed to other news that the guard found out, their minds thinking of the future.

=

=

=

The forest was silent, save for the wind rushing through the crevices of the leaves on trees and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures. Suddenly, the sound of metal thumping the ground echoed through the stillness.

Hasty breathing escaped his mouth as he traversed the forest with inhuman speed, crossing distances that no ordinary man could cover in such a short time. Racing through the green scenery, he abruptly stopped in his tracks, skidding slightly as he drew his pristine blade, his cloak covering the top half of his face.

His body exploded into action as the whistle of an arrow slicing through the air could be heard. His arm, covered with metal, shifted the weight of the blade in his hand.

With textbook-like precision, he sliced the arrow in two, preventing any damage to his body. He then shifted his body weight to dodge another arrow with ease.

The sound of a dozen footsteps notified him of the number of enemies surrounding him, their arms filled with weapons ranging from daggers to bows. Soon, the leader of the bandit crew he had been chasing after made his appearance with a smirk on his face.

"So, the famous Silver Star has graced us with his presence. I am flattered!"

Posturing his blade, he replied with steel conviction, pointing his longsword at the leader.

"Anders of the Frostfang Marauders, you have threatened and pillaged the people of Weselton for too long. Your group has caught the eyes of the guild and is hereby sentenced to death."

Anders laughed at the threat; even some of the members of the Frostfang Marauders that were surrounding him chuckled as the leader of the group brought out a knife and started to play with it.

"As amusing as it sounds, you and what cavalry? You're but one man, when I have dozens at my command!"

Arrows nocked, blades shimmering, the bodies around him tensing in preparation. The Silver Star turned his head, looking at every single one of them before taking a deep breath.

"Your group does not deserve cavalry to be defeated."

And then he vanished from his position.

(STAB!)

And reappeared in front of Anders with his sword pierced deep into his chest. The speed of his lunge caused his cloak to come undone from his head, revealing hair as light as snow and deep emerald gems for eyes. His face was cold, void of imperfections as if the spirits themselves carved the face of the Silver Star.

Anders could only choke on the blood rushing from his internal injury, his arms shakily moving to his wound when chaos erupted. Bows fired from their bows, roars of anger permeated the forest, footsteps thundered through the dirt, blades raised high.

"[Switch On]."

Heads flew, bodies slacked to the ground, cries and groans echoed through the trees, the air thick with the stench of blood and death. The Silver Star moved like a shooting star, streaking in a trail of white and silver as his blade sliced through the world around him with terrifying precision.

Eventually he halted, the world slowing back down to its normal speed as the Silver Star breathed heavily, his chest rose and fell as he stared out at the battlefield, his emerald eyes scanning the chaos he had caused.

The air was thick with the scent of blood and death, the once-pristine forest now tainted due to his mission. The trees, once silent, now groaned under the weight of destruction the weapons dealt, their bark stained with blood.

He closed his eyes for a moment, his hand still pressed to his face as if to block out the sight of the fallen bodies. There were no cheers for victory here, no triumphant shouts. Only silence, broken only by the distant cries of the wounded.

Breathing out a heave, he dropped his hand and turned toward Anders, still clinging onto the faintest strand of life. The wound was grave, and it was clear that death was closing in on him.

His heart, hardened by years of work, seemed to hesitate, even if only for a fleeting moment, before steel burned as he recalled the horrible tales that the group's victims experienced.

With one final look, he drew a slow breath as he twisted his grip on his sword, holding it reversed, and raised it, the blade now caked with grime and blood, before thrusting downwards.

=

=

=

A last heave with a shovel, and the job was done. He breathed out slowly to calm his active heart, his eyes witnessing the amount of graves that he dug in just an hour.

Closing his eyes, he sent a silent prayer to the spirits to guide them to a better place before lifting up the sack filled with branded skin tissue of the Frostfang Marauders that he carefully sliced up as evidence for his reward before making his way back to camp where he stored all his supplies before the confrontation.

"There's a village nearby the area, isn't there? Maybe I'll take a detour to get some rest before heading back to Weselton..."

He had already spent a few days tracking the Marauders down to this area, his food and essentials running low due to a sudden tip from a reliable info broker regarding their previous location, causing him to rush out to keep on their trail.

Coming to a stop, he crouched down and dug the ground slightly to unveil his luggage, heaving it to his shoulders as he began his journey to the nearby village... And then back to Weselton.

"Weselton. Sigh... what was I thinking when I decided to come here? Even the Southern Islands would be such a better place to be in; the guild there had much more jobs to take that didn't involve hunting down bandits every week, and the territory doesn't hate people with magic badly enough to have witch hunts every few months."

A warm glow suddenly radiates from his right arm. To those who felt its warmth, it would have felt like home, but to him it was his crux, making him heave heavier as he raised it to his face and glared at it, his ears picking up the faintest sounds of whispers from the arm.

"Listen to the prosthetic, the witch says. Of course, it's the most sound thing you ever heard, Eldrid. No, what's the worst that could happen when listening to a hunk of metal that has magical capabilities?"

The arm suddenly backhands him, causing him to reel his head in pain. Mumbling an "Ow...", he decided to just continue walking to a safe place instead of complaining back at the magically sentient arm that he woke up with a few years back.