“I see fear in your eyes. Shame on you. An orc, born a warrior, trembling in fear, what a joke. You dreamed beyond your vessel, and now the punishment follows.”

Though the orc didn’t understand the prince’s words, he surely understood the meaning behind them, the sneer, the gaze that looked down upon him.

“Shut up! Don’t you look down on me! I… I am destined to become a Lord of the Frozen Lands!”

He howled furiously, unleashing an even stronger surge of frost.

At last, the prince’s fire and the orc’s cold clashed directly, creating a thick fog that filled the hut with hissing steam.

The sound of cracking bone echoed. His knee buckled under the weight of the glacier overhead.

But the orc rose again, forcing himself upright.

Barely able to stand, he met the prince’s eyes and growled.

“I’m a new breed! Not some mindless, bloodthirsty brute driven by instinct! I am not one of them, not anymore!”

As he spat the words, he recalled every moment of his life.

He denied the weight pressing down on his skull.

Just as he once denied the destiny that loomed over his people.

Mindless savagery. Unending war. Perpetual cold.

He had realized as a child that he was different. That no matter how much he tried to lead his people forward, they would never change.

Monsters … That was their fate. So he chose to abandon them.

When he met the beings who had given him his arcane gift, the Lords of the Frozen North, the Eskimos, he made a choice.

Rather than lead his people to death, he abandoned their destiny.

He chose a new fate: to become one of the Eskimos.

“I was different. I still am! Human! I don’t care how noble you are, had you been born among orcs, you would’ve walked the same path as I did!”

The words poured out like blood from a wound, then abruptly, he stopped.

His tongue had frozen.

“…I don’t know what you’re barking about,” the prince muttered with a tired frown.

Seeing that face, the orc understood.

He wouldn’t be heard. He wouldn’t be understood.

The man standing before him stood high and alone … Untouchable.

“Arrogant… and divine,” the orc whispered, more to himself.

The prince embodied what he had aspired to.

But he now understood, that path was forever closed to him.

What he had chosen was a mistake.

His rage cooled.

“Crack…”

The frost magic he had summoned to hold up the glacier began to eat away at him.

But he didn’t kneel, nor did he lower his arms.

He refused to let the ice crush him.

In his final moment, the orc accepted his fate, but he resisted.

The frost crept from his toes to his ankles, shins, knees, thighs, waist, chest, neck …

“You win, cursed flame,” he whispered.

Even that last surrender was frozen mid-air.

Encased in glimmering white, the massive orc became a statue beneath the glacier.

Arms still raised.

Forever resisting the weight of destiny.

It was, in its way, a meaningful defeat.

“You didn’t kneel. You fought your fate to the end. That’s admirable… orc,” the prince said.

Even in defeat, the orc had defied his chains. 

And so, the prince gave a nod of respect.

“But your magic must be sealed. I hope you’ll understand. I’ll make sure your revenge is not forgotten.”

Uncharacteristically solemn, the prince drew the sword strapped at his waist.

It wasn’t his usual blade, but a clean longsword he had taken from a Northwall soldier.

He ran a hand down its edge.

The surrounding fire flowed into the steel, and the blade turned red with heat.

Then, like inserting a key, he slowly drove it into the frozen orc’s chest.

“Sssssss”.

As fire met ice, a plume of steam rose.

And then, stillness.

The raging cold and vengeful flames both dissipated.

In the quiet mist, the silhouette of the prince came into view.

Standing still.

Facing the frozen orc.

Blue ice. A red blade in its chest.

White-blond hair fluttering like a banner, the prince gave a silent farewell.

Perhaps the orc had felt something in that final moment.

For a while, no one spoke.

“It’s over,” the prince said at last.

He turned and walked away, like a priest concluding a ritual.

Behind him …

“Shhhhhh”.

The steam in the room froze instantly.

Fragments of ice, like glass, drifted through the air.

They refracted the sunlight now pouring in.

“Whoa…”

“Wait, the ceiling …?”

“Your Highness! Look up!”

Everyone lifted their eyes.

The dome overhead, once thick and grim,had become transparent.

Branches of ice intertwined across it like veins, but light shone through.

“It’s like glass…”

“Beautiful.”

Sunlight from the northern sky streamed in, illuminating everything.

Crystals danced in the air, scattering the light.

At the center of the ruined stronghold, one frozen orc stood alone, defiant to the last.

The prince looked upon his creation and smiled.

“You are noble now… at last,” he murmured.

No one could hear it.

But the prince offered that tribute to the one who had held the glacier aloft.

With the prince leading the way, the group left the hollow that had once been a stronghold.

Behind them, the blade embedded in the orc’s chest glowed faintly red, pulsing like a heart.

On the road back to Northwall, a different battle began.

They had survived.

But now …

“Let me carry you.”

“No.”

“Then let me do it.”

“Still no.”

“I have the broadest back.”

“Enough, Balzac.”

“I can carry you too!”

“Be quiet, lamppost.”

“Why is it always me?”

Three backs lined up before the prince: Alfred, Andre, and Count Balzac.

No sooner had they left the battlefield than all three insisted on carrying him.

“Your steps are unsteady. And I am your loyal steward. Let me take you safely back to Northwall,” Alfred pleaded.

“My lord, that old man’s back could snap at any moment. Let me carry you,your knight swears to serve with all his strength!”

Andre even insulted Alfred to make his case.

“My back is the broadest, and my rank the highest. Surely the most fitting throne for our prince,” Balzac said calmly.

The prince stared at the trio, his head throbbing.

Truth be told, he was exhausted.

The battle had drained him. Pride and sheer force of will had kept him upright, but that was nearing its end.

As he seriously considered choosing Balzac’s back … 

“Your Highness. I have come to escort you.”

A gravelly voice called out.

From the snow … 

“Who the … !”

“Everyone, on guard!”

An old man emerged, his red nose gleaming, reeking of alcohol.

He sniffed the air like a hound.

“I’ve prepared a little cabin for you. Got some food, too. It’s humble, but it’ll do for a bit.”

He grinned, teeth missing, eyes sparkling.

The prince stared.

“…Better than those oafs, at least.”

He turned away from the sulking trio and headed toward the old man’s hut.

“Crunch. Crunch”.

His footsteps on the snow echoed as fate-notification windows blinked and chimed in his vision.

He glanced back at the ice that now covered the battlefield.

And at the orc who had once stood tall beneath the glacier.

I will not kneel either, he thought.

Even if my legs shatter, I will defy my fate.

I will consume it, rip it apart, burn it down.

And rise.

His legs steadied.

The hunt had only just begun.