Chapter 18: Men of War
She looks over the mountain of documents strewn across her desk with tired eyes. She prides herself on being organized, but the day had gotten the better of her in the end. She begins sifting through the stacks of paper with quick fingers. Trade agreements. Financial ledgers. Diplomatic invitations. It all starts blurring together.
She feels a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Long day, love?"
She leans into Henrik's chest, letting out a long sigh as she closes her eyes. She focuses on the soothing sound of his heartbeat. He unpins her hair from the coronet she's done it up in, stroking the braid as he unravels it over her shoulder.
"Come to bed, Elsa. The world will still be here tomorrow."
She smiles at the teasing note in Henrik's voice. She lets him pull her up from the chair by her hand. He's looking at her with those soft grey eyes like she's the most precious thing in the world, and her frustrations melt away like ice in a furnace.
"You always know what to say," she murmurs. She closes her eyes as she leans in for a kiss.
She feels a cold wind on her face. Confused, her eyes snap open.
She's not in her study anymore. She's in the hallway above the courtyard. She looks over Henrik's shoulder, and dread pits in her stomach. Three men dressed in heavy winter jackets are approaching from ahead, their faces concealed by fur caps and scarves. Her dread turns into panic.
Henrik shrugs himself from her embrace and moves in front of her, his shoulders tensed.
"No!" she screams. "I can't lose you-" again, but the word gets caught in her throat. She pushes past him and runs toward the assassins, throwing up a determined hand in their direction. Her powers respond instantly. The men are impaled on spikes of ice before they can even draw their own weapons. She lowers her arm. Slowly, she turns around.
Henrik is looking at her with an expression of horror.
"You… you killed them," he whispers. His eyes harden in sharp accusation. "You said you would never use your powers to hurt anyone!"
"Henrik, no, please," she pleads, tears blurring her vision. "They were going to kill you! I'm just trying to protect you!"
But Henrik is already running in the opposite direction down the hallway.
"Henrik, wait!"
She's running too, tears of desperation flowing freely down her cheeks. Her husband reaches the end of the hallway and pushes through the door. It closes behind him with a slam. She reaches the door and tries to turn the handle. It is locked.
With a cry of frustration and pain, she pushes as hard as she can. The doors fly off their hinges, crumpling under an onslaught of ice and wind.
Henrik isn't there. As she walks through the doorway, she smells a sea breeze. Abruptly, the floor is no longer the maroon carpet of the castle hall, but the polished wooden planks of a ship. She whirls around. The doors are gone. In their place is a figure, kneeling on the deck with his head bowed.
As she walks closer, she sees a familiar mop of platinum-blonde hair.
"Thomas?" she calls out hesitantly. "Thomas, what is this place?" Her son doesn't seem to notice her.
There is a pressure building in her head. Suddenly, boots are sounding all around her. She finds the silver barrel of a rifle hovering moments from her face as black-clad soldiers step into her peripheral vision. Somehow she's on the floor now, kneeling beside Thomas as the men close in.
"Fire!"
A gunshot rings out behind her. The pressure is too much. Everything flashes blinding white.
Elsa awoke to pain. The spot below her chest where the bullet had struck her pulsed with burning white agony. She clutched at the scarred tissue with her hand, arching her back and gasping as another wave of heat seared through her flesh.
Slowly, the sensation dulled. The ringing in her ears faded away to be replaced by the sound of her sister's slumbering breaths from the bed beside her. Deep groans resonated through the walls of the cabin as the ship listed gently on the waves beneath them. Pale moonlight streamed dimly from the portside window.
She took a shuddering breath. As hard as she tried, she could not quell the panic from her dream. It had felt real, so terrifyingly real.
They would arrive at the Southern Isles in a couple of days. Admiral Felix had advised entirely against her presence on the journey multiple times, but she had held firm. They were not sailing to war, but deep down she knew they would need every advantage they could get.
Even if that meant using her powers. She clenched her teeth.
She couldn't lose Thomas, too.
The nightmares with Henrik plagued her sleep constantly, but this was the first time she had dreamed about her son since she woke up in the trolls' meadow. She remembered the vision of Thomas in the blizzard clearer than any other dream of her life. She went over the vision of Thomas kneeled on the deck of the ship again in her mind. The memory of Pabbie's words echoed hauntingly.
