A warrior born to a kingdom of light and gold arose from the people to carry out a prophecy from a place with icy plains and rivers made of fire. He was a man born from gods and immortality ran through his veins, so the prospect of completing the quest had high hopes of success. 

“Take this armor,” his mother has said, “and stake your claim from which you harbor.”

“The Beast of Black shall take your soul if you don’t fight back for the kingdom’s toll,” his father had mused. 

So away this warrior went to fulfill his prophecy and come back with possibility of riches or fame; ambrosia from the gods even. He traveled through frozen lands and swam through boiling lakes, his head held up high at a chance to come back victorious. He would be a hero, he thought, a legend throughout the land.  

The warrior came across a kingdom of darkness and ice, gates sharp like crystal that could slice gods in half. As beautiful as it was, there was something about it that brought an ominous chill down his spine. The cold breeze blew shivers, and the dark atmosphere seemed to be crying, pleading to be freed from their hellscape. His body felt weak, his armor heavy, and he thought not even immortality could keep him safe. 

And on a pedestal just past the gates was a shackled princess crying inky, black tears. She wept and wept, sobbing to be freed, and the warrior felt it was his duty to free her from her torment. But what he didn’t know was that he made a fatal mistake there and then. Breaking through her chains and lifting her to her feet, it was already too late as the shadow of Death whisked into his soul and struck his final chord. 

The warrior’s blood leaked into the snow, staining the icicles red, and the next gust of wind showed him to the pedestal where his soul was shackled and chained. He looked up to see the princess holding a scythe in her delicate hands as her tears streaked down her face, dying the deathly snow with black.