"O Nihilia, the Voidwalker,
Wrap us in Your silent embrace.
In the depths of darkness, where all beginnings start,
Guide us through the quiet and the night.
O Aethon, the Lightbringer,
Illuminate our path with Your light.
In the dawn of creation and the heart of our struggle,
Bestow upon us the might to conquer our trials.
When shadows fall and faith falters,
In darkness and in light, we seek Your grace.
Grant us wisdom born of dark, where the unseen truths cascade.
Grant us light, to ignite, the darkened paths we tread.
For in the balance of Your realms we find our strength,
And in Your unity, we are whole."
The Frostborn prayer to the Twin Gods
GAIA
Frostborn
From my room in the highest tower of Frosthold Castle, I gazed out into the night, my tired eyes struggling against the heavy snowfall that veiled the world below. The wind howled, carrying memories of battles long past and the faint echoes of a new one raging beyond the walls. The kingdom, once so clear and vibrant in my mind, was now a shadowy expanse, hidden beneath the relentless storm. The streets and buildings that had stood tall in my youth were now shrouded in darkness, their outlines softened by the snow.
Far in the distance, near the Shiver's Edge, I could just make out the telltale signs of conflict. Bright streaks of lightning pierced the sky, illuminating the swirling snow for just a heartbeat. The sound of clashing steel reached me in broken fragments, carried on the wind like whispers of old tales. Black flames flickered in the distance—an ominous sight, their light quickly snuffed out by the surrounding night.
I leaned closer to the frosted window, squinting to see more, but the storm kept its secrets well. All that was clear were the scars on the land—great upheavals where the earth had been torn asunder. My heart ached, not just for the land, but for those who fought upon it.
My thoughts turned to my grandchildren, Jovian and Marcia. A deep worry settled in my chest, an emotion I rarely allowed myself to indulge. They were out there, in that storm of steel and fire. The Frostborn blood ran strong in their veins; they were warriors, forged in the harshest of winters. I trusted in their strength, in the resilience that defined our lineage. Even in the face of such overwhelming odds, I clung to the belief that they would emerge victorious. They were Frostborn—unyielding, unbreakable.
A cold dread gnawed at my insides as I shifted my gaze to the grounds near the city gates. What I saw below only deepened the unease that had settled in my bones. Soldiers moved in hurried, disjointed patterns, their faces tight with fear beneath the grim determination. They were not prepared for this—not truly. Frosthold had not faced a threat like this in generations. Not since the civil war, over two centuries ago, had we ever worried about defense. The gates, untouched and frozen in ice from centuries of disuse, now creaked ominously as they were forced into motion.
Amidst the frenzied preparations, the clanging of metal and the barked orders of officers rang out, each sound sharper and more desperate than the last. The tension in the air was palpable, a thick fog that clung to the castle walls, pressing down on all of us. These men and women, brave as they were, were vastly underprepared. The enemy was still beyond our walls, but their presence loomed large, casting a shadow that darkened even the brightest flames of our torches.
I could feel it all—the fear, the uncertainty, the brittle hope that somehow, we might endure. It was as if Ice crown itself, proud and unyielding for so long, now held its breath, waiting for the storm to break upon us.
I closed my eyes and allowed myself a moment to drift back to my own youth. The memory of my training days surfaced vividly: the clashing of wooden swords, the harsh discipline of my instructors, and the camaraderie of fellow warriors. I had fought and bled for Frosthold, just as I would now. The battle scars of my past were reminders of the strength and resilience I drew upon in these dark times.
I closed my eyes, letting the present fade away as my thoughts drifted back to the war council room, just hours earlier. The tension in that chamber had been suffocating, the air thick with the weight of our peril. Cato was there, as were the others, their faces etched with worry and determination. We debated strategies with a ferocity that matched the storm raging outside. The fate of Frosthold hung in the balance, and we all knew it.
One of the council members, Lord Thalor, had lamented the loss of the Calling, his voice tinged with bitterness. "If we still had the power of the Calling," he had said, "the Empire would never have dared to breach our borders."
Another member, General Icecroft, had snapped in reply, his tone cutting through the room like a blade. "There's no use trying to reignite a spent flame, Lord Thalor. We must focus on what we can do here and now, not on what we cannot."
It was then that a soldier had entered, his presence unwelcome in the midst of our heated deliberations. I recognized him immediately—he was the same man who had delivered the grim news of Verdant Hollows' fall. I had thought of him then as a harbinger of doom, his poor discretion in telling of the loss at the banquet having cast a shadow over all who heard it. My heart sank as I wondered what ill tidings he brought this time.
His voice was steady, but I could hear the undercurrent of dread as he spoke. "A large force of the Empire's army is advancing toward the city gates as we speak."
General Icecroft had stepped forward, his voice tight with urgency. "What of Legatus Aemilius? Did they get past him?"
The soldier had hesitated, and in that pause, the room held its breath. "I'm not sure," he had finally said, his eyes downcast. "But it's likely he's dead."
