Ysildra

"Winter is but a season. She would see it become eternity." — Boreas In the northmost reaches of Tya, where jagged mountains cut through glacial skies, there lies a silent kingdom in a still valley. A name rests upon the blue lips of its inhabitants, though they have been unable to whisper it for many, many years... A demigod born in exile, Ysildra gazed upon the ice and saw perfection from the moment of her inception. Winter preserved all things alike, asking nought but silence in return; for harsh were its gales, yet absent were its grudges. The same could not be said of man. In time, mortals flocked to her domain, drawn in by her extraordinary presence and vision. Ysildra was raising a kingdom unlike any before it—a land where the harsh elements were held in balance, justice was swift, and every citizen prospered beneath the watch of their immortal queen. For many years, she believed she had succeeded where fallen empires had failed. As the demigod alone remained unchanged, however, mortal tendencies inevitably prevailed. Beautiful children regressed into powerful nobles just as once humble merchants declined into greedy magnates. Where others regarded these as lessons in the changing nature of mankind, or accepted them as part of the eternal human cycle, Ysildra would not hear it. She became obsessed with a singular thought: Evil had never been the external threat of merciless rulers or invading armies. It belonged to mankind itself, innate, and inexorable. Thus, if hatred were as inevitable as the changing of the seasons, then no kingdom could ever remain pure, and no peace could ever truly last. Seized by doubt, Ysildra suddenly felt betrayed, as though the world had deceived her. If the living could never escape their own coldness, then neither would her kingdom. On the longest night of winter, Ysildra whispered a single incantation, and on the following day, morning never came. Streets fell silent. Lanterns hung motionless. A city of souls lay entombed within flawless crystal, preserved exactly as they were in their final moments. They wore expressions like porcelain dolls, devoid of life—of sin—yet peaceful in a way she never before dreamed. They would remain as such, too, until she discovered a way to expel the darkness lurking inside every heart. But decades slipped by as Ysildra's search for answers bore no fruit. Her own flesh yielded to pure crystal, until she scarcely resembled the woman who once ruled with equity and courage. Eventually, Ysildra no longer sought to free her people, for she had come to believe they had never been freer than in that perfect, silent state. Survivors mourn the brilliance that became dogma. Tya mourns something else entirely. Winter, they say, is beautiful because it ends. Ysildra would rob the world of spring itself. On rare occasions when Ysildra catches her reflection in the ice, she sees what she wants to: the first ruler willing to save humanity from itself.