Nocthyrn, Zhanvir 26, 525 EK

  Today was not only an important day for Valterion, but also the beginning of something far greater—a turning point that would one day be remembered in history. The air over the Frostfang Sea gripped like invisible claws, piercing layers of armor down to the marrow. The salty tang of the sea mixed with the metallic scent of still-warm blood, drifting faintly above the ship's deck scarred by battle—scars that seemed not yet satisfied in drawing suffering. Fissures of ice crawled into the distance, emitting faint sounds like the sighs of a dying world, adding to the tension that already choked the air.

  After a long fight with a Sea Wraith—creatures sailors spoke of only in whispers—Prince Varian Valterion I stood at the prow, his breath forming thin clouds in the cold air. They had just finished the hunt for a Glacier Crab, a monstrous beast with a shell as hard as ice, when the Sea Wraith suddenly emerged from the mist and forced them into a desperate struggle. The victory brought no relief, only mounting exhaustion. Yet a new threat loomed.

  The cold stabbed the skin like tiny needles, leaving fingers numb. Varian felt the chill crawl from the tips of his boots up to his heart, but his face remained expressionless, hard as a rock in a storm. His body was erect and steady among the weary soldiers; his blue-green eyes were like shards of ice watching the shifts in the sea before them. Waves that usually rolled now slowly froze, hardening into a glossy sheet beneath the fading sunset. "The sea's freezing?" he murmured, his voice nearly lost in the whisper of the frozen wind. In his heart the name echoed like a forbidden spell: Frost Leviathan.

  Without hesitation Varian shouted, "Hoist the sails! We must get out of here!" His voice rose above the clamor of fear, forcing the exhausted men to move. He reached for the sword on his back—Aethral Sarin, carved with wind magic. The black blade shimmered faintly in the dim light. With a decisive motion he raised the sword and intoned, "Vaeren Zephir!" A fierce wind burst from the blade, coiling like an invisible dragon, filling the sails and driving the ship swiftly over the sea that was beginning to harden.

  But the sea kept chasing them. Ice crawled faster than the wind could overcome it, freezing the water around the ship. Suddenly their vessel slammed to a jarring halt, wood groaning as the ice gripped the hull. The soldiers panicked; some ran across the deck, shouting in confusion. Their footsteps echoed on the cold planks, mingling with the crackling of ice that spread quickly, as if swallowing the sea alive. "The ship's trapped! We can't move!" one soldier cried, his voice full of alarm.

  Varian bellowed without hesitation, "Bring out your Ilvorn! Burn the ice!" Though their bodies were wounded and their breaths heavy, the men quickly produced Ilvorn—red-orange magic stones that held fire spells. When the chant "Thyvar Velkaris!" was spoken, flames erupted wildly, racing over the ice and devouring whatever lay in their path. There was no measured form to it, only tongues of fire that writhed like living things—angry, fierce, and uncontrollable.

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  The ice began to melt and the ship shifted, but their progress remained stunted. The helm trembled in the helmsman's hands, a sign of how heavily the ship fought the grip of cold. Varian glanced back—his eyes narrowed against the thin, freezing mist. In the distance a giant shadow moved beneath the ice, vast and slow, yet each movement sent subtle tremors that reached down to the soles of their feet. The Leviathan drew nearer. Its icy breath birthed a frosted mist that danced in the air, and the thunder from the deep made the deck shudder like the heartbeat of a giant roused from a long sleep.

  Varian raised his hand, stopping the men who were still trying to burn the ice. "Enough! Save your Ilvorn!" he shouted; his words flew like arrows, slicing through the fear that hung in the air. He knew they could not flee. Their energy was too precious to be spent in vain. "We will become legend—the fleet that faced the oldest creature in Chalentos!" There was conviction in his voice, a small flame enough to rekindle the soldiers' nearly extinguished spirit.

  With steady hands he drew his second sword—the blade with a fire enchantment that hung at his left hip. "Thvar," he whispered, almost like a prayer. Flames licked along the length of the blade, forming steam where heat met the frozen air. Firelight danced over his men's faces, casting long shadows across the cracked deck. In the distance the sea froze faster still, and a snowstorm began to crawl up from the horizon. From the dark depths the creature rose—the Frost Leviathan, a colossal being that looked like a cross between a sea-serpent and humanity's worst nightmare. Its scales glittered like shards of glass, and its enormous eyes shone with a cold blue light that pierced to the bone.

  Varian stood tall at the prow, his face resolute, his gaze sharp in defiance of the horror before him. There was no fear there—only the resolve and pride of a prince who knew that even if the sea swallowed them, their names would live on in tales and song. Thus began their legend.

  The Leviathan simply regarded Varian's ship, its shield-sized eye shining with a cold bluish light that cut through the thin mist like a blade of ice. Its look was not mere observation—it was judgment, cold and unfeeling. Varian's men fell silent; their chests felt heavy as if the air itself had turned to weight. Their breaths caught, freezing before they could become cries. They knew this might be the end of everything. "Aim your Ilvorn... and ready!" Varian cried—his voice not just breaking the silence but cleaving the fear that gripped his troops. His command was more than an order—it was a demand for life on the brink of death. "Do not let your fear be greater than that flame!" he continued, his words echoing over the rising roar of the storm.

  Under that command, a young soldier whispered, barely audible, "We won't win..." Varian heard him. He turned, looked the young man straight in the eye, and said in a hoarse but certain voice, "Win? We aren't here to win. We are here to make our deaths meaningful. That is our victory."

  Suddenly an ice storm closed in. The biting wind tore at cloth and skin, cutting to the bone and making them shiver uncontrollably. The roar of the wind mingled with the sailors' screams as they fought to stay upright on the slick deck. The Leviathan struck, its massive body surging with unmatched force and sending towering waves of ice aloft. "BURN!" Varian shouted, fury blazing.

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  But simply reading and enjoying this tale is more than enough—I am already deeply grateful.