The night had deepened.
In the fireplace, firewood crackled and popped, casting red flames that illuminated most of the castle's hall.
Two people sat on chairs, one to the left and one to the right beside the fireplace, with sparks occasionally bursting forth.
The young king listened as the Witch told a story from the North.
The story originated from a distant, dark age—cold and cruel, replete with death.
"The people of Wandong struggled in the vilest conditions, not seeing the sun for over a hundred years, believing they had lost it forever. Livestock froze to death, parents smothered their children, humanity almost perished, until the first Winter King promised the gods never to betray this land. They were granted a space to survive, a nightmare that the royal line of Wandong could never escape for thousands of years afterward..."
"Is the legend true?" the King asked.
"Mostly unreliable," the Witch replied.
