A harsh northern land, where the relentless cold seeped into the very souls of its inhabitants, hardening their hearts against both the elements and each other.

The air was sharp and dry, biting at exposed skin and turning every breath into a puff of mist. Pale, grey skies hung low, casting a muted light over the empty streets and shuttered windows. 

The trees stood brittle, their dark limbs standing out against the endless white hills. Here, nestled deep within the snow and ice of Ordovia, was a town whose inhabitants were colder than the frozen ground—a necessary hardness, forged for survival itself.

The streets stood empty by day. Yet, as dusk bled into the sky, a new sound emerged: the faint, coordinated crunch of footsteps on frost and the low, rhythmic chant of drills echoing through the town. "1… 2… 3… 4…"

At the sound, every child would rush to their window, pressing their noses against the cold glass to catch a glimpse of the passing soldiers. They were figures of awe and grim necessity, a bulwark against the strange corruptions whispered to be sown by the Outer Gods.

Clad in thick green parkas lined with fur, they marched in perfect lockstep. Each wore a standard issue cap though the bitter cold reddened their ears and their exposed skin. The faces were set like stone, eyes locked ahead never wavering from the back of the soldier in front.

Legions upon endless legions marched through the town. No child knew their purpose or destination; the reason for their passage through such a small, remote place was a mystery buried under layers of official secrecy. Yet they watched, captivated by every moment of the spectacle.

One young girl jumped up and down at the sight, her small hands pressed against the windowpane. Her eyes, wide with unblinking fascination, were completely fixed on the moving figures, tracing their relentless, synchronized progress down the snow-covered street.

A pair of arms scooped the girl from the windowsill, pulling her away from the flashing lights below. “Come on, my love. You shouldn’t see this. It’s long past your bedtime.”

“Mom?” the girl whispered, pressing her face into her mother’s shoulder. “The big people in armor… do they protect us from the evil bad guys?”

Her mother’s embrace tightened, her body rigid. The word was a strained, brittle thing. “Yes.”

“I want to be big and strong like them someday,” the girl declared, her small voice full of determination. “So I can protect you and Daddy.”

Her mother didn't answer. She just held her daughter closer, her eyes fixed on the wall, seeing not the peeling paint but the terrifying future her child had just imagined for herself.

Her mother stifled a watery laugh, her heart aching with a mixture of dread and love. She carried her daughter to bed, tucking the duvet snugly around her small shoulders. “Well, if you want to grow strong enough to protect us, you can’t do it without plenty of sleep,” she said, her voice soft. She kissed her daughter’s forehead and blew out the candle, plunging the room into a soft, moonlit blue.

She was halfway out the door when a quiet whisper stopped her.

“I promise I will protect you all.”

The mother turned back. Her daughter was deep asleep, her face smooth and peaceful, already dreaming of being a hero. The words, so earnest and pure, melted the icy knot of fear in her chest. She crept back inside, and unable to help herself, she brushed another kiss against her daughter’s hair. For the first time that night, she felt a flicker of hope.

Once she was close, she quietly patted her head, her smile both tender and sad. "My brave little Hilda," her mother whispered. The name was a sigh, a prayer, and a secret all at once. Hilda, already sinking deep into sleep, only heard the sound of her mother's voice, the words themselves fading into a dream.

The next morning, Hilda woke with a single, blazing thought: ‘I want to learn more about the army!’

"Mommy!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the house as she shoveled breakfast into her mouth. Her mother, who had just finished smoothing the last wrinkle from Hilda's bedsheets, entered the kitchen. The memory of the previous night was a fresh ache in her chest.

"Yes, sweetie?" she asked, her voice calm, bracing for the question she knew was coming.

“Can I say hi to the soldiers!”

“Hilda.” Her mother’s voice was gentle but carried a firm, unyielding edge. “You know the rules. We are not to approach them. It’s for our safety, and it allows them to focus on their… very important duties.” She chose her words carefully, each one a shield.

Hilda reluctantly nodded and slipped her small hand into her mother’s. “So? When is Daddy getting back home?”

Her mother’s face went still, all expression smoothing into a fragile mask. Her lips pressed into a thin, straight line. “Soon,” she said, the word hollow and brittle.

