Sigvar Half-Barrel Arrow fell to one knee and bowed his head, the wind howling on the other side of the gate like a legendary ice ghost.

He's the Mountaintop Cutter, he's the Blood Sword of the Winter Thorn. He had taken the head of Helmga Core, the chief of the Chosen Sons Tribal War, and he had guarded the Valley of the Spine alone, stalemate with the Raven tribe until reinforcements arrived at the main fort.

On top of that, Sigvar is an Ice Descendant.

And yet—even with the great feats and honors he had earned under the Eye of Lisandro—he still felt a little anxious about the task ahead as he knelt before the open gates of the main fortress of the Frostguard Fortress, and listened to the cold wind whipped beside him with the whining of the whining banshees of the abyss.

He didn't put on the heavy black armor, because the weight of the armor had no effect on the rest of the mission, but the shield on his back and the sword at his waist reassured him. Anticipation hung over his head. He prayed that he would not disappoint.

"You will now descend into the darkness below, brothers and sisters of the Guildhouse," said Loraka Tongue, the Frost Father of the Guardians. "But you will not be alone. We, the Children of Shadows, are never alone, whether in the darkest of winter icefields or in the deepest hidden rifts, the Eye of Lisandro watches over us. ”

"We were born of ice and return to ice," Sigwa chanted, and two other congregation members kneeling beside him chanted the same prayer in unison.

To his left is Oral Stonefist, a legend of the Frost Guard, who had fought in the army for half his life long before Sigvar was born. He was as strong as a wolf, with a gray beard and resolute eyes, and his skin was like hardened leather, covered with cracks and deep lines. His shoulders were draped in ice bear fur, but his arms were covered only by faded war tattoos and dozens of iron rings, each of which had been won from battle rituals. His massive warhammer, the Son of Thunder, hung diagonally behind his back. The weapon's hammerhead is wrapped in ice, and its story is as rich as Oral's.

Kneeling to Sigvar's right is Hala Icespirit. If Sigvar is a worship of Oroar, then he is an excessive reverence for Hala. She possesses utter fearlessness, her faith is indestructible, and she herself is as harsh and deadly as Winter. Her mandarin duck hatchet, with its fangs and claws, hung around her waist, but she looked a little unfamiliar with the black chain mail and horned helmet. Like Sigvar and Oral, she deliberately dispensed with her armor for this journey. Her side hair was shaved, and the rest of her white hair was braided in a delicate braid in the middle of her head, like a gorgeous crown. Her left eye was a cloudy white, and the attack that blinded it left three wild scars on her face.

He had heard the story of the scars that Orald had told of the badges of the bear-hunting crowd. He killed the three-headed bearmen and then scared the others into fleeing, but Sigvar was convinced, though this was just a claim. Had it not been for Frostguard bringing her into the clan as a child, Hala would undoubtedly have become a powerful war-mother, leading a tribe beyond the main fort.

The Frost Priest took a few steps closer, first to Oral, "with one eye on you," he prayed.

Sigvar could barely hear Oral respond with a low growl, and his heart was pounding. Then the Frost Priest walked up to him, his chest tightening, and it felt like his first battle.

"Look up, Frostguard," the priest said quietly, Sigvar obeying the order and raising his chin to look at the old man's face. It was a skinny, haggard face, sunken cheeks and deep eye sockets. There was no goodwill there, and Sigvar did not expect goodwill. Their faith is harsh and cold. Loraka Forktongue had a piece of holy black ice hanging from his neck, and the tip of the scepter in his hand was also facing a piece of black ice. The silver vessels of the Lord for healing and worship. The Frost Priest held out a finger and dipped a shallow basin of Kraken's ink, black and stinky, and then drew a one-eyed eye on Sigwa's forehead.

"One eye is watching you," he said.

"Never blink," Sigvar replied with a chant, then bowed his head again. His forehead was burned with ink, but he endured it with Iceborn's indifference. Pain is a blessing.

The priest walked up to Hala and finished the ceremony, and the three chosen Iceborns stood up.

Oral was the tallest of the three, with lean muscles that were like a rope, while Sigvar was the heaviest. Hara was half a head lower than Sigwa, but the power and domineering she exuded made her look taller.

The three Frost Guards stood up and took their bags, ice axes, and ropes, which they laced over their shoulders and slung to their belts.

Sigvar looked back at the Frost Guard behind him, who stood silently to see them off. Loraka Forktongue turned, his mission on the expedition was complete. Another group of Frost Priests followed him, like crows following the war. The shadows of the main castle soon engulfed them.

"It's time to go," Hala said. "Darkness is calling."

Sigvar nodded, joined Hala and Oral, and turned away from the Frostguard crowd, through the gates of the main fortress, and onto the stone bridge that spanned the Wailing Abyss.

The ethereal wails that flowed in the wind grew stronger, and shards of ice crystals struck them, but none of the three wavered. They were willing to eat it. Ice is their ally. Ice is their truth.

Behind the three Frost Guards, the gates of the main castle closed, and the reverberations of the roar quickly disappeared into the cold wind.

Sigwa took a deep breath.

Now they are going into the abyss.

Such an expedition takes place once a year, on the day of the vernal equinox, when the day is equal to the time of night. Three people will be selected from the Frost Guard. The candidates are selected from the Guardian Lodge, the core members of the faithful who guard the deep path.

It was a great honor to be chosen for this most sacred duty, and his heart was filled with pride when the trumpet sounded and Sigvar's name was called. It's his nineteenth winter, so he's the youngest person to be selected. He had gazed countless times at the long list of thousands of people carved into the walls of the meeting hall. One of my first memories of getting up to the main castle is to look at those names with reverence and dream of the great deeds behind them. More than half of them had a simple rune added to their name, the Rune of Death, which meant that they died in the performance of this sacred duty. It's dangerous to go too deep, even for Iceborn.

Sigvar knelt in front of the black ice statues of the three sisters, Alvarosa, Serelda, and Lisandro, who had begged them for a long time to recognize his qualifications and one day let his name join the others. Now it seems that his prayer has been fulfilled. He has spent his life preparing for this honor. He will be the pride of the Guardians' Guild.