Death looks like the darkest night,
A void where starlight dares not shine,
The color of shadows in the deepest cave,
Cold and silent, a whispering wave.
Death is the hue of autumn leaves,
Falling gently, no reprieve,
The scent of earth after the rain,
Silent, still, and free from pain.
Death feels like a lover's sigh,
A final breath, a closing eye,
The touch of frost on a winter's morn,
A quiet end, a soul reborn.
Death sounds like a distant bell,
Echoes from a forgotten well,
The murmurs of the wind's embrace,
A tender call to a resting place.
Death holds the color of the setting sun,
A fading glow when day is done,
The feel of dusk in the twilight's fold,
Soft and gentle, growing cold.
Death wears the face of many dreams,
A silent river, endless streams,
The mask of peace, the veil of grace,
For in the end, death has many faces.
The many faces of death,
Vidya the wise.
JOVIAN
Marcia
As the commander's cold gaze bore into me, a wave of despair threatened to swallow me whole. My body, heavy with exhaustion and wounds, sank into the frigid snow, and my thoughts drifted to the haunting sight that consumed my vision—Marcia's lifeless form lying mere feet away. Her snow-white hair, the distinctive mark of our House, now laid tarnished, the strands, silken and untamed, its purity now tainted by the scarlet that seeped into the snow beneath her. Her beautiful face, etched with the fiery resolve that had defined her, was now a mask of cold indifference— her lips had been a soft, reddish-pink, full of life and warmth. Now, they were tinged with a ghastly blue, drained of all color by the unforgiving cold. Her skin, already pale from the harsh climate of Frosthold had taken on a deathly pallor, a sickly gray-white that made her look like she was sculpted from the very ice around us.
I could hardly fathom the change—where once had stood my fierce, unyielding cousin, there now lay a hollow shell, a cruel echo of the woman I had known for all of my life. The vibrant energy that had once pulsed through her every movement was gone, leaving behind only a fragile whisper of who she had been.
The sight of her, so stark and irrevocable, fractured the fragile remnants of my resolve. A numbing void enveloped me, my senses dulling as despair wove its relentless tendrils around my heart. The commander's imposing form became a mere shadow on the edge of my perception, his movements reduced to an indistinct blur. Through the haze of my grief, the cries of my men reached me like a distant echo, their voices frayed with desperation, urging me to retreat from the relentless slaughter.
Yet, I could not move. I was rooted to the spot, my mind a whirlpool of grief and defeat. My limbs felt like they were encased in iron, each attempt to move met with leaden resistance. Marcia's lifeless form, burned into my mind with unforgiving clarity, rendered the world around me a blur. The sounds of battle seemed to dissolve into an indistinct background murmur, as if the storm of conflict had been replaced by a suffocating silence that pressed against my ears. The world around me seemed to shrink, the sounds of battle fading into a distant roar.
The harsh reality hit me like a punch to the gut. The chaos of the battlefield, once a muffled blur, roared back into sharp focus as a fierce gust of wind whipped across the battlefield, cutting through my numb reverie. Through the chaos, my men surged to my side with a fierce urgency. They shielded me with their bodies, their forms a desperate bulwark against the Empire's relentless assault, I watched in paralyzing dread they fell one by one, each fall of my men struck me like a blade. A twisted shrine of corpses began to take shape—a grotesque monument of fallen bodies, stacked in a desperate barricade of flesh and blood.. I felt each death like a dagger to my soul. The sacrifice of these brave souls, their final, desperate defense, was both a heart-wrenching display of loyalty and a brutal reminder of my own impotence. Their lives, extinguished in my defense, wove a tapestry of despair and duty that I could scarcely bear to witness.
Amidst the chaos, a few of them grabbed me, their hands rough and firm as they dragged me away from the front lines. The agony of my wounds was sharp, each movement a brutal reminder of the fight we were losing. My men fought with fierce resolve, their efforts a final act of defiance against the encroaching darkness.
The remnants of my guard surrounded me, their hands rough but steady as they seized my arms.
"Forgive us, my lord," one murmured, his voice cracking under the weight of fear and duty, "but the heir must endure."
Each step away from the front lines felt like a betrayal, not just to the men who had fallen but to the very blood that ran through my veins. Marcia had stood unyielding in the face of death, never retreating, never faltering, no matter the odds till death. To abandon the fight, to leave the bodies of marcia, of my men behind, was to spit on the legacy of my family. The sharp agony of my wounds was nothing compared to the unbearable weight of that betrayal, the searing shame that clawed at my heart.
Their sacrifice became a chain, binding me to the battlefield even as my men pulled me away, a reminder that I was leaving behind not just the dead, but a piece of myself, lost among the fallen.. As we retreated, the winter winds howled, a mournful wail that echoed the sorrow seeping into the battlefield. The bitter cold gnawed at our wounds, draining what little strength we had left. Even as we pulled away from the carnage, the empire's forces showed no mercy, their relentless assault crashing against us with the fury of the storm. Every step was a battle, a struggle against both nature and an unforgiving enemy.
