The summons came on a wind-bitten morning, a royal rider cloaked in crimson. King Arvald of Vinterhold had heard of Torin's deeds, and with the realm shivering under tales of the Frost Dragon atop Eldermount, he offered a command wrapped in gold: slay the beast, claim a fortune, refuse and face treason's noose. How did his name turn to legend's gold, you muse? How vast the trial no mortal could refuse? Torin stood before the king's envoy, his grin faltering. A dragon was no bandit or barmaid's husband—this was a myth coiled in lore, a vast shadow that devoured knights whole.
He took to the road alone, his armor clanking under a gray sky. The mountain loomed, its peak a jagged fang piercing the clouds. As he climbed, ice-winds roared, gnawing at his core, whispering retreat through the swirling snow. Torin's breath clouded, his legs burned, but he pressed on, driven by the king's decree and the weight of his own name. "A fool's quest," he mused, doubt a shadowed thorn, pricking at the bravado that had carried him this far. The villagers had cheered, "To slay and rise a legend!" they'd sworn, but now, with the wind's plea in his ears, he wondered if they'd sent him to die.
At the summit, he found it—a beast sprawled across the frost, vast as myth, coiled in lore. Scales glinted like shattered ice, eyes burned like cold moons. Torin drew his sword, its edge humming faintly, a song of steel he'd trusted through every brawl. He planted his boots in the snow and roared, "Here, foul beast, your doom descends!" The blade sang with him, a defiant note against the mountain's howl.