The Shattered Crowns

Maeliev raised an eyebrow beneath the shadow of his helm, the gesture lost to the armor's cold steel. "And you expected something different? We are Pureblood elves of the Deathwatch. The Frostbloods are less prone to open combat—they build their fortresses on glaciers for a reason."

The company trudged through the snow, their breaths misting in the frigid air as their eyes darted toward every flicker of movement in the swirling white. Conversation dwindled to tense silence as each elf fought against the creeping cold and their mounting anxiety. At last, they reached the shelter of the rocky outcrop beneath the glacier's bastion, avoiding further attacks. Even within the small sanctuary, the wind whistling through the cracks and the relentless snow did little to settle Maeliev's unease.

Now came the hard part.

The Deathwatchers—many bloodied from the relentless ice—huddled beneath the overhang, their breaths heaving. Maeliev's voice cut through the howling wind, steady and calm. "Now we wait."

The Chaplain soon arrived, riding his mount through the storm like a specter. Snow clung to the edges of his black-furred cloak, a contrast to the silver sheen of his ceremonial armor. His presence brought a sense of grim finality as he surveyed the four thousand Purebloods that remained—a number that had dwindled from ten thousand. His steely gaze settled on the company before he raised his voice over the storm.

"Mukashi, grab your ice picks. We will claim this bastion! Once atop the glacier, we fight until every last Frostblood has bled dry. If they reject the King of Lion's throne, then we will remind them of the might forged in the Age of Stars!"

His words echoed with practiced conviction, but Maeliev knew better. It was a lie. This war was not about reunification with their Frostblood kin. This was not justice; it was a purge. Somewhere within the bastion, a creature stirred—one that, if left unchecked, would make all of Lorian tremble. The signs of its corruption were faint but unmistakable.

The order to climb came quickly. Deathwatch members retrieved their ice picks, and the cold metal glinted in the dim light of the storm. There would be no time for rest. Maeliev's grip tightened around the pick in his hand, and he secured his sword at his side. It would not be needed until they reached the top.

"Any rope, Volix?" Maeliev asked, his tone clipped.

"No," came the gruff reply.

Of course not. They would ascend without support, every elf responsible for their own survival. A single slip meant death.

Maeliev turned to his company, his voice steady despite the biting wind. "I'll start the climb. Spread out to my sides. If I fall, I don't want to take anyone else with me."

Around them, other companies hesitated, their leaders watching Maeliev with cautious awe. As a Prideborn, expectations weighed heavily on his shoulders. He pushed aside the burden and hefted his pick, sinking it into the rock face with a decisive strike. The ice splintered under the force, and he began the ascent.

One step at a time.

The others followed. Volix climbed a few feet to his left, his movements careful and deliberate. Menik was to his right, laboring to match Maeliev's pace. Farther off, Singas clung to the wall, muttering curses under his breath. And then there was Lutharn, tearing at the ice like a rabid wolf, his savage determination a stark contrast to the storm's measured fury.

The climb was grueling. The ice picks drove deep, holding firm against the glacier's frosty grip. Maeliev hauled himself upward, his muscles burning with the effort. Over and over, he repeated the motion, sweat mingling with the snow clinging to his face. The wind howled around them, each gust threatening to wrench them from the cliffside. His sword swung uselessly on his back, a dead weight in the relentless gale.

The glacier demanded more with every step.

"Crotas be damned, I lost my pick!" Menik's voice rang out, high with panic. He dangled precariously from one ice pick, his legs flailing above the abyss.

Volix turned his head, his voice calm. "One of us will need to help him."

"No," snapped Singas. "Anyone who carries him will fall as well. Why should we lose another elf?"

"And what do you suggest?" Volix shot back. "Leave him to die?"

"He's dead weight," Singas retorted, his tone cold.

Menik snarled, his voice trembling with exertion. "I'm still alive, you bastard!"

Before the argument could escalate, Lutharn took action. The hulking elf scaled the wall toward Menik with terrifying speed. Reaching him, Lutharn shoved his spare ice pick into Menik's hand. His grin was feral as he drew a saxe knife from his belt. "There. Problem solved. Now shut up and climb, or I'll toss you off myself."

The storm grew fiercer as if angered by their audacity. Snow globbed in thick waves, plastering them in a haze of white. Then came the rumble—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through the glacier. Maeliev's stomach tightened as the avalanche roared to life.

Snow cascaded down the mountainside in a massive wave, seeking to sweep the climbers into oblivion. Maeliev's hands shook as he dug his picks into the ice, holding firm as the world turned blindingly white. The avalanche washed over them, swallowing entire companies in its path. When the tremors subsided, Maeliev forced himself to look. The glacier was littered with the remains of fallen comrades, their torches extinguished beneath the snow.

Hundreds were gone in an instant.

He climbed faster. Each swing of the pick drove him higher until, at last, his hand grasped the edge of the bastion. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself onto solid ground. The storm eased slightly, revealing a frozen garden that stretched before him. Snow-dusted flowers swayed gently in the frigid breeze, their petals glistening like frost-tipped gems. Transparent trees lined the path, their leaves resembling icicles. For a moment, the beauty of the place warred with the carnage below.

Maeliev didn't have the luxury of awe. He turned to help his companions over the edge.

Menik was the first to collapse onto the snow, groaning as he dusted off his armor. "I hate snow," he muttered.

"Makes my bones ache," Volix grumbled, pulling himself up with a grunt.

Lutharn arrived next, hurling his saxe knife into the ground. "Shut it, all of you. One climb and no Frostbloods to kill? Disappointing. Let's bloody our blades before the other companies arrive."

Singas followed last, dropping to his knees, too breathless to argue.

"You wanted to leave me!" Menik snapped, glaring at Singas.

"It was the best option at the time," Singas shot back defensively.

"Best option? I'll show you the best—"

"Enough!" Maeliev's voice cut through their bickering like a blade. "Save it for the Frostbloods. There will be plenty." His tone brokered no argument.

Volix nodded grimly. "Lutharn's right. We push forward. The Chaplain said to bleed them dry, and that's what we'll do."

"Rest while you can," Maeliev warned. "It's the last moment of peace we'll have."

He turned toward the bastion's towering walls. The battle ahead would be brutal, but Maeliev's resolve was ironclad. They were the Deathwatch, and they would claim the glacier—or die trying.