You drank deeply from the source itself. I can only imagine what it showed you.
Visions. Premonitions. That's what they were.
What's happening to me?
The panic in her chest boiled over. Her tears flowed in rivulets into the pillowcase, spreading delicate whorls of frost where they landed on the surface of the fabric.
The future is not set in stone. The future is not set in stone. She clung to the pillow as she repeated the words to herself like a mantra.
She could not lose Thomas.
She would not lose Thomas.
Admiral Joseph walked along the edge of the dock as he surveyed the shining hull of the frigate towering before him. His heels resounded off the hollow boards beneath his feet. Melting masses of slush dripped into the water in torrents as shiphands worked to clear the deck far above. Joseph moved to the gangplank, cradling his right arm in its sling under his dark green overcoat as he carefully ascended the steps. Purple-clad soldiers and white-clad sailors saluted smartly as he stepped on board. With his good arm, he shielded his eyes from the orange rays of the setting sun, watching as its last sliver sank below the horizon.
When the Scimitar White capsized, he had been thrown into the rear mast and got his arm caught in the rigging. The pain had almost made him lose consciousness, but it had stopped him from falling off the ship. Some of the other sailors hadn't been so lucky; many were pitched into the frigid waters of the bay. The rescue operation had not been an easy one, and in the end five men succumbed to hypothermia. After he was brought back to the castle, the Admiral had two nights' respite as the medical staff had tended to his fractured arm, but it was not to last. Earlier in the afternoon, the King had ordered him back to the docks to oversee preparations for the royal fleet to set sail in full force. Mathias hadn't said the words explicitly, but there was only one possible reason for readying the fleet in such scale: they were going to launch an attack on Weselton.
Joseph grimaced. There was no other explanation—the sudden change of plans was due to the King's custody of the prince of Arendelle.
As Joseph thought about it, he realized he had never truly believed in magic before the events of that fateful afternoon two nights prior. He had heard of the abilities of the Snow Queen of Arendelle, of course, but a small part of him simply could not accept that someone could have supernatural abilities of that magnitude.
That was before her son had flipped the Scimitar with nothing more than a wave of his hand. The snow from the blizzard that the prince had cursed upon the mainland still covered the streets and roofs of the capital city in a blanket of eerie white. Joseph shuddered at the memory of the unnatural clouds spreading to blot out the sky.
You think you can control that, Mathias? After you had the boy's father killed?
"Admiral!"
Joseph turned to find the captain of the frigate standing stiffy at attention at the bottom of the quarterdeck stairs.
"Good afternoon, Captain Emil," the Admiral greeted. "What's the status report on the Silver Merlin?"
"Fully operational, sir. My men are almost finished trimming her up. Once we load her with supplies and ammunition, she'll be ready to sail."
"The King has ordered we sail tomorrow morning. Are you on schedule?"
"Aye, sir," the captain replied confidently.
Joseph nodded in satisfaction. He stepped back down the gangplank and moved along the docks to the next vessel.
The Southern Isles fleet was made up of an extensive array of warships. Several of the smaller vessels were currently actively stationed elsewhere around the archipelago to fend off raiders and pirates, but all the largest ships were currently in port at the Imperial Navy docks, including four frigates and two Man-of-War gunships.
Surprising it even took this long for Mathias to declare war, the Admiral thought sourly as he walked toward the first of the enormous Man-of-Wars. It's unlike him to show so much restraint with all these toys lying around.
Cranes pulled cannons and crates of supplies up from the dock below with the sound of groaning winches and ropes. Joseph climbed to the stop of the gangplank, pausing for a moment to look around the bay from the high vantage. The Imperial fleet lay spread out around him in the shallow water of the docks. The sky had faded from a dusky red to the dark purple of twilight. This time the busy deckhands paid him little heed, swarming around him in flurries of motion as they rushed to move everything below decks. Spotting the figure of the captain near the tiller, Joseph ascended the stairs up to the helm.
"Captain Frank!" he called as he drew nearer to the man.
"Oh, Admiral Joseph!" The captain turned, looking startled. "I'm sorry we're behind schedule, sir. It's taking longer than expected to get all the cannons to the gun decks."
Joseph raised his good hand placatingly.
"No harm done, Captain. I'm sure with a little extra effort we can get her ready to sail by dawn."
Frank nodded, licking his lips nervously.
