The Shattered Crowns

P.O.V. Maeliev Orotho

Frost clung to the plants like brittle armor as they pushed further north, the biting cold gnawing at any trace of warmth. The flora thinned, withering to skeletal forms before finally disappearing altogether. Snow crunched heavily under their boots, a muted rhythm that accompanied the relentless march. Each step sank into the unforgiving powder, and the bitter wind sought to strip flesh from bone. This was no land for mortals. It was a realm shaped by death and ice, utterly devoid of the gold and brown expanse of Trie's plains. There were no proud rock mounds here where the Prides once thrived, only endless glaciers looming like jagged teeth on the horizon.

For the Contract.

The words rang hollow in Maeliev's mind, like a vow spoken long ago by someone else. He couldn't even remember what he had promised, nor did it matter. He would die here before it could be fulfilled.

The air stung his lungs as he drew a sharp breath, the frost-laden wind threatening to rob him of it. Ahead, the Deathwatch marched in grim silence, their armor stained black as night. Frost gathered on the edges of their pauldrons and helms, an unspoken testament to the unyielding cold. The sigil of the Deathwatch—a mark of disgrace and death—was emblazoned on their arms, exposed to the biting winds as though daring the elements to strike harder.

The Mukashi, the rank-and-file soldiers of the Deathwatch, trudged onward in formation while their commanders rode high above on armored warhorses. The beasts' thick plating gleamed faintly in the pale light, the frost clinging even to their manes. The commanders' armor was thicker, denser than that of the Mukashi, and their battle-hammers hung heavily at their sides. Those hammers were not just symbols of authority—they were instruments of execution for any elf who dared to desert. The horses' thundering hooves set the tempo for the march, each beat reverberating through Maeliev's core like a funeral drum.

Ruthedar groaned as he stomped through a patch of ice. "Feels like my toes are falling off."

Volix, walking beside him, snorted. "What else did you expect? This isn't a march—it's a culling. They always clean out the weak this way."

Maeliev's breath puffed white in the frozen air. "We'll be fighting soon enough," he said grimly, his voice muffled by the cold.

Ruthedar grinned despite the frost on his beard. "Good. All those lessons on death-blows, wasted. If you want to kill someone, you stab them. It's not complicated."

Lutharn barked a low laugh. "That might work on a tavern drunk. We'll see if your blade holds when you're staring down a Frostblood Cervus."

A youthful, hopeful voice chimed in from the ranks. "We can't lose," said Menik, his tone almost reverent. "The Gods are with us. We march with their blessings."

Maeliev bit back a bitter laugh. Blessings? The Gods had abandoned them long before this mission. The only thing they carried was their own guilt, sharpened into weapons and wrapped in layers of desperation. He let Menik's naivety hang in the air without comment. No sense in robbing him of it—not yet.

"Ah, yes," said Signas, the ever-boastful. "The people of Namaranth will sing of us when we've crushed the Frostblood elves. They'll see the Deathwatch as saviors, heroes who marched to the edges of the world to protect the empire."

Maeliev sighed deeply. It was all talk, empty and weightless. "The Frostbloods won't greet us with open arms," he said, his voice cutting through the cold like steel.

Signas sneered, his arrogance undeterred. "And what would a disgraced Ortho know of it? You, who took the Deathmark and shunned your Pride?"

Maeliev grunted low at the insult, his hand brushing the hilt of his blade to steady himself.

Menik, ever the dreamer, came to his defense. "We're all Purebloods here. Leave him be, Signas."

But Signas ignored him, turning to Maeliev with the smugness of someone who had never known failure. "Well, Ortho, do you have an answer? Or will you skulk in silence like the failure you are?"

Maeliev's gaze didn't waver. He let the insult slide past him like the cold wind. Instead, he asked, "What put you in the Deathwatch, Signas?"

The question landed like a blow. Signas stiffened, his smug expression faltering. Silence followed, heavier than the frost-laden air. Maeliev didn't press further; he didn't need to. They all had their reasons for being here, dark stains they carried like weights tied to their ankles.

It wasn't hard to see why the Frostblood elves wouldn't welcome them. They had broken away from the Trie Empire during the Age of the Stars, renouncing their lineage and calling themselves Frostbloods. Even their features were alien. Their skin was snow-white, blending perfectly with the tundra, and their hair shimmered like burnished copper, the only warning of their presence before death struck. They had been bred by the cold, forged by the blizzards that blanketed their land in endless winter.

And now, the Deathwatch was here to purge them.

The official orders spoke of sieging Udarn, a bastion of Frostblood resistance. But that wasn't the real reason for this march. Prideborn soldiers had besieged Udarn for years without success, their forces whittled down by archers and blizzards. The Deathwatch wasn't here to win the siege—they were here for the anomaly.

The Leakiunius Mae.

It was only whispered of among the Prides, a fragment of altered reality that overlapped with the physical world. If left unchecked, it would open a rift, allowing a General of a Prince—a creature of chaos and destruction—to breach their world. With it would come an army of karnen, monstrous creatures bred for ruin.

