Prologue: The Game, the Scheme, and the White Snow

The seasons of Gracis Kingdom were less extreme compared to its neighbors. The year was divided evenly between the four seasons, and it was neither as hot as the southern reaches of the continent, nor as cold as the northern tundra beyond the mountains. The mild climate had contributed in some manner to the nation’s prosperity.

However, this prosperous kingdom had declined in recent years. It was beginning to rot from the inside, poisoned by the corruption of its nobles and government officials. And, as though to reflect its internal strife, the kingdom’s climate had begun to worsen. Drought, floods, and widespread infestations became much more frequent throughout the nation, causing famines. Worse yet, those seemingly ubiquitous greedy nobles had raised taxes to line their pockets, further destabilizing the lives of their people.

The citizens of Gracis might have been able to weather either famine or nationwide corruption, but both at once were unbearable. One of them was a man-made catastrophe, to boot. An easily avoidable one at that, if the king had only kept those nobles under control. The people called the king a fool and cursed his reign. If the king had only reined in the nobility and served the country as his duty demanded, their struggles would undeniably be lessened.

On the other hand, most people remained in the country despite their grievances, because they knew full-well that they would be worse off in neighboring nations. Immigrants in foreign lands were nothing but cheap labor. Starting out from scratch in a situation like that would require incredible effort, patience, and luck. Those common folk who worked themselves to the bone day in and day out had no way to improve their circumstances, nor did they have any hope things would improve. It became a daily ritual for workers to find themselves at a local tavern at the end of the day, to drink and complain the night away.

“It’s okay!” the barkeep’s son said cheerfully. He’d been helping tend to the customers with a wooden tray in hand.

“Come on, kid. The grown-ups are talking.”

The hardened regulars frowned at the boy, each holding a full wooden mug of cheap booze in their hand. Most boys his age would have run the other way, terrified. However, irritated drunks were part of life in a tavern.

The boy instead answered with a beaming smile. “Because of the Prince of Light!”

“Prince of Light?” The regular who had first answered the boy recognized the title. Children in town had taken to playing pretend, and playing “Prince of Light” was particularly popular these days. The gist of the story was that the Prince of Light, with his servants in tow, would take down the bad guys and make the world better.

The make-believe game required one child to play the Prince of Light and two more to play his attendants, as well as any villains or princesses they wanted to be involved. At the prince’s command, his men would defeat the villains and save the princess. With the catchphrase ‘Now that settles it!’, the prince would hold up his pocket watch to the villains. This trend seemed to have originated in a recent play performed by a traveling theater troupe, called How the Prince of Light Restored the World. Reenacting the play had become all the rage among the children of the capital, and the trend showed no sign of stopping. Even this tavern regular’s daughter would recite parts to him every day.

At the end of the day, however, it was just make-believe for children.

“Hmph. A cheap children’s story...” the regular grumbled.

“The Prince of Light is real!” the son of the barkeep protested, his polite smile fading. “I met him when—”

“Hey! Don’t shout at customers!” A fist struck the boy’s head, cutting his rant short. The tray fell to the floor, but since it had nothing on it, there was no damage save for the loud clatter. “Go to the kitchen and help your daddy,” the boy’s mother ordered.

“But Mom... the Prince of Light is real!”

“Now.” At his mother’s forceful command, the boy picked up the tray before trudging off to the kitchen. After watching her son leave, the tavern owner’s wife gave her customer an apologetic look. “I’m sorry about that.”

“He’s just a kid...” the man muttered. “Don’t go too hard on him for it.” The owner’s wife had an ample, motherly figure, so once she raised her voice even a hardened drunk like him felt like he’d disappointed his own mother. Both his frustration and buzz had dissipated. Then, the man recalled how the tavern matriarch hadn’t been out on the floor lately due to some illness or other. “You feeling all right, Mama?”

“Sorry to make you worry. We finally managed to get some medicine from a traveling merchant. I’m doing much better.”

“Good to hear. Speaking of, those bandits lurking on the roads have been taken care of,” the man added.

Crime had gotten worse because of the country’s unstable rule, leading to an abundance of bandits outside of the capital that targeted the merchants along trade routes. The result was a drastic drop in the number of merchants coming into the city, and those few who braved the journey were forced to hire guards. Moreover, the lords and ladies of the outer territories would charge merchants a fee for their meager ‘protection.’ The merchants in turn had to charge more money for their goods; some things had even doubled in price since the bandits began to appear. The medicine the tavern owner’s wife needed was sorely affected, so she’d been unable to treat her illness for some time.

“I hear they had attacked and killed some people, too... Thank goodness they’re gone. But who took them out? I doubt that lord would do anything for his people...” The regular recalled the lord of the land, whom he had seen from a distance once or twice. The man was immensely fat, in contrast to his emaciated populace. The people of the area all held the belief the lord could probably roll faster than he could walk.

“Speaking of His Lordship, there’s been a notice that this year’s taxes will be lowered,” a younger regular interjected.

“Really?!” The first man couldn’t help but raise his voice. He couldn’t imagine that awful aristocrat lowering taxes by any amount—much less across the board, for the common folk.

“It’s true. What’s more, the announcement says he’ll even consider accommodations for those who can’t pay. At first, I was afraid he knew some natural disaster was about to strike... But, now that I think about it, there was a guest at the lord’s manor shortly before the notice went out...” The young man trailed off before ordering a drink.

The barkeep quickly prepared the man’s order, sharing a smile with his wife. The two regulars were too busy gossiping about their lord over drinks to realize the change in the barkeep and his wife.

“All thanks to the Prince of Light...” their son muttered as he walked by them, carrying a dish from the kitchen. “Why do we have to keep it a secret?”

Elsewhere, there was a dark room without a single window. The only source of light was a lamp placed on the table in the center of the room, illuminating only the hands of those that had gathered there.

“Preparations are complete.”

“Finally!” one of the men cried. The room was filled with relief and excitement at the long-awaited good news.

“Settle down, everyone. Preparations have been made. Nothing more.” Another man’s voice, calm and collected, restored the tensions in the room. “Shall we begin...? Glory to Saint Ferris.”

“Glory to Saint Ferris!” the rest of the room copied.

Meanwhile, there stood a figure clad in a Spellcaster robe staring out into a snowy field. They hated snow. The white color always reminded them of their past. Their perfectly straight white hair perhaps suggested why.

Suddenly, a gust of wind lifted some flakes of snow from the ground, and they settled on their long, white locks. “I wish it would all disappear...” This utterance, that seemed to reject everything in the world yet long for something more, was lost in the wintery landscape.