The enemy commander stood, his helm gleaming darkly beneath the storm's fury, satisfaction. He watched us retreat, his dark eyes, visible through the narrow slits, pierced through the tempest with an icy calm. His expression held a sinister pleasure, a quiet delight in the devastation he had orchestrated, as if savoring the ruin left in his wake.
Shiver's Edge was lost. My forces were in disarray, our defensive line shattered by the relentless advance of the Obsidian Empire's soldiers. We were being destroyed, our ranks falling apart under the weight of their onslaught. As my men dragged me away, the loss of Marcia weighed heavily on me, a raw, searing pain that consumed my heart more viciously than any blade ever could. As we fled, my thoughts drifted to my memories of hers, the moments we had shared flashing before my eyes like fleeting shadows.
I recalled the sparring match we had just a couple of days before the battle, when I had finally felt as if I had closed the gap between us. In the training yard, our wooden swords clashed with a rhythm that felt almost like a dance. I matched her strike for strike, my confidence swelling with every parry and riposte. 'Feeling bold, are we?' I teased, a grin tugging at my lips. Marcia's eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and challenge. 'Really?' she asked, her voice light yet laced with determination.
In an instant, the tide turned. Her movements became a blur of precision, and I was left reeling as she dismantled my defenses with effortless grace. One final, decisive strike sent me sprawling to the ground. As I lay there, breathless and stunned, Marcia stepped lightly on my chest, her wooden sword pointed directly at my face. Her grin was a mix of triumph and playful rebuke. 'Don't get too full of yourself,' she said, her voice carrying a teasing edge. 'I was just letting you think you were catching up.'
We had spent countless hours in the training yard, honing our skills side by side, a fierce yet friendly rivalry driving us both. Marcia was relentless in her pursuit of perfection, her laughter ringing through the air as she mockingly scolded me for missed strikes or clumsy footwork. Her playful critiques, though sharp, were always underlined with a warmth that made every lesson feel Under the veil of night, when the castle's towering shadows loomed large and the world outside seemed to pause,
The night air was crisp as Marcia and I sneaked out of the castle. We found ourselves in a secluded garden, far from the ever-watchful eyes of the castle guards. The moonlight filtered through the trees, casting long, ethereal shadows on the ground. We sat on a stone bench, our breath forming little clouds in the chilly air.
I turned to Marcia, curiosity etched into my features. "What's it like, Marcia? The Calling. How does it feel to wield that kind of power?"
Marcia's gaze turned distant, and she seemed to be reliving the memory. "It's difficult to put into words," she began, her voice tinged with awe. "It's… hard to explain," she began, her voice soft and contemplative. "The Calling gave me a sense of boundless potential, like I was connected to something vast and beyond comprehension. I could feel an overwhelming surge of power, a force that made everything seem possible, as if reality itself could be shaped according to my will." I listened, intrigued. "So, it's not just about controlling elements or gaining the great beasts traits?"
Marcia shook her head, her eyes reflecting the weight of her memories. "It wasn't just about that. It was a profound and almost dizzying sense of dominion. I could influence the world in ways I barely grasped, a feeling of complete control that was both intoxicating and terrifying." I could sense a note of regret in her voice. My curiosity grew. "Then why didn't you use it again?"
Her expression darkened. "With such immense power came a deep temptation. I was very young and unable to resist the allure of it. The Imperator and Aemilius had to intervene to pull me back from that brink. They made it clear that the risks were too great, and they forbade me from ever accessing that power again. It was a lesson in restraint and the dangers of overreaching, and I came to understand why. Such power carries dangers that are beyond our control."
I noted her calling her father by his name, but I remained quiet as her words lingered in the cool night air.
Her voice took on a wistful, almost haunted tone as she continued, "It's a shame you might never experience it yourself, Jovian. The Calling… it's as if the very essence of it has slipped from our grasp. Perhaps it's not that we've lost the power, but something more elusive—something fundamental has shifted. The connection to the guardian beasts has grown faint, like a forgotten dream fading into obscurity. I don't fully understand why it's lost to us, nobody does, only that it lingers as a haunting echo of what once was."
Our people have grown distant from the old ways, and with it, the calling has faded from our grasp. It's a power lost to us, but one that I carry with me, a memory of what once was."
The weight of the lost power and its potential stretching out before us like a distant dream. We sat together in silence, the echoes of her revelations mingling with the rustle of leaves and the distant call of night creatures. In that quiet space, I felt a pang of loss, not just for the calling itself and how much easier repelling the empire forces would have been, but for the bond we shared, now tinged with the sadness of how I would never talk see her again.
The harsh truth of Marcia's death hit me with a visceral force, the anguish of her loss intertwining with the sharp, persistent ache of my wounds. Her absence felt like a void within me, a gaping chasm that swallowed my breath and clouded my vision.
