Death is Eternal #453 by GIC
The Crown of Wintersmoke and The Crown and the Thistle
Contents
The Crown of Wintersmoke (genre: fairy-tale fantasy)
The Crown and the Thistle (genre: fairy tale)
The Crown of Wintersmoke
Genre: fairy-tale fantasy
Word count: 506
In the mountain-locked realm of Wintersmoke, where snow never melted and owls whispered secrets through frozen firs, the people gathered in the Stone Abbey to choose a new Moonseer.
For generations, the Moonseer guided Wintersmoke not with armies but with visions and song, binding the realm to the will of the Great Lantern — an ancient spirit whose light pulsed beneath the abbey floor like a buried star.
The last Moonseer, Eldwyn the Grey, had passed into starlight three moons prior. Now, the conclave of twelve — one from each frozen province — had come together under an ancient oath. They sat silently for three days and three nights, fasting, praying and listening for the Lantern’s will. No words were spoken. Only the wind moved, rattling the frost-caked windows like a creature trying to get in.
Outside the abbey, in the crooked hill town of Northfang, a boy named Gregor carved runes into ice blocks behind his mother’s shop. He was no one of note — the son of a chimney warden and a herbwife — but he had always heard whispered in the cold that others could not. The frost spoke to him. The wind sang lullabies only he could understand.
On the fourth day, as the conclave remained unmoved and the Lantern remained dim, the flame erupted.
A white fire burst through the floor of the abbey and spiralled into the air, splitting the roof’s great dome of quartz and ice. The conclave fell to their knees. Their eyes wept not from heat but from awe. A single trail of shimmering frost spun outward from the flame and slithered down the hill.
“It’s the Path of Choosing,” Elder Maedrin whispered. “We must follow.”
So the twelve rose, their cloaks stiff with ice, and followed the trail through winding lanes and over icebound bridges until it stopped before Gregor’s door.
The boy opened it, his face smudged with soot and his fingers blue from the carving. He stared at them, wide-eyed and mute.
“I have no visions,” he stammered. “No words.”
“The Lantern speaks through the silence,” Maedrin said, bowing.
That night, under the frost moon, Gregor stood at the heart of the abbey in his patched wool coat. The conclave placed the Crown of Snowglass upon his brow — a circlet of frozen light forged from breath and memory.
The Lantern pulsed blue.
And in a voice he did not recognize as his own, Gregor whispered truths none had dared to speak: that the cold would grow deeper before it broke, that blight would come to the eastern pines and that a beast of rusted iron stirred beneath the Cracked Vale.
His words became law. His name was etched on the silver pillars of the abbey.
From that day forward, he was no longer Gregor, the chimney warden’s son. He was Moonseer Gregor II, Keeper of the Frostlight, chosen not by blood or birthright but by the fire beneath the snow.
And Wintersmoke would never forget the winter it crowned a child, nor the warmth that followed in his wake.
The end
The Crown and the Thistle
Genre: fairy tale
Word count: 1,002
Long ago, when clouds still listened to the secrets of kings and rivers carried the memories of old wars, the kingdom of Avendar was caught in a quarrel that threatened to tear the realm in two.
King Jonar the Second, ruler of the House of Velmor, wore the crown of Avendar, but never in peace. Though the people chanted his name and his throne gleamed beneath the Crystal Dome, not all hearts beat for him. The twin lords of Thandrel — Darian and Merek — claimed the right to rule in his place. They were sons of Queen Sarella’s first marriage and heirs of the rival House of Argell.
“Two heads for one crown,” the old washerwomen said. “That never ends without thunder.”
For many years, the twins had waited in the North, nestled in the crimson halls of Thornspire Keep, brooding behind walls laced with frost and pride. Their followers called them the True Sons of Avendar. Jonar called them traitors.
The war began with a whisper — a tax collector hung from a sycamore tree in the northern glade. Then came burned villages, black banners and the drums of Thornspire echoing across the plain. Jonar summoned his council in the city of Eldarhold.
