Prologue
Everyone knew the story.
Agnarr and Iduna had been gracious sovereigns. Their rule had been just and kind. All people had loved them and respected their wisdom.
But their firstborn child was their undoing. The king and queen's only sin had been that they loved their daughter overmuch and did not slay her the instant they saw the evil curse upon her.
For, though born to be queen, ice ran in that abomination's blood and she was possessed of powers too terrible to imagine.
Agnarr and Iduna had tried to show the creature love, but soon her might had grown so much that they shrank from her in fear.
In the end, they were forced to shut her away – for their own safety, for the safety of their youngest daughter, and for the greater protection of the realm.
But the formidable young sorceress would not be shut in darkness.
One night, she slew her father and mother while they slept. Their screams had echoed beyond the castle walls, ringing out in darkness… When the morning came, men found the mangled body of King Agnarr crucified to the castle gate with bolts of ice, his lifeless face fallen forward, blanched with terror. His loving wife was speared beside him, a silver-white spike goring her throat.
The castle itself was collapsed in around them – all except the gate, which stood still in grotesque mockery. (They had thought that they could confine this witch, and now, sneeringly, she spat their intentions back in their faces.) All the splendor that they and their line had built had been demolished by whirling snow. Corpses of servants and maids were strewn about. The body of the witch's sister was lost to the rubble…
That was the story of why the witch ruled in Arendelle, governing the land with iron force. That was the story folk whispered in their malcontent.
That was the story that was the lifeblood pumping through the ranks of the resistance. The resistance – this small band of honorable men and women fighting against the dark queen, Elsa…