A voice cut through the numbing haze of my despair, rough and urgent. "Princeps Jovian, what do we do?" The soldier's words pierced the fog of my thoughts, yanking me back to the brutal present.
Ahead, a detachment of enemy forces surged into the mountainous terrain, heading towards a crucial point of entry into Frosthold cities. Their swift advance was marked by a relentless urgency, cutting through the snow and rock with alarming speed. Even as I watched, other enemy soldiers advanced towards our position. My heart raced, each beat a reminder of my powerlessness. The image of the enemy commander, his icy gaze piercing through me, loomed in my mind, amplifying my fear.
"Run," I commanded, my voice trembling with resignation. "There is nothing we can do to stop them."
My guards faces were etched with disbelief and anger. They exchanged grim looks, their eyes betraying a mix of frustration and disillusionment. The weight of my decision, harsh and inescapable, felt like a leaden cloak wrapped tightly around me. I could see their silent reproach in every clenched jaw and furrowed brow, their disappointment cutting through me like a bitter blade.
Shame and sorrow churned within me, a roiling sea of regret and self-loathing. The loss of Marcia, the rout of our forces, and my own craven retreat bore down on me with a crushing gravity. The realization of my cowardice stung with every step we took away from the battlefield.
As we fled, more enemy forces surged forward, their pursuit unyielding and brutal. The clash of steel rang out with brutal clarity as we were overtaken. The initial resistance gave way to a relentless onslaught.
Our retreat swiftly devolved into a frantic scramble. Enemy soldiers, their faces hidden behind cold, menacing helms, surged forward with a calculated savagery. Their weapons struck with the precision of a death sentence, and each blow we landed was met with a vicious counterattack.
The air crackled with the ferocity of the fight, each swing of our swords meeting the unforgiving clash of their armor. The snow beneath us turned crimson as we were driven back, the enemy's relentless advance pushing us to the brink. Each step we took was a struggle against the crushing force of their assault, and the desperate cries of my men mingled with the sounds of steel and agony.
I found myself face-to-face with an enemy soldier, his eyes blazing with the fervor of battle. Exhaustion had drained my strength, leaving my sword a leaden weight in my hand. His blade sliced across my arm, and the searing pain sent me crashing to my knees. Despair and agony clawed at me, threatening to drag me into darkness.
As I fell, I shut my eyes, ready to surrender to the crushing weight of my failures. In the suffocating gloom, thoughts of my father and uncle surged through my mind. What would they have done in this moment? Their spirits were unyielding, their courage a relentless force. They would have fought with every ounce of their being, their resolve never faltering, their strength an unbreakable wall against the chaos.
But then, the pain in my arm seemed trivial compared to the fiery pang of Marcia's death. Her laughter, now a ghostly echo in the silence, mingled with the memory of her fierce determination and radiant smile. The injustice of her death ignited a fierce anger within me, a burning resolve that would not be extinguished.
In that instant, I felt a surge of defiance. I would not allow her death to be in vain. I would fight, not just for my survival but to honor her memory and continue the fight she had been part of.
"No," I growled through clenched teeth, the embers of defiance flaring within me. "This isn't the end."
With a guttural roar, I heaved myself to my feet, eyes blazing with renewed fury. My sword met the enemy's strike with a resounding clang, and with a brutal thrust, I drove it through the soldier's chest.
"On me!" I bellowed, my voice a roar of resolve and vengeance. "After that detachment!"
We surged back towards the detachment, our anger a storm unleashed. We caught up to them in no time, and the ensuing clash was relentless. My sword cut through the tumult, a blur of flashing steel and blood. Each blow was a release of pent-up rage, each parry a desperate act of defiance.
The battle was fierce and brutal. My sword flashed as I fought, my movements fueled by a mix of rage and sorrow. The detachment fell before us, their cries full of pain and fear as we destroyed them.
Finally, the last of the enemy forces lay defeated, strewn across the bloodsoaked grounds. I stood amidst the carnage, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the weight of my exhaustion palpable in every shuddering breath. The soldiers left around me looked up with a mix of reverence and relief. "Let's move," I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. "We need to get back to the castle."
The journey back was a relentless trial. Exhaustion clung to me like a second skin. Each step was a struggle against the agony that radiated from my battered body. The weight of my soaked, bloodied armor dragged me down, my muscles screaming with every movement. The path to the castle was a long, unforgiving gauntlet of endurance.
When the castle gates finally came into view, battered and scarred from the current onslaught, I was met with a scene of chaos. The air was thick with the clash of steel and the acrid smell of smoke. My heart sank. The once-secure bastion was now a battleground, its walls swarming with enemy forces and the desperate struggle of our defenders.
With every ounce of remaining strength, I dragged myself forward, toward another battle that awaited us. My soldiers, equally weary and battered, followed closely behind. We pushed ahead, driven by the desperate need to join the fray and fight for the castle, now engulfed in its own fierce struggle.