“They mean to tear the crown in half,” Lady Mirell, his steward, said, her voice as sharp as the pin at her throat.
“Then let them try,” Jonar said. “We shall ride to meet them. One kingdom, one king.”
So it was that the First Battle of Olthermere was born.
The armies met at dawn beneath a sky of ash and silver. The field stretched wide between the singing woods of Cinderglen and the steep slopes of Mount Toran. Rain fell through the mist, soaking the furled banners and making the plain slick with mud.
Jonar’s banner bore the golden wolf of Velmor on a field of indigo. The twins rode under a crimson thistle in a chain. As the horns blew, both sides surged like the tide — horse and blade and thunder clashing in the grey.
But Jonar was not merely a king. He was a rider of the Redwing Guard, trained by the high blades of the Varnish Order. His blade, Dawnsworn, was forged from star iron and etched with runes too old to name. His helm bore no crest, for he said a king’s face should be known, not hidden.
He led the charge through the enemy’s heart. His cloak flew behind him like fire. For every knight of Argell, Jonar met them head-on, cutting through shields and shouting words of courage.
At the height of the clash, Darian, the elder twin, rode forth with his sword — Voidfang, carved from black steel in the dark forges of Vel Tirak. He challenged the king before all.
Their duel rang across the valley, a song of steel and fury.
“You were born second,” Darian shouted, circling his horse. “The throne was not meant for you!”
“I was born to serve the realm,” Jonar said, “not my pride.”
Steel met steel. Dawnsworn flashed like lightning. Voidfang sang like wolves. Around them, the battle paused, watching with bated breath.
In the end, Dawnsworn struck true. Darian fell into the mud, crownless and silent. Merek, younger and fiercer, tried to rally the remnants, crying vengeance — but the heart of Thornspire’s force broke with his brother’s fall. Their banners toppled, their men scattered, and the battle was won.
Jonar did not cheer. He did not laugh. He simply lowered his sword, his breath steaming in the air like a dragon’s sigh.
That evening, as the sun tore through the clouds and painted the hills in gold, the king walked alone among the fallen. He found Darian’s body beneath a twisted pine. He knelt, not as a victor, but as a brother of the land.
“I never hated you,” Jonar whispered.
He ordered that the twins be buried together beneath the weeping stones of the Olthermere hills. “No more blood between us,” he declared. “Let the thistle grow beside the wolf.”
The kingdom stirred.
In Eldarhold, the bells tolled for peace. The Crystal Dome opened its gates to the people of the North. Jonar lifted the ban on the House of Argell and swore that no son of Avendar would be branded an enemy for his name alone. Thornspire was not razed but restored — its library rebuilt, its temples relit.
Some whispered that Jonar had grown soft. Others said he had found wisdom. But all agreed that Avendar was whole again and that the First Battle of Olthermere would be the last between Velmore and Argell.
Years passed, and the golden wolf no longer rode to war. Instead, he walked among the markets, sat beneath the elder trees of Cinderglen and listened to the songs of children born in a time of peace. He spoke often of balance, of duty over pride and of thistles blooming in the snow.
Once, a child asked him, “Your majesty, why didn’t you destroy the thistle root when you had the chance?”
And Jonar smiled.
“Because if I had,” he said, “it would only grow back sharper. But if I plant it in open soil beside the wolf, maybe it’ll stop trying to strangle the crown.”
When Jonar peacefully died in the thirty-third year of his reign, his crown passed not to his kin but to a council of stewards and sages. It was an idea born in battle and forged in mercy. They ruled not by blade but by voice and mind. Some said his ghost walked still beneath the Crystal Dome, watching not as a king but as a shepherd of the realm.
In the hills of Olthermere, where the windflowers sway over the graves of old foes, a single thistle grows tall beside a carving of a wolf. The wind hums a tale for those who listen, a tale of a crown earned not by birth or blade but by the courage to heal.
And so ends the story of The Crown and the Thistle.