The world was a desert of ice. Life had slowed to a crawl, and the warmth of the sun was a forgotten thing. No eye could remember the green of a field, nor the hum of life that once rose with the morning light.

Beneath the heavy white shroud, the small ones clung to one another. They were a knot of fur and breath, huddling in the deep dark of the earth to keep the cold at bay. As they slept, one among them saw a vision of a golden light and felt the touch of a sun that did not bite.

“Wake up, Puck,” said a voice.

Puck stirred in the huddle. He searched for the one who spoke, but saw only his brothers and sisters lost to their heavy slumber. Before his eyes could close, the voice returned.

“Follow the sound of the thunder.”

Puck nudged his kin in fear, but their spirits were bound by sleep. They did not move.

“Follow the sound of the thunder.”

A deep booming rolled over the earth, shaking the roof of their den. Puck left the warmth of the huddle and crept to the mouth of the burrow. The air outside was a whip of frost, and the thunder sounded like the world was breaking in two.

“Follow.”

Puck thrust his head through the snow and stood upon the white waste. In the distance, he saw the Three-Horned Beasts. They moved toward the thunder with heavy feet and eyes that saw only the end. There was no song of defiance in their throats; they were but the hollow remnants of a mighty race.

Driven by a pull he could not name, Puck left the safety of the earth. The wind howled against him, but his thick fur held the chill at bay. He wrapped his tail about his neck for warmth and ran toward the Great Horned One who led the herd.

He climbed upon the leader's flank and searched the leathery hide. He sought the small life that usually bites at the skin, but he found nothing; the world was too cold for even the crawlers to live. Puck moved to the brow of the beast and looked into its eyes, and he saw only the vastness of hopelessness.

He retreated to the creature’s back and sat in silence as the herd marched toward the storm. The thunder grew rhythmic, beating like a drum of war. A shadow fell upon Puck’s heart, and he knew the scent of his own grave. He stood tall upon the beast, straining to see the threat that drew near.

The rhythm closed in. The air grew thick and hot. Puck crouched behind the bone-mantle of the leader, making himself small as the herd came to a halt. Then, the red light began to take shape.

Behold now the Tyrant, who walks the frozen earth.

She is a mountain of scorched flesh and cooling stone. Along her spine rise jagged shards of obsidian, like a chain of rugged mountains. Between the rocks, she bleeds a low and terrible light.

Her breath is smoke and soot. She radiates a dry heat that slays the snow, turning the frost into a hissing mist before it can touch her blood-red hide.

The Great Horned One saw her and was filled with rage. He let out a cry that shook the world and charged. Puck fell into the deep white, for he was but a speck in the path of giants.

The Tyrant did not move. She watched with eyes like burning coals. When the Horned One reached her, she spun her body as a whirlwind spins. The Horned One struck only air, and his throat was laid bare.

She clamped her jaws upon his neck and lifted him toward the heavens. She slammed him down, and the sound of his breaking was the sound of a forest falling. She did not cease; she lifted him and broke him again, until his head was torn from his shoulders.

The herd saw the death of their leader and fled into the storm. The snow was no longer white; it was a red marsh, warm and slick.

Puck remained. His heart was a bird trapped in a cage, beating against his ribs to be free. The Tyrant turned her orange gaze upon him, and her breath was a hot wind that shimmered in the cold.

Then, madness took the small creature. He let out a roar that was nothing against the wind, and he leaped. He climbed upon the mountain of her snout. He dug his claws into her scorched flesh. Though her skin burned his hands like iron in a forge, he did not let go.

He struck the burning eye.

The Tyrant shrieked in pain. She lost her footing upon the dead and fell. The earth groaned as she struck the ground, and Puck was cast away, a stone thrown into the white silence.

Puck fell into the white deep and lay still. The Tyrant rose from the earth, her eyes searching the snow for the speck that had wounded her. Puck sought to flee, but his limbs were heavy as lead. He pulled the white shroud of the snow over his body, seeking to vanish into the ice, but his labor was in vain. The eye of the Tyrant is a flame that pierces the dark.

She saw him. She walked the distance in a single stride and stood over him, and her wrath was a dry wind.

Puck felt the cold of the grave and closed his eyes. The Tyrant opened her maw to consume him. But the sky split. A spear of light struck the earth at her feet, and the thunder shook the stone beneath her. A tempest of fire and sound gathered above, and a voice spoke from the whirlwind:

“Guard the small one. Lead him through the waste. Slay the giants that walk the earth. Do this, and that which thy heart hungers for shall be thine.”

The Tyrant roared at the heavens in defiance. The fire upon her back became a forest of flame, and she lunged to swallow the small creature—but she stopped. Her breath stayed. For her eyes no longer saw a furry thing of the burrow; she saw a child of her own blood, a small and slumbering life of her own kind.

A single drop fell from her eye and vanished into mist upon her burning skin.

“Please,” said the voice.

The raging fire within the Tyrant died to a low ember. She sat beside the small one, and her body became a great wall against the wind. She let her heat flow into him, keeping the chill from his bones. She watched over the child of her vision until her own eyes grew heavy. She laid her great head in the red marsh beside him, and the two slept as one.

The tempest passed. The world became silent, and for a moment, the bite of the winter was softened.