Zebs

The Ice Kingdom drowned in eternal winter. Once, streams sang, forests whispered, and fields bloomed here. But when King Elaric came to power, everything froze under the weight of his faith and madness.

He was old and cold, like death itself. In his eyes burned a fanatical fire — a belief that God hears only through suffering. Elaric believed that sacrifices purified the land. He raised taxes, forbade joy, and burned those who doubted the “holiness of the cold.”

People died of hunger and frost, while he prayed barefoot in the snow, convinced it was the will of heaven.

When the queen tried to flee, saving their son, he took her life with his own hands. The boy he spared — but locked him underground, far from light and warmth. “God is my judge, not my son,” he said.

Years passed.

The boy grew up in darkness, listening to the crackle of execution fires above. He knew that God was silent. He prayed — but his mother never rose again. He called — and no one answered.

Thus faith died, but power was born.

When Zeus turned twenty-one, he took up a sword. A storm broke over the capital; flames engulfed the palace. That night, the old king Elaric was overthrown. And Zeus — the Black King — ascended the throne.

He was different. He did not believe in gods, but he did not forbid his people to believe. He did not punish — he listened. And though his eyes were cold, his heart still beat with life.

Every Sunday he came to the ancient temple — not to pray, just to be among his people. The temple was as old as winter itself, its walls carved with reliefs of light.

People gathered there to beg for a miracle: “May the Holy One come — the daughter of heaven, the savior — to melt the ice that cursed our land.”

That Sunday, the wind was especially cold. Snow fell like ash.

When Zeus entered the temple, the flames of candles trembled in the draft. The elder at the altar spoke the last words of prayer — and suddenly darkness fell. The candles went out. The temple was swallowed by shadow.

But then... from beneath the dome burst light — pure, blinding, divine. On the stone floor lay a girl.

Her hair shone like molten gold. Her skin was pale, woven from snow, traced with golden lines — runes burned into her by light. She wore only a thin cloth, barely covering her body.

The crowd gasped. Some fell to their knees, others wept — they knew. She had come. The Saint.

Zeus froze. His heart beat harder than ever before. He approached her, knelt, touched her hand — a pulse.

He took off his warm black cloak and wrapped her in it. The light slowly faded. The temple returned to darkness.

He lifted the girl in his arms and left the temple. The crowd stepped aside, afraid even to breathe.

The snow was still falling — quiet and thick, as always. Zeus walked down the snowy street, holding her close.

But suddenly, her hand slipped from his shoulder and brushed a tree by the road. At that very moment, the tree shuddered — and its branches, once covered in frost, bloomed with white and pink flowers. The snow around it melted, revealing living earth.

From the crowd came a cry — trembling, full of awe.

Zeus stopped. He stared at the blooming tree, unable to believe his eyes. Then he looked at her.

Her eyes were open — bright blue, glowing like the reflection of the sky itself. She gazed at him and smiled — softly, peacefully.

“Spring...” someone whispered.

Zeus stood silently, feeling the cold air fill with the scent of life. And for the first time in many years, he felt as if he were truly breathing.

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