The Imperators of Frosthold stand as the indomitable leaders of a resilient people, guardians of a legacy forged in ice and blood. To be an Imperator is to embody the strength and unyielding spirit of Frosthold, a mantle passed down through generations of the Nix family. Their white hair, a symbol of their lineage, marks them as descendants of the first men created by the twin gods.
An Imperator's strength is not only in their prowess on the battlefield but also in their wisdom and unwavering resolve. They are masters of strategy, capable of leading their troops with both courage and cunning. Their rule is defined by a balance of stern authority and deep-seated loyalty to their people.
In times of peace, an Imperator guides Frosthold with a firm but fair hand, ensuring the prosperity and unity of their kingdom. In times of war, they are the shield and sword, leading their warriors into battle with unmatched ferocity and skill. The Imperators' strength lies not just in their martial abilities but in their capacity to inspire and rally their people, standing as a bulwark against any threat that dares to challenge Frosthold's sovereignty.
— Comer, A History of the Frostborn (698 AE)
The night was alive with chaos as my men and I neared the gates of Icecrown. Each breath was a ragged gasp. We were wounded, spent and weary, but driven by grim determination. The castle gate loomed ahead, a monstrous, iron-clad behemoth, the last line of dense against the unrelenting obsidian empire forces
As we drew nearer, the full horror of the battle unfolded. The enemy forces scaled and clung to the castle walls like desperate spiders, their bodies silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Below, a writhing mass of Obsidian Empire forces struck the castle gates repeatedly with a battering ram. Our soldiers fought valiantly, refusing to let the emeny breach the gates or gain foothold on the walls.
Suddenly, a blinding streak of light erupted— so bright it seared through my closed eyes, turning the world into a sheet of white. The explosion followed, the impact was cataclysmic. In a breath, the gates and the castle walls splintered and fractured. The once-solid metal buckled and twisted as if it were mere parchment, shards of ice and stone and metal exploding outward, scattering into the darkness like a thousand pieces of shattered stars. The shockwaves didn't just shake the ground; they erupted outward, sending both defenders and attackers flying back, their cries lost in the deafening roar.
The shockwave from the gate's destruction slammed into me like a hammer, throwing me off balance, and knocking the breath from my lungs. I hit the ground hard, pain lancing through my body. For a moment, the world spun, I was disoriented by the force. I lay there, dazed, the echoes of the explosion still ringing in my ears. Dust and smoke filled the air, a choking, acrid cloud that stung my eyes and burned my lungs.
I struggled to my feet, my legs unsteady, my mind reeling. My heart pounded, terror threading through the marrow of my bones, the scene before me was a vision of horror, an army pouring through the shattered gates. Like a dam bursting its banks, the empire's forces surged forward, pouring into the breach. The clash was immediate and overwhelming—a symphony of destruction, the sheer force of the two armies colliding echoed like a thunderstorm, the very air vibrating with the violence of their meeting.
The scene stunned me but I couldn't afford to freeze. I plunged into the fray.
I pushed forward, my boots slipping in the blood-soaked snow, every step a desperate battle against the overwhelming tide of bodies pressing in from all sides. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and fear. Blades flashed in the dim light, their deadly arcs promising pain and death with every swing. I parried one strike, the impact vibrating up my arm, but before I could recover, another attacker lunged from the shadows, his blade slicing through the air with murderous intent.
I barely managed to deflect it, sparks flying as steel met steel. The moment hung in the air, suspended between life and death, before the chaos swallowed me whole again. The world was a blur of motion, a maelstrom of violence and fury where every exchange felt like my last. Fear gnawed at the edges of my resolve, a cold whisper in the back of my mind that this might be where I died. But I couldn't stop. I couldn't let the fear take hold. My father was out there, somewhere beyond this sea of blood and bodies, and I had to reach him. I slashed and hacked, the effort of each swing growing heavier, my arms burning with fatigue.
A soldier lunged at me, his face twisted in a snarl inside his helm. I dodged to the side, my blade slicing through his flesh, but not before his sword caught my shoulder, a searing pain that flared through me like fire. I bit back a scream, my vision blurring with the force of it, but I couldn't stop. I slashed at another attacker, the blade biting deep into bone, before wrenching it free and pressing on.
I stumbled, catching myself just before a blade could find its mark, and pushed forward again, forcing my way through the throng. Every swing of my sword was fueled by desperation, the knowledge that the castle, our last bastion, was under siege. The destruction of the gates had shifted whatever advantage we had—what had been a battle was now a slaughter, and we were on the losing side.
There was no time to think, no time to breathe. The melee was a living, breathing beast, swallowing everything in its path. Bodies collided, some falling, never to rise again, others locked in deadly combat. It was all instinct now—parry, strike, dodge—moving through the chaos like a man possessed. Every swing was met with resistance—an armor, a sword, flesh.
