In the frozen tundra where the wind howls like a starving wolf, there lived an elf named Thistle. His skin was pale as moonlight, and his eyes were wide with perpetual fear. Every night, when the sun sank beneath the jagged ice, Thistle would retreat into his burrow, trembling. For he was terrified of the dark, and the long polar night stretched endlessly before him.
Thistle hoarded a single, glowing crystal that his grandmother had given him. It pulsed with a warm, amber light that kept the shadows at bay. He clutched it to his chest each evening, refusing to share its glow with anyone. "It's mine," he whispered, "and without it, I would surely perish." The other elves, who lived in nearby ice caves, often asked to borrow the crystal, but Thistle always turned them away.