Kyrillos's flashback

Tucked away in the frozen capital of Whitethrone, a delicate spire of white marble rises above the rabble. Outside, the dark skies are filled with twinkling magical lights that the witches have conjured for the occasion. Occasionally a soaring beast swoops through the streets, sending the peasantry running for cover. A man stands on the balcony of the tower and watches the snow slowly settle atop the capital around him. This wasn’t the world he was born into.

“Kyrillos,” comes a sweet, honey-like voice. “People are asking about you.” The man turns to see his new bride, her hair jet black, contrasting her snow-white skin. Her face is adorned with patterned make-up that holds some sort of significance to the event tonight, but the man never remembered why. Despite her beauty, her face is twisted with concern.

“Of course they are,” Kyrillos responds. “People here always question what they don’t understand.”

The woman’s face turns hard, suddenly. “The point, my husband,” she says pointedly, “is for people to understand. You don’t want to stand out here.” She gestures at his newly-sewn suit and shaws that covered his frame. “You’re among the nobility of Whitethrone. You don’t understand what they’ll do to you if…” She lets the words trail off. He never could understand what vast gulf exists between their people.

He cast his gaze out into the darkness once more. He knows that he heard a voice on the northern winds. It tells him that this is all wrong. It warns him of-

“The infamous witch of the wilds, come to grace us with his presence.” The man speaking wears a long cloak of raven feathers and a mask with an exaggerated beak. Behind him, a gaggle of supporters, similarly dressed, titter and fidget amongst themselves.

Kyrillos opens his mouth to speak, to correct the mistake, but he is cut off by his wife. “Llaine, what is it that you want?” She clearly holds no love for this man.

The raven garbed man only smiles. “Only what’s best for you, my sweet.” He turns to Kyrillos. “Marrying into this line… quite the daunting task. I must know, who is your patron?” The man has stepped closer to Kyrillos, fingers carefully exploring his new clothes. “I can’t imagine they’re that powerful.” The man called Llaine gives him a wolfish, predatory smile.

Run! screams the voice on the wind.

Kyrillos stares at Llaine, his ice blue eyes flashing in the night. He can hear his wife saying something, but it’s being drowned out by the arctic breeze. Behind Llaine, he can see the festivities stopping as all eyes turn to him suddenly.

They’re going to kill you! the wind shouts.

It’s too late. Bolts of fire explode behind his head as he dodges from side to side. The balcony itself begins to crumble as Llaine’s hands crawl away from his body and turn into vicious, blood-thirsty ravens. “They know!” He can hear his wife’s voice now screaming along with the wind, “Run! Run!”

He lashes out with the force within his breast, tendrils of primal energy surging through his veins like ice water. Somewhere, distantly he watches as one of the witches shatters beneath his assault. Another is hurled across the room, only to land amidst the burning braziers. All the while, Kyrillos plunges downward upon the broken balcony, and the ground rushes up to meet him.

This land is not safe for you. I will guide you to where you are needed.

When Kyrillos comes to, he is alone on a snowbank, untouched by the cold. In his hands are a clutch of raven feathers and his new clothes are coated in a thin veneer of blood. The sun has begun to rise.

Forget this life, the wind says. Forget what has happened and make a world worthy of living in. And never stop running.