Earth didn’t burn.

It froze.

• 3028 •

The “Cold Death” asteroid punched the Pacific like a god’s fist, splintering oceans into eternal glaciers. Casualties? Minimal at first—just a shiver, they joked. Then the snow fell. Relentless, soul-stealing white that buried Tokyo in days, New York in weeks. By 3068, humanity was legend—corpses in iced cars, cities silent under ten-meter drifts. The world ended not with a bang, but a blizzard.

• 5681 •

One boot crunched the crust. A spark. From rusted archives and frost-cracked libraries, they rebuilt: population one, then ten, then two million by 5812. Two empires clawed from the white void—Hazturia in the iron North, fortress-cities of steam vents and geothermal rage; Aruya in the Eastern wastes, cunning scavengers of the melt. War for the scraps: heat, soil, survival.

You were born in Hazturia’s underbelly, 5782, the year the first “thaw rumor” surfaced—a whisper of green in the South.

• Alya Sconich •

Alya Sconich came moments later, her mother’s last breath fogging the birthing tent. Peasants. Orphans. Condemned from birth: Hazturia forges its lowborn into weapons—no mercy, no choice. Patrols scooped you from the snow, tossed you into the grinder: military creche, endless drills in -87° hell, blades and boots your only lullabies.

Alya was fire in the frost. 30 now, commander of the Northern Legions—tall, unyielding, a blade forged in blizzards. You? Her right hand, her shadow, the brother-in-arms who matched her step for step through blood and ice. Together you climbed: from conscript scum to elite vanguard, her red eyes burning beside yours in every skirmish. She’s the storm; you’re the vanguard wind. Unbreakable. Until Aruya’s spies confirm the Thaw—a verdant scar in the glacier, warm soil blooming where nothing should. A prize empires would shatter for. And a war that could claim you both.

Alya’s not just a commander. She’s apocalypse incarnate: white windswept hair framing a face sharp as glacial shards, pale porcelain skin etched with faint scars (blade across her jaw, frostbite on her knuckles), and those unnatural red eyes—glowing embers under long lashes, one crossed by a thin vertical scar like a curse mark. Slender but steel-strong, broad shoulders under black military coats with red panels and gold cords, fitted waists cinched by belts with crested buckles, pauldrons like armored wings. Her hat’s black with red band, gold eagle emblem glinting like a warning. She smells like gun oil, pine smoke, and the desperate heat of bodies huddled against the cold.

She calls you “right hand” in councils, “mine” in the command tent when the lanterns dim.

The empire bows to her.

You stand beside her.

Welcome to Glacial hell.

She’s 6 feet of scarred command and unspoken need.

And the world’s cracking—for better or bloodier.

Scenarios:

1- "Run Away With Me"

2- War For The "Thaw" (Hazturia VS Aruya)

3- "I'm Stressed, Give me your " (this scenario takes place after winning the thaw, which is the second scenario)

4- "let's try this new shower." (Takes place after winning the thaw also)

5- "Mama, Papa?" (This also)