The Frostblood elves had fought valiantly to contain it, alongside their allies in Cordia. Far to the north, beyond the glaciers, lay the Spellbinding Gate—a permanent Leakiunius Mae too vast to close. Armies had guarded it for generations, holding back an unending tide of darkness.

Udarn's rift was smaller, but no less dangerous. Karnen sightings confirmed it, and so the Deathwatch had been summoned to close it. Or die trying.

Maeliev's thoughts shifted as the sound of hooves broke through the howling wind. The commanders rode through the ranks, their cold gazes scanning the Mukashi. One of them reined in his horse, its breath steaming in the air.

"The first blood will be drawn by dawn," the commander announced. "We'll reach the river and make camp before the Lunar Storms take hold."

His voice was devoid of warmth, heavy with finality.

Volix, standing beside Maeliev, muttered under his breath. "Fools. They think the Frostbloods will just lie down and let us take their city."

Maeliev touched the hilt of his sword, his fingers tightening around the worn leather. "Maybe they will," he said, though he knew it was a lie. It was better to ease nerves, even with falsehoods.

"You don't believe that," Volix said, his voice low.

Maeliev exhaled slowly. "No. I don't."

As they crested a frozen ridge, the ancient city of Udarn came into view. It was a sight that made Maeliev's breath catch, not from the cold, but from the sheer magnitude of it.

Udarn was a fortress carved from ice and stone, perched atop a massive glacier that jutted into the sky like a frozen claw. A wall of jagged ice encircled the city, rising high above the surrounding tundra. It wasn't just a defense—it was a statement. Nature itself shielded the Frostblood elves from their enemies, making siege engines and ladders useless against its sheer, unscalable surface.

The city's towers pierced the sky like frozen spires, their dark gray metal blending seamlessly with the color of the storm clouds above. Turrets loomed over the walls, each one manned by Frostblood archers—deadly shadows barely visible against the icy backdrop.

To the west of the city, where the Deathwatch would make their approach, stood the Solar of Temperance, a circular watchtower that marked the outermost defense of Udarn. It would be the first target of the assault. Beyond it, the main city sprawled, its streets weaving through the glacier like veins of metal and ice.

Maeliev's gaze lingered on the towers and the walls. The Frostbloods wouldn't fall easily. And if they did, it wouldn't matter—the rift would consume them all if it wasn't closed.

The Deathwatch halted their march near a frozen lake that mirrored the bleak gray sky above. The glacial winds howled louder now, biting at flesh and slipping past every chink in their armor. The Mukashi moved without ceremony, setting up the tents and preparing the meager camp with practiced efficiency. Stakes were driven into the ice, leather tents strained against the wind, and small fires struggled to hold their flickering light against the onslaught of cold.

Maeliev set his belongings down onto his cot—a thin mat that offered little protection against the icy ground—and stepped away from the camp to the riverbank. He pulled the cork from his canteen, the sound of the suction sharp in the cold air, and drank deeply, the water freezing against his lips. His thoughts drifted to the city of Udarn, its spires barely visible now in the distance, like jagged teeth waiting to devour them.

The others would find solace in company, or what passed for it among the Deathwatch. But Maeliev wasn't like them. He sought quiet, away from the endless boasts, fears, and false bravado of men who knew their end might come with the next dawn.

His solitude didn't last long. He heard the heavy pounding of boots behind him.

"Maeliev!" Menik's voice cut through the wind. The younger elf trudged toward him, his breath misting in the air. "The others are eating. You should join us."

"I'm not hungry," Maeliev replied without turning, his eyes still fixed on the horizon.

Menik came closer, the snow crunching beneath his boots. "You should eat anyway. We need to stick together if we're going to survive this."

Maeliev chuckled darkly. "Survive?" He turned to face Menik, his voice low and cold. "This mission will kill at least two of us before the week is out. And the next mission will see another dead. If you do survive, Menik, you won't be the same."

Menik's face twisted with uncertainty, but his voice remained steady. "That's not why I joined. I didn't come here to survive."

"Oh?" Maeliev raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you here, boy?"

"I joined because I believe in the King of Lions," Menik said, his voice filled with a quiet conviction. "I believe in our empire. And I think, deep down, you do too."

Maeliev's grip tightened on his canteen. The King of Lions. Cendius, the elf closest to godhood, who had fought battles so flawlessly that he had become a legend even among the Prides. His name alone inspired armies to march to their deaths, believing they followed a greater purpose. But what purpose was there in this frozen wasteland? What glory was there in purging their distant cousins while the anomaly loomed, ready to devour them all?

"I'm not like you," Maeliev said finally, his voice flat. "I didn't join for belief or hope. I joined because my honor demanded it. Nothing more."

"Maybe that's what I can teach you," Menik said, his tone softening. "You need hope, Maeliev."

The words stung more than Maeliev expected. He turned back toward the horizon, dismissing the younger elf with a shake of his head. "Go eat, Menik."

For a moment, Menik hesitated, then stepped forward and extended his hand. "Come on. At least sit with us."

Maeliev stared at the hand but didn't take it. Attachment was a luxury he couldn't afford. Instead, he turned and began walking back toward the camp. Menik followed, undeterred.

"See?" Menik said with a faint smile. "Was that so hard?"

"Yes," Maeliev muttered.