"Sir… is this it?" The man's throat bobbed. "Are we really going to war?"
Joseph let out a small sigh. He felt sympathy for the captain. Generations of peace was at an end, and he was to lead the charge.
"Chin up, soldier. You've trained your whole life for this," he replied softly. He tried to fix Frank with a confident look, but found the captain's own gaze fixated on something over his shoulder. "Frank, are you listening to me?"
"Admiral," the captain began in a hesitant voice, pointing beyond the Admiral. "Is that one of ours?"
Joseph turned, following the captain's finger with his eyes. What he saw froze his blood in his veins.
Silhouettes of tall masts pierced the arc of the horizon. The dark waters of the bay parted before the keels of two massive ships as they made straight for the Imperial docks with terrible speed, their wide hulls bristling with no less than five rows of cannons baring their muzzles from open gunports. Even in the dim, moonless night, Joseph could make out the black lions emblazoned upon the billowing sheets of their enormous sails.
The lion of Weselton.
Murmurs rose from the silence of the docks. Shouts erupted as more and more men noticed the approaching ships. The Admiral gripped the captain tightly by the shoulder.
"We need to get everyone-"
Joseph's next words were drowned out as cannon fire split the still air.
Thomas was growing restless. In the hours since the King had relocated him from the dungeon cell, he'd scoured every corner of the bedroom to no avail in the hopes of finding some other clue from his mysterious ally. The drawers in the desk were completely empty except for a dry fountain pen and a blank pad of paper, and the bookshelves didn't even have books in them.
He had only been allowed to leave the room twice. The first was a short trip down the hall to the bathroom, where he'd undressed and wiped himself as clean as he could of the grime of the dungeon with a wet towel, having to take extreme care not to disrupt his wounds and all while under the constant scrutiny of that same guard assigned to him by the King. Upon his return to the bedroom, he had discovered that all of the shirts in the wardrobe were too large for him and none of the pants would stay on his hips. This eventually lead to his second escapade: he was lead down the hall in the opposite direction to a larger wardrobe room by a quiet serving girl, where he exchanged his tattered clothes for a freshly-laundered grey button-up shirt and burgundy dress pants. He decided to keep his own boots.
Unfortunately, that seemed to be the extent of the decision-making that King Mathias was going to allow him. Despite Thomas's pleading, the guard stationed at his door refused to give him a tour of the castle or even let him explore on his own under supervision. Though dinner was served on a silver platter, nobody inquired about his preferences, and it was still a guard who delivered it, not a servant. The King's message was clear: Thomas was a prisoner, not a guest.
After a couple of hours spent fruitlessly plotting his escape, the prince resigned himself to waiting. To give himself something to do, he conjured a simple chess board and pieces out of ice and began playing against himself.
Chess had been his father's game. He remembered all the nights he had spent in his parents' study, sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace with the board between them. He could see his father's hands on the pieces, hear his gentle voice teaching him his favourite tactics and strategies.
He finished a game and began setting up another. As he played, he tried to remember how his father liked to play. He tried to pretend he was playing against his father. He tried to pretend his father was still alive. It wasn't long before the tears came.
One day, you will beat me, and then I will know you're ready to be King, his father once told him jokingly. Thomas laughed bitterly at the memory as sobs wracked his frame. Snow began to fall around him, but he barely noticed.
What now, Father? When will I be ready now?
He did not know how long he spent staring at the pieces on the board. He couldn't bring himself to make another move.
Unbidden, the image of his mother lying on the infirmary bed rose in his mind's eye. He could see the dark crimson of the blood seeping inexorably through her bandages.
Mother may already be dead…
He screwed his eyes shut as the snow fell harder. His mother couldn't be dead, too. It was unthinkable, impossible. As his cousins had grown into adults and his aunt's hair had greyed, his mother had always stayed the same. He had thought little of it as a child, but as he got older, he realized it must be the magic. The ice preserved her, protected her from even the ravages of time itself. It would continue to protect her. It had to.
His mother couldn't be dead.
There came a commotion from outside the door. Thomas heard raised voices and the sounds of booted feet pounding on the marble floor of the hallway. He hastily dissipated the chess pieces and traces of snow around the room, wiping his eyes as he rose and limped toward the noises. There was someone speaking just beyond the door. A woman, by the sound of the voice. He pressed his ear against the cold wood.
