That was a time when the gentle frost-light still lingered, a silver mirror unbroken, even as the golden realm had already fallen. In a single night, the glorious golden tower fell like a fig tree. Across the frozen northern plain, From the holy citadel to the ancient capital, dark blue crystal nails annihilated every last city with even the most minuscule sign of life. The once-praised apostle and the gods' first messenger both vanished in the catastrophe. Those who survived by grace of being nowhere near the cities at the time could only cling to life amidst the freezing wind and snow. With no refuge left to them, they simply waited for destruction to find them in the hollow dark. This is the great extinction spoken of in later prayers. Halcyon prosperity turned to dust, And the gods remained silent, unmoved by cries, curses, or reproach. In the despair of that long night, only one celestial ruler shed tears for the mortals' pain. She was the mistress of the Frost Moon, queen of the celestial chariot and of light, a heavenly agent whose origin was one with that of the world. Moved by pity, and a deeper, unspoken wish, she heeded the survivors' prayers. According to legend, she spun gleaming threads from the silver glow to lead the displaced across the frozen plains. And where her tears, full of longing, fell upon the frost-covered soil of the far north, they blossomed into lilies that would stand eternal in the icy winds. The proud descendants of Hyperborea call themselves the "Frostmoon Scions" for this reason, To honor the divinity who, whatever her original intent, gave them a new lease on life.

That was a time when frost's gentle light had long shattered like a silver mirror, but when the new moon had yet to rise. This is the story of two sisters who, born defective products, were never meant to be blessed. In the moonlight, an undisturbed sanctuary for strangers, the fragile souls shared a single breath. In the brief moments between agonies, moments that should have been filled with joy, they huddled together, drawing what little warmth they could from each another. They had never seen their parents, and nor had they ever heard the wind whispering through the groves. The two of them had only their grandmother, and the only way they'd seen the world was through the pages of a faded storybook. Its brittle, yellowed pages, torn and tattered, revealed to them a world they'd never seen: There it was, a single white bird, a streak of grace, gliding beneath a perfect moon. As they admired the free creatures of the fairy tales, the two children made a promise to each other... One day, the two of them would fly together like the white birds in the vast sky. "Since the day we were born, it's always been just the two of us." "When the day comes for us to leave, let's live the rest of our lives together." Many years later, one of them broke their promise, leaving for a faraway place alone. But alas, this was no flight toward a brighter future, but a fall into a much darker night. With her went half the dream, and half the pain meant for them both. Aila, later to become the first Moonchanter, began to endure twice the torment from that day on. "So you lied to me all along as well... My older sister, the only one I ever truly trusted." "But I won't resent you... I have long lost hope for the sky beyond."

That was a time when frost's gentle light had long shattered like a silver mirror, but when the new moon had yet to rise. It was then that the great plan, carried through countless generations since the time of extinction, was on the verge of culmination. The bloodline, purified for over a thousand years, would at last give birth to the chosen one destined to reign over Elysium. The false sevenfold radiance of the high heavens would fall at her feet, and the bones of the earth would rise to follow her. For from her would spring union with the world, and from her would the first great cause be rebuilt. That was the sacrosanct duty that had been passed down to the daughters of the far north. So it should have been. So it should have been... But on a moonless, snowbound night, the girl chosen to bear the sacred heir met the boy from the northern realm, And in his eyes, as clear as a winter's day, she beheld a reflection of a self she had never known. This unfamiliar stirring was enough to make the holy woman turn her back on destiny for that young officer from afar. For this new feeling, this foolishness called love, she cut off her bloodstained antler-crown and cast it down upon the snowy earth. The fallen one, who had betrayed her own people, ultimately failed to fulfill her destined duty. She was captured by a spy sent by the mad monk and was soon to be returned to the homeland she was meant to love. But as she looked down at the officer by her feet, crimson pooling beneath him, she drew the dagger to her throat in one final, fatal kiss. And so, the woman who failed to bear the sacred heir was buried in haste, her death forestalling the prophecy. Fortunately, the leaders of every generation had long prepared for premature end of such a blessed lady. Lovia, the then-Archpriestess, swiftly turned to a lesser branch of the bloodline for spares. But the twin sisters born of this lineage were a pale shadow of the one they were meant to replace. Hundreds of years might now have to pass before another child of sufficient purity was born. Seeing the glory of the great endeavor slip from her grasp like dissipating dew, The antler-crowned Archpriestess, maddened by anguish and obsession, hatched a terrible scheme. Why wait for the thousand winds to sweep through several generations? If they were too impure, Their flesh and blood too weak to bear the radiance of true moonlight... Did the Frost Moon's boon not linger faintly in all ███? Then let ███ purify their ███! Thus, in the name of flawless moonlight, the priestess committed an act so profane, That even the mistress of the Frost Moon would recoil in horror at the blasphemy...

