We set off north today. Though the Demon King’s army marches south, it’s progress is slow. It will be about a couple hundred miles before we ever see the army.

There are four of us. Including the usual party, Qun will accompany us as an observer. Apparently, a holy man always records the defeat of a Demon King. Even though this is just a hit and run mission, he apparently has faith in us.

This is it. The culmination of five years in this world. Today I set out to save it. This the beginning of my hero’s story.

Chrom sat cross legged in the dark. It was the middle of the night, and a blizzard blazed outside. He breathed in and out, kindling the internal flame he held within him. He remembered the days before, when he, just a simple holy man, wandered the world, spreading the influence of the World Forge. He remembered what his purpose was, to kindle the flames and spread life across the world. It was a purpose that was now long gone. As he meditated, he fingered a small wooden artifact in his hand. It was relic, passed down World Forger to World Forger, a sort of gate way that connected one to the old gods. He managed to keep it hidden in the far corner, under his cot. He had spent several nights digging out a small hole there to hold this, and another small metal box he had stolen from the Masters.

Chrom regarded Markus, who was sleeping a few feet away from him. The mine workers were packed closely together, their cots, no more than mats on the ground, packed so close together that one had to sleep sideways to avoid touching the person to your left and right. The boy was breathing irregularly and would cry out in his sleep. His ribs had been broken, so sleeping was painful for him.

A few weeks ago, Markus had tried to instill rebellion. He was instantly silenced, the other prisoners turning on him and beating him. They were scared for their lives. It took all of Chrom’s influence to convince them not to turn him in to the Masters. He tried again and again, each time the prisoners ignoring him, until he became white noise, no different from the howl of the blizzard outside.

The men and women around him shook in their sleep. He felt guilty. The internal flame kept him quite warm, and yet others froze to death around him. Sometimes when it was really bad, he would project some heat on them in their sleep. It helped bring down the sleep deaths, but Chrom could not do it all the time. It was his duty to keep the flame lit and using it to warm others endangered it.

Chrom tip toed over the people over to his hiding hole. He reached into it, pulling the metal box from it. He propped it open. It was filled with Experience crystals. He was careful, for they gave off a glimmer, a symbol of the energy they contained. Of course, no one knew what it was really, except the remnants of Chrom’s sect, and the Supreme One. These crystals contained a absurd, primordial power that has it’s origins in the ancient gods.

Chrom knew. It was time. Honestly, he thought he would never try to escape. After the Hero of Frosts failure, he thought that the Supreme One was too powerful to oppose. And yet… something compelled him onwards. A faint whisper, in the back of his mind, warm like the flame within him. It compelled him, telling him that he was must allow Markus to escape at all costs.

Was the boy the one true hope of this world? Was he the true Hero of the Frosts? Or was he an instrument, a tool to compel the old gods will? Chrom did not know. The only thing he did know, was that he himself had a role to play.

He took a handful of the crystals and ate them. He did this again, and again, and again, till he had finished them all. It had taken him nearly two years to smuggle this amount. High level Blessed can sense the crystals, so smuggling them was impossible, unless you did it one tiny shard at a time.

He felt them in his belly. They mixed with his flame. It soared, burning so brightly within him it caused him great pain. And yet he endured it, for he needed their power.

“All right!” he bellowed, his voice several octanes deeper than usual. “Wake up! Time’s a wasting!”

Everyone shot up, even Markus, who cringed in pain, his ribs aching. What they saw next awed them.

Chrom forced the flame to burn the crystals up, surging him with energy. His body became lean and limber, his muscles bulging through his thin shirt. His hair, once gray, now had streaks of black flowing through it. And his smile no longer bore his trademarked yellow rotten teeth, but rather was glimmering white.

“Markus.” He said, his voice now that of a younger man. “Take this.” He reached into the bottom of the box, pulling out a small leather bound book. “Do not open it.” He said, his hair now flowing black.

“What is it?”

“A record of the Supreme One’s ascension. I believe the pages will give some kind of clue to his secret.” He grabbed the boy by the shoulders, looking at him with his deep green eyes. “The Supreme One was once a man. He can be beaten. You bring this book to a World Forger named Thaim. He will be able to read it. Find a way to stop him Markus. And bring back the green.”

He turned from the boy and began to walk towards the door in youthful stride.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“To pick a fight. Those Blessed won’t even come close to expecting this. When dawn comes, make for the sleds. Follow where the sun rises. It will take you to the Eastern Hearth. The rest is up to you.”

“Chrom!” He called out to the man.

The crowd split, in awe at the miraculous transformation of their leader. Just as he approached the door, he turned.

“My name is not Chrom.” He grinned, remembering the days of before. The days when there was no snow. “It’s Qun.”

And so, he went out into the snow, leaving them there unsure of what had happened.

Qun had told he was two hundred years old. We Blessed, although we maintain our youth much longer than a Common, usually had a normal lifespan. And Qun was not the oldest. The ancient elders that guarded the Sacred Flame were said to have been there when this world was created. The Flame sustains them. It is a source of infinite life.