"... check that the gate is locked? I heard explosions and screaming!"
"Your Highness, please," the guard answered in an exasperated voice. "I can't leave my station! King Mathias ordered me to watch the Arendelle prince until the morning. Go find someone else."
"All the other guards are gone, sir! They all went into the city… Oh no, what if this is their plan? What if the attackers are here for me?"
"Don't be ridi-" The guard sighed. "Fine, fine. If it eases your mind, Your Highness, I'll check that the north entrance is locked. But that'll be the end of this, you hear?"
"Oh, thank you, thank you! I'll make sure my father knows you helped me."
The guard's quick footsteps receded down the hallway. For several seconds there was only silence. Then, the doorknob jiggled.
"Drat," he heard the woman curse under her breath. Knuckles rapped softly on the other side of the door. "Prince Thomas. Prince Thomas! Are you in there?"
"I'm here," he answered haltingly. "Who is this?"
"My name is Iona and I'm here to help you escape," the woman answered urgently. "You have to get this door open. Quickly, the guard won't be gone for long!"
"You were the one who left the note!" Thomas exclaimed.
"Just hurry up!" Iona replied with a hint of panic.
"Alright, stand back," Thomas warned.
He held his right hand out in front of him and reached for the ice. With a flurry of blue sparks, a clear blue morningstar crystalized in the air between his fingers. He gave it a quick practice swing before raising it above his head and smashing it down on the doorknob with all his might. Metal crumpled and wood splintered as the locking mechanism came apart under the weapon's momentum. He winced at the jarring pain from the would in his left shoulder from the impact.
The door creaked open to reveal a young woman dressed in an elegant black evening dress with a high-necked bodice and long skirt. Her delicate features wore an expression of astonishment as her striking green eyes beheld the spiked weapon clutched in Thomas's grip. Thomas tried to mask his own surprise as he willed the morningstar to dissipate in a spray of mist. He didn't know whom he expected his mysterious benefactor to be, but it certainly wasn't the beautiful lady standing before him now. From how the guard had addressed her, she must be a princess. He coughed self-consciously.
"If you're breaking me out, you know about my powers?" He meant it as a statement, but it came out like a question.
"Yes, but seeing them for myself is something else," Iona breathed. She blinked twice before taking her eyes off Thomas's hands to fix him with a determined gaze. "Come with me." She turned and began walking briskly down the dimly-lit hallway. Thomas could see slivers of the night sky through the tall windows above.
"Wait, what about my men?" he called after her in a hushed whisper. "I won't leave them locked in the dungeons!"
Iona halted in her steps. "I'm sorry, but breaking them out is too risky."
"No." Thomas shook his head vehemently. "I'm not leaving my men to be executed!"
"I don't even know where they're being held," Iona whispered back imploringly. "Please, we have to go now."
"I know where they are," a man's soft voice stated from behind him. Thomas whirled to see a figure detach himself from the shadows behind a pillar. Brown hair and sideburns sprinkled with hints of grey framed green eyes and a weathered but undeniably handsome face wearing an unreadable expression. The man's hands were covered by black leather gloves, the tails of a dark grey overcoat draping behind him.
"Who are you?" Thomas asked warily.
"The one who sent you the note," the man replied simply. He turned to Iona. "The prince is right. We can't afford to leave Mathias leverage." Noticing Thomas's limping gait, he grimaced. "I'll get them out myself. Meet me at the east dungeon entrance. If I'm not there in fifteen minutes, leave via the south gate and we'll reconvene outside."
The man reached into the folds of his coat and retrieved a long object wrapped in dark cloth. "I believe this belongs to you, Prince Thomas."
He threw the bundle through the air and Thomas stumbled as he caught it. It was heavy and cold. Thomas unwrapped the cloth slowly, revealing a blade of glimmering blue crystal. With a sharp intake of breath, he realized it was Sir Gingivere's sword. He looked up in shock, but the man was already gone.
"Come on," Iona urged. She ran back and pulled Thomas's arm over her narrow shoulders. With surprising strength, she began all but dragging him down the hallway. The castle was eerily quiet, and Thomas cringed at each echoing strike of his heels on the marble flooring. Maybe keeping the boots wasn't such a great idea, after all.
"Why are you helping me?" he eventually whispered.
