The Shattered Crowns

Jazelde of Pride Kahl would have gladly lectured Maeliev for hours about the anatomical differences between the races. She would have rambled on about how the Dwarves had forged the orcs to be heartier and how the Neph had sculpted the elves for their mastery of the Essences. But this wasn't the time for such thoughts. Maeliev shook his head, pushing the memories aside. He needed a clear mind for the battle ahead.

The soft clinking of armor echoed around the cramped stone halls. Shadows danced in the dim light as the Deathwatch crept forward, their steps measured and deliberate. A low murmur of voices drifted down the corridor, causing the company to freeze. Maeliev raised his hand in a silent command for the group to halt. His eyes fixed on the soft glow emanating from the staircase ahead—the source of the voices.

"Finally," Lutharn whispered, a feral grin curling his lips as he gripped his blade tighter. Maeliev crouched lower, his blood thrumming in anticipation. The others followed suit, tense and ready. They had been waiting for this—the moment when quiet gave way to chaos.

The Frostblood elves came into view, their alabaster skin glistening in the faint light. Fiery manes of hair cascaded down their backs, their thick black veins webbing above and below their sharp eyes, twisting into the intricate engravings of their armor. They were stark and cold—ethereal warriors forged in the heart of winter.

Maeliev caught the end of their conversation. "—the Blessed has summoned the full storm."

There was no more time for words. Maeliev and Lutharn lunged forward, their blades glinting like shards of night. One of the Frostblood elves barely had time to react, throwing himself into the path of their strikes. His sacrifice saved his comrade, but the first fell with a gurgled cry, blood pooling beneath him. The second Frostblood scrambled backward, his pale eyes wide as he screamed into the corridor.

"Intruders! Intruders in the bastion's lower levels! Send for the Blessed!"

His desperate call echoed through the halls. Lutharn's blade silenced him before he could shout again, the strike quick and brutal, but it was too late. The once-quiet bastion erupted with the rush of boots and shouts of alarm.

"Think they heard us?" Menik quipped, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"I'd wring your neck if we weren't about to die," Volix hissed, his tone sharp. "That Frostblood woke the entire damned bastion."

"Good," Lutharn growled, his grin feral.

"We're dead," Singas muttered, his feathery voice trembling with dread.

Maeliev ignored the bickering, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Stay in position. Do not let them flank us or creep behind. Keep moving as we pass each room."

The company ascended the first flight of stairs, their blades drawn and bloodlust boiling.

The goal was simple in theory: clear the bastion, secure a foothold for the invasion of the city, and close the reality tear before it grew out of control. In practice, it was chaos.

They encountered resistance at the top of the first staircase. Frostblood elves surged forward, their axes gleaming like frozen fangs.

"Ready for a massacre," Lutharn said, laughing as his blade arced through the air toward the enemy.

"Us or them?" Maeliev shot back, his voice cold as steel.

The battle began in earnest. Maeliev and Lutharn moved like a storm, their strikes deliberate and devastating. The Frostblood elves fell in droves. Maeliev's sword became an extension of his will, parrying and striking with unrelenting force. Lutharn was the tempest to Maeliev's mountain, darting between enemies and slashing with brutal precision. Behind them, Menik and Singas found opportunities to strike, stabbing at any openings presented. Volix held the rear, his mechanical arm crushing armor and bone with terrifying ease.

Blood slicked the stone steps, turning them treacherous. Axes and knives clipped Maeliev's sides, drawing thin rivulets of crimson. He grunted, but he did not falter. Each step forward was bought with the blood of their enemies, but the onslaught was unrelenting. Menik stabbed over Maeliev's shoulder, killing an elf poised to strike. Singas delivered the final blow to a wounded foe, his blade cutting short the Frostblood's gurgled cries.

The narrow halls were both a blessing and a curse. The confined space prevented the Frostbloods from surrounding them, but it also slowed their progress to a crawl.

"We need to move," Volix said, his blade flicking blue blood onto the once-pristine walls. "More will come from behind, and I can't hold them all."

Maeliev nodded, the weight of his blade dragging heavier in his hand. There was no time to rest. The snowstorm outside might have eased, but fatigue was seeping into their bones.

"I… I need a second," Singas gasped, his chest heaving as he dropped his blade.

"Push ahead," Volix barked. "Keep that adrenaline flowing, or you'll drop like a pile of rocks and die where you stand."

Maeliev didn't spare Singas a glance. His voice was sharp. "Grab your ice picks or a saxe knife. Use whatever you have to fight."

Another wave of Frostblood elves flooded the stairs. Their axes gleamed as they charged, their war cries echoing through the halls. Maeliev braced himself. He let them come, using their momentum against them. His blade carved through flesh and armor as they climbed step by step, each one a bloody struggle.

Fatigue clawed at him. His muscles burned, his vision blurred, but he refused to yield. His blade rose and fell with mechanical precision, carving a path through the enemy. Finally, the company reached the top of the bastion. The last Frostblood fell at Maeliev's feet, his lifeless body slumping atop his kin. Silence returned, broken only by the heavy breaths of the Deathwatch.

"I thought there'd be more," Lutharn said, his voice dripping with bravado. "I could do this all day."

"Maybe other companies made it to the top and distracted the Frostbloods," Volix offered, flicking blood from his blade.

"It's possible," Maeliev said, though his tone betrayed his doubt. "But taking the bastion is just the first step."

Maeliev stepped out into the cold air, the biting wind cutting through his armor. His hope that the battle was turning in their favor vanished as soon as he saw the storm. A blizzard of unimaginable scale swirled above them, its cyclone using the bastion as its focal point. The sky churned with fury, its icy talons clawing at the Pureblood forces below.

At the center of it all stood a female elf on a raised podium. Her crimson hair was tied in a wild knot, whipping in the wind. Her hands were raised, guiding the storm with an unnatural grace. Around her, a conclave of Frostbloods stood in a circle, their eyes fixed on the ritual. The blizzard moved with her every motion, her presence radiating power.

"You ask me to bow, Chaplain?" she called, her voice carrying over the storm.

Maeliev's grip tightened on his blade as his eyes locked on her crown—a circlet of silver adorned with sapphire resin. His stomach dropped as recognition dawned. It was Temperance's Eye, an artifact of legend. It was the symbol of the first Frostblood elf who had cursed the King of the Lion, a relic of rebellion and wrath.

The storm around him howled louder, as if echoing his rising dread. They were not here to conquer—they were here to stop something far worse.

And she knew it.