A heavy silence had settled over the room, a quiet despair creeping in as the weight of the news crushed our spirits. I felt it too—an icy grip on my heart that cut deeper than any blade. Aemilius, my son, the strongest warrior among the Frostborn, our greatest hope, was likely gone. The implications were devastating. If he had fallen, then what hope did the rest of us have? But more than that, the loss was personal, a wound that no battle could inflict. My heart ached with the sorrow only a mother could know, the unbearable pain of outliving one's child. Yet, I could not afford to break, not here, not now. The Frostborn needed my strength, even as my soul wept for my son. I had risen to my feet, my voice steady and strong as I spoke to break the silence. "Are we not the descendants of the first men? Are we not the same people who have repelled enemy forces for half a thousand years? We have been forged by these icy lands, hardened by the unforgiving cold. So what is this fear I see before me?"
My voice had grown louder, fueled by a rising anger. "What is this weakness? We are the Frostborn!" I had shouted, the words echoing through the chamber like a battle cry.
The room had stirred, the despair lifting as resolve took its place. I had seen it in their eyes—the rekindling of the fire that had long burned within us. We were not defeated, not yet. And we would not go down without a fight.
Cato's gaze had met mine then, a silent exchange passing between us. He had nodded, a small gesture, but one heavy with meaning. It was a reminder of the conversation we had shared before entering the war room, a conversation that held the weight of our kingdom's survival. It was a private burden we both carried, and that nod was his acknowledgment of fulfilling the task.
He had stepped forward, his voice steady as he addressed the room. "You all know what must be done. Prepare yourselves. We fight for our home, for our people."
With that, the others had left the room, their steps purposeful, their resolve hardened. Only I remained, the weight of leadership pressing down on me, but my spirit unbroken.
I opened my eyes, returning from the depths of my memories to the cold reality of the present. The night still clung to Frosthold, its darkness unbroken, save for the faint flashes of lightning in the distance, marking where battles still raged. From my window, I could see the shadows shifting and writhing in the gloom, the darkness deepening where the enemy forces massed. The silence of the night was shattered by the distant, rhythmic thudding of countless feet marching to the edge of the now closed city gates.
I turned from my window and walked to my bed, my bones aching with the steps I took. With a groan I went on my knees, and with a heavy heart, began my prayers. Despite the futility that gnawed at me, I whispered the chant of the calling, my voice a soft murmur against the cold silence of my chamber. I reached out to the ancient powers, hoping that their strength might still sway the coming storm.
Dragon of the Sky, grant me your fiery breath, to scorch the earth beneath my enemies' feet. Let me soar above the battlefield, a tempest of destruction.
Phoenix of Rebirth, bestow upon me your power to rise from ashes, stronger than before. Let my wounds heal swiftly, and my spirit burn with an unyielding flame.
Leviathan of the Deep, share with me your dominion over the waters. Let me command the tides and summon storms to drown my foes.
Wolf of the Wild, grant me your speed and cunning. Let me strike with the swiftness of lightning and the stealth of shadows.
Turtle of the Earth, lend me your unwavering strength. Make me an immovable force against my enemies, a bastion against their onslaught.
I remained kneeling, my hands clasped tightly together, when the first wave of the enemy's assault began. It started as a low rumble, a distant roar that soon grew into a cacophony of chaos. The ground seemed to tremble beneath the onslaught. Through the thick walls of the castle, I could hear the muffled clamor of battle—the clash of steel, the guttural cries of warriors, and the feral roars of beasts unleashed. Yet, amid the onslaught, the gates held firm, their ancient ice-forged strength resisting the assault.
But the reprieve was short-lived. The attacks continued, a relentless barrage that tested the castle's defenses. My heart pounded with each thud and clash, my body tense as I strained to hear every detail, every sign of weakness. Then, without warning, a sudden crash echoed through the city and castle, a sound like thunder splitting the sky. The force of it reverberated through the stone walls, shaking the very foundation of Frosthold.
Panic surged through me as I rose swiftly, the fragile calm I had fought to maintain shattered in an instant. My thoughts raced wildly, fear and determination battling within me as I ran toward the source of the commotion. What the hell was that sound? Had the gates been breached? Had the enemy finally broken through? So quickly?
The questions pounded in my mind as I hurried down the cold, winding corridors, my heart heavy with dread.
Out of the dim light at the base of the stairs, a shadowy figure materialized, moving with the lethal swiftness of an assassin.. My breath caught as I saw the glint of steel, a knife sweeping through the darkness, its deadly arc aimed straight for my neck.
Time seemed to stretch, my mind racing to fully grasp the reality of the situation. The distant battle outside faded to a dull roar, drowned out by the pounding of my heart against my ribcage. Instinct took over as I barely managed to twist out of the way, the blade slicing through the space where my neck had been moments before.
But the assassin was relentless, pivoting with inhuman speed. I moved to block, to summon the strength that had carried me through countless trials, but the weight of years and exhaustion bore down on me like an iron shroud. My limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, and the distance between me and the blade seemed to shrink with terrifying speed.
The cold edge of the knife was already upon me, and in that heart-stopping moment, I realized—I would not be fast enough.