Hilda felt the lie like a change in the air. She saw the shadows in her mother’s eyes, the one that hadn’t been there before her father left. She wanted to ask more, to demand a real answer, but the fear of deepening that sadness kept her silent. She just squeezed her mother’s hand a little tighter.

“Ah, Yes, sorry! How about we go to the library with Yuri and his mother?” her mother suggested.

“Yuri?!” Hilda squealed at the mention of her best friend.

Yuri was a boy her age who lived just a few houses away. He thrived on the thrill of getting into trouble, yet seemed to face any real consequences—being the mohay’s son had its advantages. Hilda, as his closest friend, happily took advantage of the immunity and joined him in all sorts of reckless adventures behind her parents’ backs.

Sometimes they vandalized the town center with toilet paper, laughing as the white trails fluttered in the wind. Other times, they climbed over fences to spy on the soldiers training at the outskirts. On their boldest days, they even snuck into the officials’ meetings, pulling pranks like swapping out their coffee cups or blowing wigs off their heads.

Those wild, secret little adventures had bound Hilda and Yuri together more tightly than any promise could. They were inseparable now, two halves of the same mischief.

“Yes…” her mother exhaled, her tone weary. “That doesn’t mean you two can cause trouble there.”

“I won’t, Mommy. I promise I won’t be a bad girl,” Hilda said, nodding quickly. The sparkle in her eyes betrayed her, and the sly curve tugging at her lips told another story entirely.

Her mother only sighed, the kind of sigh born from too many memories of feathered wigs flying across meeting halls and toilet paper streaming down lampposts. She prayed—though not with much faith—that this day would end differently.

When they reached Yuri’s house the door opened to the warm smile of his mother.

“Oh!” she greeted them cheerfully, stepping aside.

And there was Yuri—beaming, waving wildly the moment his eyes landed on Hilda.

“Hi, Hilda!” he shouted, his voice cracking with childish excitement. The grain on his face stretched wide, showing the fresh gap where one of his teeth had fallen out.

“Yuri!” Hilda shouted, dashing forward to throw her arms around him. Yuri laughed, nearly stumbling back from the force of her hug.

While the children greeted each other, their mothers exchanged polite smiles.

“We were planning to go to the library,” Hilda said eagerly, turning to  Yuri’s mother with wide, pleading eyes. “Can Yuri come too? Please?”

Her puppet-like expression was impossible to resist. Yuri’s mother chuckled softly and nodded.

The answer had barely left her lips before both children jumped into the air with joy. Hilda and her mother stepped outside to wait while Yuri and his mother prepared themselves. Five minutes later, the group set off together.

Hilda and Yuri walked ahead, chattering nonstop about everything and nothing, their voices overlapping like the song of two birds. Behind them, the mothers strolled at a steadier pace, their conversation more measured.

“So, why the library today?” Yuri’s mother asked.

Hilda’s mother smiled warmly as her gaze lingered on her daughter’s lively steps. “Hilda wanted to learn more about the soldiers,” she explained. “She dreams of becoming one of them someday.”

After ten minutes of walking, they reached the library.

“Children, remember,” Yuri’s mother said softly, leaning down to their level. “No loud voices in here. It’s a place for quiet.”

Both Hilda and Yuri nodded solemnly, though the sparkle in Hilda’s eyes betrayed how hard it would be for her to contain her excitement.

The moment they stepped inside, Hilda’s breath caught. The vast rows of shelves stretched higher than she could reach, lined with more books than she had ever seen in one place. She darted off almost instantly, eager to find anything about soldiers and the wars they had fought.

Her mother gave a small, knowing smile to her friend and motioned toward a nearby table. Together, they guided Yuri to sit, while patiently waiting for Hilda’s return.

Meanwhile, Hilda stood on tiptoe in front of a towering shelf, her fingers straining toward a heavy volume resting far above her reach. She stretched again and again, until her mother’s gentle hand plucked the book down with ease.

“Thanks, Mom,” Hilda whispered, hugging the book to her chest.

She glanced around, spotted Yuri and his mother seated by the table, and hurried over. Sliding onto the chair beside him, Hilda carefully opened the book, her eyes already gleaming with anticipation.

“The Arcane, Sir John Williams.”

