The people saw their future, in the dry winds that blew down from the eastern mountains, the way the animals seemed so jittery, the strange charge that permeated the air. They saw their fate and they faced it courageously. They farmed and reaped the products of their labors, made weapons, traded for what they didn't have, helped their neighbors, prepared their homes, and barricaded their towns—fearlessly. No one fled, no one left—no one even seemed to really care. No one spoke of surrender or that fate that was to be theirs when they refused. Life went on, and though the people danced and the people played, their queen could not fear for them enough.

All her days seemed consumed with fear. It was much like living with her concealed powers, Elsa reflected, only now she did not fear herself and what she might do, but she feared for her people, and what she would not be able to do. Her job was to protect them, but what on earth could she do to defend against an entire, massive army? An army equipped with magic from the lowliest foot soldiers to the highest-ranking commander. To surrender was to watch her people enslaved, her sister torn from her side, her country razed, and quite possibly her own life extinguished. To the citizens of Arendelle and its outlying territories, war meant nothing, but to Elsa the horizon was full of dark thunderheads of terror that she could not escape.

The men in her council told stories of the Dominion when they thought she couldn't hear. They meant no disrespect to her, but she was still young, and the weight of the impending threat weighed on her so heavily they couldn't bear to burden her further. But they couldn't help but whisper. Of how elves and humans had hated each other for centuries. How the elves had conquered their native lands and enslaved most of the other native races, how they had been furious at humans once again for deigning to worship a man-made god. How they detested anyone who used magic who was not an elf. How all of them had powers well beyond the scope of imagination, and Elsa was the only one in Arendelle or any of the nearby countries who could even wield magic. Of how many of their neighbors had already fallen before the Dominion, or sided with them to save themselves. And in Elsa's mind, she was to blame. She had drawn their attention to her country with her accidental eternal winter, and to the elves she was not only a human wielding magic—an affront and an abomination—but she was a woman. If Arendelle fell, it would all be her fault, and reasoning that the elves would have come sooner or later helped little.

Time and time again she tried to imagine a way to save Arendelle. Both the King of Weselton and the eldest of Hans' brothers, the King of the Southern Isles, had offered to stand with Arendelle against the Dominion, at the price of Anna's hand in marriage and Elsa's abdication. If Elsa had to step down to save Arendelle, so be it, but she would not sacrifice her little sister or rip her away from her happiness. The King of Weselton was older than the Duke, and had married and buried 3 wives. And there was no way in hell she was letting Anna near anyone even remotely related to Hans.

But wars had been won by the underdogs before, she tried to tell herself. The troll's prophecy about the eternal winter had come to pass thanks to Elsa herself—and Anna had saved them all. An entire nation had stood up to the Dominion and survived to tell the tale. That more than anything was what prompted Elsa to voice this idea to her council.

"We must find ourselves a hero."

It sounded absurd, and she knew it, even before they all looked at her with confusion and uncertainty. It had not even been a year since she had unintentionally frozen her entire people, and Elsa still spent her days stricken with self-consciousness. The gloves on her hands were a safety net now, although in retrospect, that's really all they'd ever been, a mental and not physical barrier to her powers. Anna didn't think she needed them. Elsa disagreed. She couldn't admit, even to her own sister, that the gloves were no longer a symbol of her repression. Feeling the soft silk over her fingers was a reassurance, even though it had so long been a burden and curse, that she was still in charge. She did intend to wean herself off them, yes, but when she spent so much time distressed by the impending threat of war, the gloves provided an extra check on her magic. Strange that something she had once felt as a cage could be her comfort now.

Right now, Elsa was fighting to keep her hands still, as they threatened to twist and knot as they always did when she was agitated. "We must find ourselves a hero," she repeated, "Someone who can help us turn this tide." Ever used to the cold, her velvet royal gown was uncomfortably warm and she was beginning to feel lightheaded. Trying to tell herself to keep it together was too much like her old unhelpful mantra and thinking of that just made everything worse.

"A hero, Your Highness?" Her majordomo questioned, somewhat confused.

"Yes," Elsa nodded, unwilling to back down now. "The Dominion isn't all-powerful. I know what you think of them and I also know you think I can't hear you, but you've said it yourselves; there's a country out there that's been invaded by them, pushed them out, and kept them out. If they can do that, why can't we? Just one battle won might be all we need. This country, this "Keizaal" as they call it—perhaps if the Dominion sees we are with them, that I am capable of defending my country and my people, well,it may at the very least buy us time."

"Your Majesty," Commander Vulius interrupted, and everyone turned there attention to him. He was Captain of the Guards and Commander of the royal military and local militia, and he had been so since her father. He had always been most supportive of her. "Keizaal is a land of magic. There were hundreds of sorcerers there to fight the Dominion. Here, there's only you. Our Queen. If we lose you, we fall."

"But we'll fall anyway if I don't DO something!" Elsa cried desperately, and light snow began to drift around her. Her advisers glanced at the flakes nervously.

"My Queen," Councilor Jorgen interrupted, raising his shaking hand. Jorgen was a very, very old man, rickety, frail—he'd been on the royal council since Elsa's grandfather had been King, and he had cared for Elsa and Anna and run the country as regent in the wake of their parents' death. His hands shook and so did most of his body, and his eyes glistened nervously—not from fear of Elsa, but from something else. All eyes turned to him.

"You young folk don't...know...what Keizaal is." Jorgen said in his stuttery voice. "Back in my day, it had a very different name." He frowned. "It is...a dark land. Of much...dark magic. And the reason...the name changed...is the reason it was able to stand up to the Dominion...and survive."

A few of the council members looked at each other, frowning, and Elsa's heart fluttered. What was it that Jorgen was trying to say?

"The reason Keizaal kept out the Dominion," Jorgen continued, "Is because...they had a very...powerful...ally. Or rather, their leaders. Many, many years ago, the Dominion invaded Keizaal. And then...dragons returned."

Elsa's breath caught. But dragons were just a myth—right?

"Dragons? Come off it," another councilor scoffed.

Jorgen continued as if he hadn't heard the man. "Dragons, and with them a race...of men...who were not human. There are said...there are supposed to be eight, I think. Before them...back when humans still ruled it...Keizaal used to be called Skyrim."

Elsa's blood ran cold.

Skyrim. The name was an old one and most people didn't like to talk about it. The country kept to itself for the most part, and rumors were constantly abounding about it that involved necromancy, dark magic—even undead kings.

"And they're ruled by eight powerful men. They call themselves Dragon Priests. And their leader's name is Morokei."