"Because it's the right thing to do," Iona whispered back. Thomas frowned in confusion.
Does she know about the people I killed?
He clamped his mouth shut before he said anything regrettable. Whatever this princess's motives may be, he wasn't going to ruin his only chance at escaping the King.
They turned another corner. Two wide-eyed servant boys scurried into the shadows as Iona shooed them away.
"Where are all the guards?" Thomas asked cautiously.
"They've been relocated to the city," Iona replied in hushed tones. "I heard something about an attack on the harbour."
The prince's eyes widened. "Is it Arendelle?"
"I… I don't know," the princess admitted.
Suddenly, he felt her shoulders tense under his grip. He looked forward to see a guard making toward them from the opposite end of the hallway. The man lifted the lip of his beret and squinted at them.
"Princess Iona, what are you doing out here? You should be…" The guard's eyes flashed as he recognized the person leaning on the princess's shoulder. His hand went for the rapier at his belt.
"Thomas, do something!" Iona hissed.
"What! What am I supposed to do?" Thomas replied nervously. The guard was advancing toward them now with his rapier drawn.
"Your Highness, drop the prince of Arendelle at once!"
"Use your powers, damn it!" Iona's voice rose in panic.
The image of soldiers impaled on spears of ice flashed before Thomas's eyes. He shook his head, trying to steady his suddenly rapid breathing. He lowered his gaze and concentrated on the approaching guard's feet instead. Tendrils of ice curled across the floor and leapt onto the guard's boots in thick vines. The man cried out in surprise as he stumbled, finding himself suddenly stuck in place. Iona wriggled free from under Thomas in an instant, drawing the sword of ice from his hands in one swift motion and dashing toward the guard. With a wild cry, she swung the pommel at the man's head. The guard crumpled to the floor unconscious, blood streaming from a cut above his eye. The princess walked back and returned the sword to Thomas's dumbfounded hands.
"What is wrong with you?" she growled as she roughly yanked the prince's arm back over her shoulder. "You flipped a whole ship and you can't deal with one guard?"
"I…" Thomas couldn't find the words. He let out an incredulous laugh. "I didn't think you would be so eager to knock out your own men!"
"I'm not," Iona huffed, wiping her right hand on his shirt. "I hate blood." Thomas couldn't think of a reply to that. His feet could barely keep up with the princess's swift pace as she began moving with even greater urgency.
They came to another intersection of hallways.
"The dungeon entrance is this way," Iona whispered as she dragged him toward the left.
Thomas thought about the mysterious man with the sideburns. "Who was that other man? Why is he helping us?" he asked with suspicion.
"Oh, him." Iona was quiet for a moment. "The King was going to execute him. I saved his life. He owes me a favour."
"And who are you really, Princess Iona?" Thomas's eyebrows narrowed.
"Observant, aren't you?" Iona replied softly. "Just someone who thinks King Mathias is a very bad man. Now shut up, there might be more guards here."
They stopped at the next corner as the princess caught her breath. Thomas heard hard breathing and sounds of struggle from the hallway ahead. Peeking around the corner, he saw that the dungeon entrance was open. Two guards lay on the ground at the feet of the man with the sideburns. He was accompanied by another man dressed in a guard's uniform. With a start, Thomas recognized him as the same guard who had served him the meal with the hidden note. Behind them, familiar faces emerged from the shadows of the doorway. Thomas let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the other Arendellians, though clad in threadbare prison rags, seemed none the worse for wear from their imprisonment save for the dirt and grime on their faces and clothes.
Iona walked out into the open, dragging Thomas along. She nodded to the sideburned man. "That was quick."
"I'm a professional," the man chuckled mirthlessly.
It was Roderick who spotted Thomas first. His posture relaxed visibly in relief even as his narrowed eyes flitted between the man and the princess.
"Thomas, who are these people?" he asked in a low voice.
"I'm not sure, but they're helping us escape," Thomas answered.
Roderick sighed. "I suppose that will do for now." He stepped toward Iona, gesturing to the prince hanging onto her shoulders. "I can take him from here."
"Great, he was getting heavy," the princess said wryly.
The sound of a bell tolling reverberated faintly through the walls.
"Our ruse is up, they're sounding the alarm," Iona muttered.