Hilda whispered the title under her breath as she brushed her fingers across the worn leather cover. The book was heavier than she expected, its spine groaning faintly as she opened it. The paper inside was yellowed, edges fraying like leaves that had weathered too many seasons. On the very first page, cramped yet deliberate handwriting stretched across the parchment:

I am John Williams, a scholar who delved into the arcane. I knew there was something in this world hidden from all eyes. This is my attempt to preserve what once vanished, so it may not be lost to history.

Hilda blinked, tilting her head. The words felt… different. Not the dry explanations she usually expected in books, but almost like a whisper meant for her alone. She clutched the volume tighter and flipped forward to the table of contents.

Her eyes darted over the headings. Each chapter promised strange tales: The Vanishing Lights of Alderwick… The Beast Without a Name… The Choir Beneath the Sea… Her heart pounded with excitement. But the very first entry was nothing like the others.

“Foreword of the Last Witness.”

Something about the title prickled at her skin. Slowly, she turned the page. The ink here was darker, heavier, as though the writer had pressed down with too much weight, each letter etched with urgency.

To the one holding these pages,

I do not write as an innocent man stumbling upon the arcane, but as one who made the grave mistake of practicing it. I had not foreseen the Faustian snare into which I fell. Its tendrils wrapped around my soul long before I realized it. Now I am less man than shadow, and still it clings to me.

I beg you, do not treat these words as curiosities. They are warnings. This magic corrupts. It seduces. It does not grant without taking twice as much in return. Once you touch it, you will not leave unscarred.’

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavier than the silence of the library itself. Hilda’s small hands trembled as she traced the ink with her finger, though her wide eyes brimmed not with fear, but fascination.

‘If you are reading this now, I am dead—lost to the curse this study granted me.

These chapters are a journal: a careful recording of my discoveries, my practices, and the consequences that followed. Take these pages not as instructions but as warnings. Let no sweet promise of power lure you as it did me. Do not repeat my folly. What is written here exists only to enlighten, so that others might avoid the same fate.’

Hilda closed the book and exhaled, the breath trembling more from unease than fear. The neat, desperate hand in the foreword had cut the air of adventure; she felt like a sudden chill. This was nothing like the dusty military chronicles she had hoped to read; the book spoke of bargains and corruption, of a darkness that took more than it gave. Best not to dig deeper, she thought, tucking the volume to her chest as if its words might spill out and cling to her.

Hilda nearly jumped when a pair of hands suddenly slipped the book from her grasp.

“Hey!” she hissed, her voice just above a whisper as she reached for it.

Yuri held it easily out of reach, tilting his head at her. “Looks like you’re finished reading. Why were you so caught up in this?”

He turned the book over in his hands, tracing the faded letters on the cover. His mouth parted slightly. “The Arcane…” he murmured, almost reverently. Then his eyes flicked back to her, one brow arched. “Didn’t know you were into this sort of thing.”

“Because I’m not!” Hilda snapped back, her cheeks flushing. “I wanna be a soldier, not some- some magicky person!”

Yuri exhaled, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint, almost knowing smile. “Good. You shouldn’t be. This stuff… it’s not safe to practice.”

Her curiosity was instantly piqued. She leaned in, eyes narrowing at him. “Wait, you know about it?”

Yuri rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze shifting away.

Hilda’s eyes widened. She shot to her feet and gripped his shoulders with both hands, leaning in so close their noses nearly touched. “How?! What?! Tell me everything!”

“Well…” Yuri began, drawing out the word.

But before another sound left his lips, the world around them shattered. A blinding flash swallowed their vision, white and absolute. An instant later, a violent force slammed into them, hurling their small bodies backward.

They crashed into the bookshelf with a hollow thud, volumes raining down around them. The floor shook as wood groaned and debris scattered. For a moment, there was only the muffled roar in their ears. Then came the delayed rattle of falling books, echoing like aftershocks.

Both children coughed through the dust cloud, their lungs burning as they blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the chaos that had just torn through the quiet library. 

The Blue Danube Waltz floated through the air, faint and unreal, its lilting rhythm brushing against the dust and ruin of the library. The melody felt like mockery, too elegant for shattered walls and fallen shelves.

Hilda pushed herself up, her palms stinging from splinters, and darted toward the mound of books. A tuft of curly black hair peeked out from the pile. “Yuri!” she cried, clawing through the stack until she could pull him free.

He coughed hard, the dust choking his lungs, but when he looked up at her, his eyes were still bright.

“Yuri, are you okay?” she whispered, half-afraid of the answer.