A folk tale from the northern lands tells of two brothers: the King of Summer Oak, who once brought warmth to the world, and his elder brother, the King of Winter Holly, who loved him dearly. But a sudden, tragic quarrel led to the elder accidentally slaying the younger, and ever since, the world has been ruled by unrelenting winter. Perhaps it would be impossible for people to explain why their benevolent king is forever shrouded in wind and snow, if such a tragedy were not involved. But only the long-lived fae know that the unmelting permafrost has endured far longer than the reign of the Tsar. The White Emperor, who ruled the fae from the lofty throne of the Pale Star, had been silent since returning from the ruins of the far north. He lingered in the birch forest, deep in thought, before finally opening the door to the humans he had once turned away. A labyrinthine palace rose at the edge of the frozen earth, built alongside the giant furnaces of Snezhnograd. To this place were summoned the wisest of humans and fae, and here, the first seeds of a grand delusion were sown. For countless days and nights, the Tsar's most loyal and valiant retainers stood guard over this court of audacious transgression. Among them were fae who had followed their ruler from the beginning, as well as mortals from a lineage that had proven its unwavering loyalty to the Tsar. The two brothers belonged to the clan's younger generation. The elder, having inherited the nightingale's emblem, took up the duty of guarding the sacred chariot. The younger son, who had always admired his elder brother, had no choice but to forsake his family name and resign himself to a life of obscurity on the frontier. Then, a calamity, born of selfishness, shattered their ideals and changed their destiny forever... The loyal guard was consumed by "beasts," creature of pure darkness bereft of intellect, for the crime of glimpsing the secret of the philosophers. His younger brother, who had left to quell distant unrest, returned to a world already covered in deep snow. But instead of its customary silver-white feathers, the spear he found now wore the black stain of noble blood. Years later, the general who had inherited the family name forsook his homeland, journeying into the wild borderlands on a quest for vengeance. Every time his fingers traced the spear, he was transported back to that long, snowy night outside the ancient palace gates. The memory was one that was soaked in sorrow, the words of his old friend — words spoken as he stood before the guillotine — echoing in his mind. Beneath the sublunary sphere, the world lay shackled by tragic fate, its lost citizens wandering aimlessly through the lands they once called home. The Torchforger, bathed in the moon's eternal light, lit the everlasting flame and began his watch.