"This way to the back gate," the sideburned man stated as he started down the hallway. The rest of the group followed close behind, the Arendellian guards forming a defensive perimeter around Roderick and Thomas.
They managed to exit into the south courtyard without further incident. Thankfully, the castle had clearly been designed to keep intruders out rather than prisoners in. As they moved across the paving stones toward the gatehouse, however, Thomas's heart sank. The portcullis was closed. Flanking the twin pulley stations were two guards wielding long pikes. The alarm bell tolled on, its tones much louder in the open air. The men sank into combat stances and positioned themselves in front of the gateway as the group approached.
"Halt, who goes there?"
"It's the sorcerer prince!"
This time, Thomas didn't hesitate. A bolt of light flew from his outstretched hand, bathing the guards' surprised faces in bright white as an arcing wall of ice shot up from the ground. Within seconds, the guards had been encased in a thick, translucent dome, leaving the portcullis pulleys undefended.
"Quickly, raise the gate!" Roderick commanded. Two of the Arendelle guards moved swiftly to the dangling chains. The portcullis rose with the clicking of heavy gears. The head of a pike struck the inside of the dome, bouncing harmlessly off the slick surface.
"What now?" Iona exclaimed. "You've locked us in!"
"Everyone get behind me," Thomas ordered.
With a grunt of exertion, he splayed his fingers at the barrier in front of him. The dome shattered with a sound like a shower of crystal, leaving a jagged wall between him and the guards within. Before the men could react, Thomas blasted the wall with a stream of arctic wind. The floor beneath the gateway froze over with a sheen of ice and the barrier slid forward, pushing the guards back with it. Roderick supported Thomas as he hobbled after the barrier through the gateway, a miniature storm still streaming from his extended hand.
He tried to make the wall expand again after it passed outside, but the guards were too fast. As he emerged from the gateway, he realized too late that one of them had already skirted around the barrier. Thomas watched rooted to the spot as the guard charged at him, pike lowered with deadly intent.
But Roderick was faster.
Thomas found himself thrown roughly to the ground. The head of the pike blew over his head, ruffling his hair with its passing and missing Roderick's abdomen by centimetres as the Captain of the Guard feinted deftly to the side. Roderick grabbed the weapon by its long handle and pulled. The guard's own momentum carried him into the Captain's kick with the crunch of a breaking nose. Roderick plucked the pike from the unconscious man's grasp and stared down the second guard, brandishing the polearm menacingly. The guard's determination wavered as he glanced at the rest of the escaping prisoners emerging from the gateway. Baring his teeth a final time at Roderick, the man turned and fled toward the city.
The Captain turned and tossed the pike to one of the other Arendellian guards before helping Thomas up from the ground.
"Sorry about that, Highness. Are you alright?" he asked gruffly.
Thomas bent to retrieve Sir Gingivere's sword from where it had skittered across the road, tucking it back under his arm as he moved to lean on Roderick once more.
"I'm just glad you're on our side," he laughed weakly.
"We need to get out of sight of the castle," Roderick commanded over his shoulder. "Move."
The group moved in tense silence off the road in the direction opposite of the city below. Sneaking a glance toward the bay, Thomas could see plumes of black smoke rising from the distant harbour. The silhouette of the castle disappeared behind rolling hills as the sound of the alarm bell faded off. It was almost an hour before Roderick finally held up his hand to signal for a stop.
Thomas collapsed to the ground, his breath coming in tired gasps.
"What's the plan now?" he asked, looking to Iona. With a start, he realized she had removed her skirt to reveal a set of brown canvas travel pants.
The princess shrugged. "We keep running. Taking to the sea would have been preferable, but with the harbour under attack that plan went out the window." She turned to the man with the sideburns with questioning eyes.
The man nodded, his arms folded over his chest. "I have a few contacts in the neighboring towns." His tone was almost nonchalant. "We can reach the nearest by sunrise if we keep going at this pace."
Iona nodded rapidly in agreement. As the sideburned man moved past the Captain to take the lead, Roderick caught his arm in a stiff grip.
"Before you take us anywhere further, I would know who you are." The words were sharp as knives.
The man turned back, a smile playing about his thin lips. "I am Hans, former Prince and Spymaster of the Southern Isles."
Thomas stopped breathing.
Soundtrack: "The Lion of Weselton"
Christophe Beck – "Summit Siege" (Frozen OST)