The Shattered Crowns

The elves advanced steadily toward the peninsula glacier, where their objective loomed above them like a silent challenge. Snow flurries clung to their boots, the blizzard whipping against them with merciless fury, as if trying to batter them into submission. Jagged rocks jutted from the frozen landscape, their pale surfaces gleaming faintly in the stormlight. Beyond the outcroppings, the keeps of whitened metal stood like ancient sentinels, ominous and unyielding.

The Deathwatch pressed forward, unshaken by the weather, their breaths fogging in the icy air. The glacier loomed closer, its cliffs a towering bulwark against the storm. Somewhere within that frozen bastion lay the source of the reality break—a wound in the fabric of their world that they had been tasked to purge.

"Crotas help us," muttered one elf under his breath.

"For the throne of the Lion! The Deathwatch stands firm!" Menik declared, his voice muffled beneath his steel helm. A few grumbles of agreement rose from the ranks, but Maeliev said nothing. Once, he might have echoed that sentiment. Once, he might have believed in the glory of the Lion's throne. But no longer. The throne was a hollow promise, and its grandeur had lost all meaning to him.

The clinking of Maeliev's armor as he adjusted his sword belt was the only sound that soothed his nerves. Battle was his true calling, a relentless rhythm that drowned out all other doubts. He gripped his blade tighter, sensing the tension in the air, the calm before the storm. The Frostblood elves should have attacked by now.

"Keep your eyes sharp, lads! The Frostbloods rule this realm, and we tread upon their hunting grounds!" Volix's voice cut through the howling winds. His warning mirrored Maeliev's own thoughts, though the stoic warrior kept them to himself.

"They'll accord us respect once we've slaughtered them," Singas declared from the back of the company, his nasally voice brimming with self-importance. "Our valor shall be immortalized in the annals of history, our names woven into the fabric of legend!"

Maeliev snorted softly. Singas might boast grand words, but the elf had a knack for hiding behind others when steel met flesh.

Volix's tone turned sharp. "Valor only matters if you live to prove it. A Frostblood blade will write your name in the snow before you see it coming, Singas."

"Bah, we need not worry!" Ruthedar interjected, his voice laced with admiration. "We have the Pride of Orotho with us!" His gaze flicked toward Maeliev, and the others murmured in agreement.

Maeliev stiffened but remained silent. The so-called Pride of Orotho was an honorific he had neither earned nor wanted. Others had placed their faith in him before, and they were all dead now. Faith alone would not keep Ruthedar alive.

"Stay vigilant," Maeliev said at last, his voice low. "The Frostbloods will strike without warning, their veins filled with ice and snow. Don't expect mercy."

Ruthedar saluted with a fist to his chest, his expression resolute. Maeliev turned away, unwilling to meet the younger elf's gaze.

Tension rippled through the company like a drawn bowstring. Lutharn, Maeliev's comrade, gripped the hilt of his curved blade with both hands, his knuckles pale against the cold steel. The weapon's craftsmanship hinted at Prideborn origins, and in Lutharn's hands, it promised violence.

Around them, other companies of the Deathwatch marched toward the glacier, their torches flickering against the roaring blizzard. The glacier's wall rose ahead, a monolithic barrier that seemed to defy the storm itself.

"Sick of waiting!" Lutharn barked, his impatience crackling through the freezing air. "If they mean to attack, let them come!"

As if summoned by his words, the Frostblood elves appeared like ghosts through the blinding snow, their forms materializing from the storm with uncanny precision. Blades glinted in the dim light—short saxe knives and heavy axes—and the Frostbloods descended upon the Deathwatch in a flurry of steel and furs.

The Pureblood elves scrambled to react as chaos erupted around them. Maeliev's blade was already drawn, meeting the attack of a Frostblood warrior clad in white armor lined with black engravings and thick fur. Fiery red hair whipped in the wind as the warrior swung an axe aimed for Maeliev's throat. He barely parried in time, the force of the blow sending tremors through his arms.

The Frostblood slipped in the snow, and Maeliev seized the moment, plunging his sword through the elf's neck. Hot blue blood spattered across the pristine snow, steaming in the cold. He turned, scanning the battlefield as the clash of steel rang out around him. His gaze locked onto Ruthedar, who was locked in combat with one Frostblood, unaware of another stalking toward him from behind.

"Behind you, Ruthedar!" Maeliev shouted, but the howling wind devoured his warning.

The Frostblood elf struck with ruthless efficiency, its saxe knife sliding cleanly into Ruthedar's neck. The younger elf crumpled into the snow, his life snuffed out in an instant. Maeliev surged forward, carving through the Frostblood ranks with cold precision, but it was too late. Ruthedar's lifeless eyes stared upward, frozen in eternal silence.

There was no time to grieve. A Frostblood axe came swinging for his side, and Maeliev twisted, slicing through the attacker's torso in one clean stroke. Another enemy fell beneath Lutharn's blade as the two warriors fought their way through the fray, their movements precise and brutal.

The Frostbloods, their initial ambush blunted, began to melt back into the storm. Their forms disappeared into the swirling snow as quickly as they had come, leaving only the moaning wind and the bodies of the fallen behind.

"They'll be back," Volix muttered, wiping blue blood from his blade.

Maeliev turned to survey what remained of their company. Ruthedar's body lay still, half-buried in the snow. Other elves from their unit lay scattered around him, their faces frozen in final grimaces. Entire companies had been wiped out in the assault, their torches extinguished like fragile flames. The blizzard seemed to howl in triumph, its fury growing as if to claim the living as well as the dead.

"We need to keep moving," Maeliev said, his voice heavy. There was no time for mourning. The dead would rest where they fell.

The Deathwatch pressed forward, their formation tight as the blizzard threatened to swallow them whole. Maeliev called out, "Hold the torch high, Singas! Stay close, all of you. If you're lost in the storm, you'll die."

Volix and Lutharn flanked him, their blades still drawn, while Menik guarded the rear. Singas clutched the torch like a lifeline, the flickering flame their only beacon in the encroaching dark.

Sleet slashed at their exposed skin, leaving shallow cuts that stung in the cold. Maeliev's face was numb, his muscles aching as the relentless wind fought to drive them back. Ahead, the faint shapes of other companies' torches began to vanish, one by one, snuffed out like fleeting stars. The realization hit like a blow to the gut: those elves were gone. Dead or lost to the storm.

"Won't last much longer in this weather!" Volix shouted over the gale.

"Just a little further!" Maeliev barked, his voice hoarse. "We'll make it to the rocks!"

"And then what?" Singas snapped, his voice tinged with desperation.

"We keep going," Menik said fiercely. "For Ruthedar!"

Maeliev's jaw tightened. "You wanted a story worth telling, Singas. This is the truth behind the epics—the pain, the blood, the loss. Welcome to it."

The glacier loomed ahead, its rocky face towering into the storm. Beyond it lay their goal, but the path to victory was shrouded in ice and death.

"That's suicide!" Singas cried. "You expect us to climb that?"

Maeliev's cold gaze fixed on him. "Yes."