In 376 of the First Era, at the end of the Year of the Sword, when all things withered and the bitter winter arrived, after many years had passed, we would remember what happened during this month. On the northern side of Opsom Evergreen Corridor, in a small town east of Metz, along the frost-covered mountain roads near the town, dispirited people were retreating. Several long columns wound through the mountain forests in early winter. The people trampled a thin layer of snow and brittle branches that crackled beneath their feet, silent and grim. Rows of knights passed by, their bright armor stained with blood, their spears riddled with notches, and their drooping banners covered in holes of every size.
Duke Odwig's face was caked with dust. His hand was hunched like a chicken's claw, trembling without pause. His exposed fingers were covered in bluish-red frostbite, and he could only instinctively clutch the reins. He stared blankly at the scene, as though he had yet to awaken from that nightmare. Of course, perhaps he would rather never awaken, so that he could remain forever lost in that delirium, with time frozen at the moment the Cruzian knights charged. Forever. It would be better never to wake.
Several dragons fled southward. As they swept over the hills, they stirred up a blast of icy wind that set the pine forest roaring. The people, who moved like walking corpses, raised their heads and watched with dull eyes, yet not one of them uttered a complaint. The Cruzian First Prince sat rigidly in his saddle, as motionless as a puppet. Colors shifted endlessly in his dim eyes, as though they were still replaying the terrifying sight he had witnessed that day.
That figure spanning the heavens was slowly falling. Orwenlos, the hero of