The kingdom was dying slowly, and each day brought more empty stares and bodies that did not want to die forever. Souls flew out of people like sparks from a dying fire, settling on clothes, on tombstones, on swords. They were a mist. It was called the Soul Blizzard – not because it brought cold, but because in its wind prayers and pleas could be heard: for the return of light, for mercy, for the end of endless torment. It was a song of despair of entire generations, too weak to appease the gods, yet too strong to be silenced.
The undead wandering among the ruins entered this blizzard and for a moment regained memories – the image of home, a child's smile, the warmth of the fire in the fireplace. But these memories were like blades: they gave hope, and then hurt when they disappeared. Knights, priests, and ordinary people stood in this storm, reaching their hands to the sky, as if they could grasp their own souls and hold them a little longer. But the blizzard knew no mercy – it carried everything toward the dying fire, as if the earth itself begged for a flame that was no longer there.
