1 PROLOGUE

THE FALLING SNOWS hit the earth harder than a drunkard's coin. The frigid wind accompanying whispered over the entire white land like a sorcerer's spell. Only the faint crying of crows seemed to render a small flicker of life across the icy ground that stretched for miles.

A sole entity slowly appeared from beyond the hazy pour of snow. The cold wind whipped at his black garments and a shrivelled hand with fingers like sticks pushed forward to clasp the lapels of his robe. The winter air immediately devoured his skin and the figure instantly pulled his fist back into the heat of his body, clutching the robe firmly to his chest.

As he walked across the ashy land, silvery flakes kissed his worn boots and his feet left circles of depth in the ice which the snows immediately filled up. The winds howled in fury, as if angry at his continued movement and the man struggled to keep his robe on his body.

He walked on for hours until he neared a colossal rise of gigantic trees with barks red as blood. He walked into the eerie forest with eyes widened from their sockets and pale as the moon. The winds seemed to whisper less in the clave of massive Wytchwood, and his peering eyes glinted at the dark embrace of the forest, searching for that little movement that would send him on his heels.

Only miles and miles of crimson trees met his eyes. The forest was called ERACUSE; the word for Blood drinker in these parts. He should know better than to wander into the border of the Summerlands but the matter at hand was of great importance.

The Blood Forest was what separated the two realms. The one behind him, the Ice Realms, and the one before, the Summer lands. Eracuse served as a great border, ending centuries of conflict between the two Empires. No one knew how vast the forests spanned because no one had survived the journey. Legend says the Blood forest grew from the very rivers of blood that spilled during the Night wars. He never doubted legends. Afterall, he was also a creature from legends.

The air grew dank as he walked on, and the soil lost the white of the snows. The breeze completely faded and the temperature grew. The earth beneath his feet slowly loosened from the silver of the Winter Realm to the fire-red of Eracuse. He walked on, not minding the fact that he had walked for miles with only trees big as houses spread all around him.

His muscles ached, his bones were sore and he couldn't even tell if it was night. He could still see though. His Fae eyes shined through the darkness, white as milk. Only the heavy shadows of the trees haunted him.

Suddenly, he heard sounds of rushing water and his feet couldn't move fast enough. When he reached the springs that made the sounds, the blood froze in his flesh. He went pale as death at the frightful sight. Before him lay a swirling depth of pure water, only the river gushed red as blood. He gawped at the sight.

The legend was real.

He didn't doubt legends but to see one so mysterious before his very eyes jarred him still. The Blood lake was real. As he stared at the gushing red, he wondered how his people would love to hear the lake was real. The only problem was that no mortal or otherworlder had crossed Eracuse. Ever. The Blood forest was so named for a reason.

He stood staring at the flowing river of blood when a sudden gust of wind whipped his cowl. His hood instantly fell away, and hair white as the snow he trudged glinted in the little light of the Woods. His eyes were also white as milk but crinkled at the corners, and a flowing silver mane hung down his chin, like a winter wolf's pelt.

The wind whipped around in circles, ruffling the red sands of the forest. Brown dust arose and more of his garment fell away, revealing a smooth staff. The staff was carved from Wytchwood; the very wood of the blood forest, and burned with the runes of the Winter Realm sorcery.

The Old man lifted his staff into the air and slammed it down once on the red earth. The wood rattled and burned brighter. Silver runes arose from the staff, whipping into the air like tiny wings. His pale eyes shone brighter into the forest and the Blood lake mirrored his magicks. All at once, the winds dissipated and the Woods stilled to a calm. He abruptly turned around, suddenly feeling another presence. A wisp of sorcery coating the air. When his pale gaze landed on the figure that was slowly materialising before him, his blood ran colder than the winds before.

Spins of golden halos merged in the air, spinning around in a spiral gilded cloud. Few minutes later, a tall shadow stood before him. Taller than any man he had ever seen, or that any should be. This tall entity stood above his gaunt frame with eyes red as the blood lake. The Old man's bones rattled in his feeble knees and he watched as golden runes breezed around the man's head. Another legend, he mused.

This entity before him wasn't even supposed to exist. He was a tale told to girl children to frighten them at night. Red robes of the most ornate tapestry fell from his broad shoulders, and hair black as the mining pits flowed down his back in shiny falls. He wore no beard but his bloodshot eyes were a ghostly terror. The giant before him was the Hell of both realms. A deity both lands prayed they'd never meet. The Keeper of Eracuse, the Crimson Aeon.

"Welcome child!" The Aeon said to the stunned Old man.

The Old man looked upon his solid bulk with an open mouth, spittle dripping down in fright. The Aeon opened his mouth in a grim smile and the Old man fell straight to his knees at the frightful sight. The fingers clutching his staff shivered on the wood. His pale eyes glowed bright in terror and glinted at the Aeon's open mouth full of teeth forked as a serpent's.

~. ~. ~.

GRYTHER THE WHYTE awakened to a glorious scarlet dawn. The sun rose before him in a pure halo of golden brilliance. He looked around, discovering he nested at the foot of a giant Cypress.

