• Winter was coming. The trees had rid themselves of their yellow, red, and brown leaves, giving them up to the cold earth as a blanket of crunchy, crispy deadened life. The wind had a harsh, bitter tongue that licked anything in its path raw. Dark clouds threatened everything below them of icy-cold snow that would cover the earth in a white, fluffy blanket, which kills any kind of warmth.
    In the middle of a valley, with deadened trees covering a vast portion of the earth, a lone building stood on the far side. A portion of this great structure was imbedded into the mountain that protruded from the frozen earth on the northern end of the valley. Its' great stone towers speared the blackened sky; it's roofs far above the tallest of the valley trees. It's location was ideal; hidden from view, yet still in plain sight.
    A windy road stretched across the valley, practically dividing the forest-crowded land into two equal sections connected only by the stone fortress and the northern mountain range. On the other end of the stone, forgotten path was a small village laying in a clearing, squished between the sea in the southwestern end, and the northern mountain range which curves around to the eastern side. The good distance between the valley and the village was swallowed by the infinite, borderless woodlands of wildlife and wilderness.
    When the small barony of Fontaine Dans Sable settled in the clearing, little of the villagers knew of the ancient fortress sitting north of the village. The ancestors of a common family descending from a distant and far land, discovered the ruins of the collapsing structure. They slaved many fortnights repairing and preserving the once beautiful fortress: Blackwarde Citadel. Once inhabitable, the family took residence, and adopted the name of their now beautified fortress as their own. In the years following, the Blackwarde family created their existence in the small valley by securing their hold over Blackwarde Citadel and providing a long line of linage.
    But time isn't so generous, and Blackwarde Citadel can show it. Towards the 6th or 7th generations, the family name had begun to vanish amongst the villagers. Around the 10th generation, the effort to keep Blackwarde Citadel pleasant to the eye and its young-like appearance, had become arduous, and eventually the task was abandoned. Surviving became a strategy; living became a liberty.
    Deep in the dark chambers of Blackwarde Citadel, a single figure sat in a large, velvet covered chair, staring past the open doorway at the door across the hallway. She had an angelic-like appearance; her pale skin had little markings; her soft, rose-colored lips were small but perfectly shaped; her brown eyes were perfectly spaced apart, and tilted ever so slightly; her dark, golden brown hair flowed unbounded with small but precise curls, the ends gently hugging her breasts and brushing her upper back. Her figure was still. Had her chest not lifted ever so slightly, one could have assumed her dead.
    From behind the closed door, the muffled sound of whimpers and cries pierced the silent air of the corridors. Arnyia Vy bolted from the seat of the large chair and crossed the hall to the closed door she had been eyeing for some time. Quietly, yet quickly, she opened the door to the damp, and much darker room. There, laying on the bed, was the figure of her younger sister, Nyla Evayne.