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The heathens burned the temples. They attacked the farms. They destroyed everything from tiny peasant homes to historical monuments more than hundreds of years old. People who resisted died. People who surrendered died. The snow-clad village of Cardia was stained red.

Blood of men. Blood of women. Blood of children.

The enemy's arrival was silent; their attack sudden. The sleepy spell brought by winter on the border village was broken by animalistic screams of pain. Cries of people burning were everywhere. There were shrieks of villagers dying. By midnight, half of Cardian population was slain mercilessly by the bronze-skinned men covered in wolf pelts.

The invaders relished the sight of the pale people bleeding, enjoying every slash of sword and arrow released as the village burned. They meant to annihilate every Northerner. They were humans on bloodlust — hungry predators on the hunt.

They proudly called themselves the sons of Summer. The Cardians called them heathens from the Sout