A summer tree.

He grabbed hold of his staff and immediately arose, wiping at his clothes to rid himself of the dust coating his robe. He had no idea how he got there, yet he knew where he was. He had dreamed of seeing it for the threescore winters he had lived.

As the sun rose like a flaming fist, high into the sky, he closed his eyes and basked in the warm heat flowing into his blood. He had never seen the sun before, at least not one so bright. The only warmth in the Ice realms came from the mighty bonfires they had to make every night to keep warm. But these parts never lacked for the sun. The parts south of Eracuse: the Summerlands.

Gryther was from the North, a sorcerer to the high lord of one of the Ice cities. As he looked upon the sun, he remembered his journey. He also remembered his mission but for the life of him, he couldn't remember how he got past the Blood Forests. Everything from his entry to how he found himself at the foot of a pine was blank. He tried summoning a memory spell to awake his fragile mind. It did nothing. It was as if he just vanished at the Ice borders only to reappear before the summer borderlands.

Cool breeze unlike anything he had ever felt whispered over his ears and Gryther groaned at the softness. It was so much different from the hail that whipped in the North. No Icelander had ever crossed into the summerlands since the time of the Night wars when the Blood forests grew from the rivers of blood spilled during the long battle.

Gryther pulled his eyes away from the sun and looked behind. Eracuse stood proud and red, like the bushy mane of a beast. He looked west and watched the red trees stretch on for miles without end. Looking to the east, he also met the same sight, and he couldn't help but wonder what horrors happened during the Night wars. Eracuse was clearly nature making a move to end the bloody battles. Either nature or something else.

His thoughts moved back to what happened during his journey and he summoned the strongest memory spell.

A blast of wind whipped around him and the silver runes of his staff rose once more into the air. The image of a giant with red eyes and black hair immediately filled his head. As the memories danced before him, he spotted the giant's red eyes pin him and a cloak of terror fell over him. The man was beautiful, like a Fae. A Dark Fae.

Suddenly, in the flashes of memory, the giant turned abruptly and his lips pushed apart. Gryther howled in fright as the man's demonic eyes blazed scarlet and his vampire fangs dripped blood. The red-robed entity strode to him, placing a clawed finger on his forehead. Loud scratches showed on his head but Gryther had no idea what the man drew.

In the spontaneous flashes of memory flooding his skull, Gryther beheld himself kneeling before the Aeon, Keeper of the Blood forest. The man marked his head with a symbol, then with a voice like the beating of a mighty cavalry, the Aeon said,

"Away with you now, Child!" The Aeon had called him child yet Gryther was nothing short of sixty winters in eld.

That was the last Gryther saw before the images blurred out. He swayed with the force of the spell, falling to his knees. A drop of blood leaked out from his nose, falling to the brown soil beneath him. The spell had taken a lot from him and his staff still burned like hot coals. His palm sizzled where he held it but he held on. These were simply the histrionics of being a sorcerer.

All magic came with a price.

He was slowly catching his breath, wondering what the Aeon did to him and why he allowed him to pass through the Blood Forest when small feet appeared in his vision. The feet were bare and most certainly a child's.

Gryther looked up, meeting the brown eyes of a young girl. The eyes only summer dwellers could have.

"Are you lost, Ser?" The girl asked, her gaze moving over his white locks.

Gryther knew what she saw. He would look weird in their lands. Silver eyes. White hair. Pale flesh. The body of an Icelander. The girl's eyes locked on his again and he saw only innocent curiosity in their depths.

"Yes, child. I am," Gryther replied.

"Come with me," she said. Without another word, she turned, striding away to the village in the distance.

Gryther arose, leaning onto his staff to guide his steps. The girl led him to a clearing full of small wood chalets, and a packed tavern. The environment was clean and Gryther inhaled more of the cool summer breeze.

He looked down and spotted the girl peering up at him with interested eyes. He immediately conjured a small ball of ice. The ball slipped cold into her tiny fingers and her wide eyes told him she had never seen ice before. The Summer lands and the Ice realms existed on the same continent, his and hers, fire and ice, but they were divided by a forest of death. Thus, Icelanders had never seen a bright sun and summer dwellers had never felt the numbing kiss of cold.

Gryther lifted his pale eyes up to her brown ones.

"It's a crystal ball. Thank you, child."

The girl nodded and hurried away, her little brown braids breezing with the wind. Gryther looked up and spotted the high towers of Calipsos, the summerlands capital risen in the distance.

He could vaguely make out the four towers of the Seers, the summer equals of the Iceland's Wytchers. He had only ever read of their summer rivals in rotting parchments and only ever beheld the full continent of Adramon in decaying maps. But here he was, Gryther the Whyte, Wytcher of the Icerealm, looking upon the full might of the summerlands.

Gryther looked once more to the pub by the side. The loud voices of drinking men rumbled out from within. He smiled up at the sun once more.

He really needed to taste the summer ale for he had heard great tales about summerland wine. His staff rattled by his side as he moved for the brown door of the tavern.