That was a time when frost's gentle light had long shattered like a silver mirror, but when the new moon had yet to rise. The descendants of the far north could no longer hear the divine teachings of the high heavens, and they were consumed by burning wrath, just like in the days of old. No one knew how to forge anew the marvel the apostle of the Golden City had revealed to their ancestors. Yet the ambitions of the exiled — the ambitions of mortals — were more unyielding than even those of the gods. Should one lose the reliquary that can overnight till ten thousand acres of fertile land upon the dark, misty sea of ice, Then pen wild oxen into the furrows so that one may conquer the tundra inch by inch with fire, hoe, and sickle. Should one lose the arrow that can strike down the gods and pierce even that false sky, Then forge the plowshare into sword and blade, and the sickle and hoe into spear and halberd, then let blood be the lantern that dispels the darkness. And should the authority of creation, gifted by the highest of angels, be broken, Then one must govern the proliferation of the countless generations that follow by the crudest, primordial means remaining, that is, through law. So it must remain, until blood thinned by disaster and exile is purified into holy seed, And mortal descendants are born as perfect beings, fully one with the world. The perseverance and determination of all living creatures would eventually overcome all calamity — or at least that is what they firmly believed. After all, those who have planned the future of their people rarely have to suffer the slings and arrows of their contempt. "Here, drink this pure moonlight, my beloved child, my most cherished child!" "Let it weave into your flesh and blood, so that you too may be worthy of the gods' grace." "Look to the apostle of the Golden City. How he drank bitter wine and fought for the freedom of his compatriots!" "Like him, you must embrace this joyous pain, for from it, perfection will one day be born." The two could no longer tell what filled the ancient silver goblet. But if the kindly grandmother said so, then it must also be the will of the gods. Yes, yes. All to sculpting perfection, to fulfill a wish that had endured a thousand years. For the sake of the prophesied Elysium and the king destined to descend upon the world, impurity and trial had first to be transcended...

That was a time when frost's gentle light had long shattered like a silver mirror, but when the new moon had yet to rise. The gods' ancient blessing, like a lone spark on the vast tundra, eventually flickered out. As the heavenly moon passed from the sky, the earth that could not become the moon began to wither. The great deeds miracle workers did in years past had faded into vaporous prayers, and those prayers were now the silent worries of the masses. In those crumbling, moonless nights, even a holy woman of the purest blood, Was hard-pressed to weave the flowing light into a song that could move the world, as her ancestors once did. No matter how fervently the ancestors of the far north once vowed to follow their departed gods, Their descendants, mortals in this sublunary sphere, lived lives as fleeting as a flickering flame. In days long gone, when one could still behold holy women and Archpriestesses channeling the grace of the gods, People yet believed the new moon would one day arise from the shattered light. And so, when the last glimmer of grace had faded and miracles were no longer witnessed, The line between so-called faith and so-called lies in turn grew as thin and fragile as the morning mist. Legend has it that the antler crown of Moonchanters today was a gift from the Frost Moon at the moment of its obliteration. The silver tree was splintered, and bereft of white branches they might find, the priesthood pleaded for new coronals. Out of pity, the mistress of the moon wove holy crowns for them out of flawless moonlight, ones innate to their birth. That was why the last Archpriestess chose to forge her circlet from cold, pure iron. The young Lovia was just a priestess then, one who had never once witnessed a moonlit blessing, And she dreamed that such lies, that deceived others and oneself alike, could still bind the unfaithful believers together. Decades later, when the false antlered crown sank into the foul, corrupt blood, That which reflected in her eyes was still not the flawless moonlight, but the frigid night swallowed whole by her own shadow.