My chest heaved, each breath a struggle against the stifling air, thick with the metallic taste of blood. I could feel my strength waning, the relentless press of enemies threatening to overwhelm me. But I couldn't stop. I gritted my teeth, shoving a soldier out of my path, his lifeless body crumpling to the ground. My vision blurred at the edges, fatigue threatening to overwhelm me, but I pressed on, a primal roar tearing from my throat as I hacked my way through the melee, fighting not just for my life, but for something far more precious.
Finally, I broke through the enemy lines and saw him. My father, the Imperator, stood like a colossus amidst the chaos, his sword a blur of destruction. He moved with the precision and power of a seasoned warrior, each strike a symphony of skill and strength. The sight was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. I had never witnessed him in battle before, and the reality of his prowess was breathtaking, a living tempest tearing through the enemy ranks. He was a storm given form, his every strike, a tempest of Frostborn fury, leaving a gruesome trail of blood, shattered bodies, and anguished cries in his wake.
But then, amidst the swirling chaos and clashing steel, a shadow stood eerily still. A giant of a man, cloaked in jet-black helm and armor, his blade wreathed in dark flames. He did not move; he simply waited, a silent force in the storm of battle. My heart sank as my father approached, and the two titans came face to face.
The air around them grew thick with tension. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, as if even it recognized the magnitude of what was about to unfold. Their eyes locked, two forces of nature preparing to collide, each embodying the raw power and fury of their kind. Time itself seemed to pause, the battlefield falling into a hushed anticipation.
Then, like a thunderclap splitting the sky, they clashed. The impact was cataclysmic, a shockwave that rippled through the battlefield, sending anything and everything around them flying, the earth itself quaked beneath their feet..I dug frostbite deep into the earth to root myself in place.
The enemy leader struck again, his blade slashing through the air with terrifying speed. My father met the attack head-on, parrying with practiced ease. The earth itself convulsed and buckled, as if struck by a god's wrath. In the heart of this maelstrom, snow evaporated into nothingness, leaving behind a stark, desolate expanse.
They moved with the speed of shadows, their forms blurring into phantoms as they danced a deadly ballet. Their swords cut through the air with such velocity that it seemed as if the very space around them bent and twisted, unable to keep pace with their movements. One moment they were distance apart, the next, they were mere inches from one another, their strikes so rapid and fierce that the clash of steel echoed like a relentless drumbeat across the battlefield.
I could barely keep up, my eyes straining to follow the whirlwind of steel. Each clash was a thunderclap, each movement a blur of deadly intent. The enemy leader's black-flamed blade collided with my father's ice-forged sword, unleashing a torrent of sparks and jagged ice shards that tore through the air, shattering the ground beneath them into a web of deep, fissured craters.
The enemy leader seemed to command the storm itself. The air around him twisted and darkened, the snow swirling with unnatural force. Shards of ice formed from the maelstrom, hurtling toward my father with deadly precision. It was as if he was bending the very elements to his will, though I couldn't be sure. My father fought back, his sword cleaving through the chaos with unyielding resolve, each strike cutting through the storm as if it were nothing more than mist, his movements almost defying nature itself.
My father's eyes never wavered from his opponent, his focus absolute. He moved with the precision of a master swordsman, every strike and parry a testament to his years of training and unyielding will. The air around them crackled with energy, the sheer force of their battle warping the landscape, as if the world itself was struggling to contain their fury.
For a moment, it seemed like they were evenly matched, two titans locked in a struggle for dominance, creating a temporary lull in their clash. He eyed my father with a puzzled expression. "I heard you were sick, that this is you at your weakest." he said, his voice tinged with genuine surprise. "But if this is you at your weakest... what kind of a monster are you at full strength?"
The words struck like a blow to the gut. Weakest? My father was sick? The thought sent a chill through me, this was the first time I heard of this.
"Who?" my father growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Who told you that?"
The enemy commander grinned, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "No one," he said, his tone smug. "Never mind that, you remind me of someone." His grin faltered, a flicker of fear crossing his face. "A man I defeated at your farm lands. White hair, pale skin, piercing blue eyes. Handsome bastard, strong as anyone I've ever faced. It took everything I had, and the lives of all my men, to take him down. But I did it. I carved out his heart and left his body for the birds."
My heart stopped. Aemilius. He was talking about my uncle, Aemilius. Grim thoughts raced through my mind as the weight of the revelation sank in. My uncle was dead.
My father's eyes narrowed. "Aemilius?."
"I will kill you," my father vowed, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury.
"You will try," the enemy leader sneered, his mocking smile back across his features.
With a roar of fury, my father launched himself at his foe, his body radiating a deadly, oppressive aura. The air thickened, growing almost unbreathable as the Imperator's power surged. The enemy leader's grin faltered, but only for a moment.
"Finally getting serious eh?" the enemy jeered, though his body stiffened. "But how long can you keep this up? How long before your body gives out?"
My father didn't answer, his only response a relentless barrage of attacks. The enemy leader, forced onto the defensive, fought back with everything he had, dark lightning crackling around him. His sword blazed with black flames, cutting through the air in deadly arcs. The very ground trembled under their feet, each clash of their swords sending shockwaves rippling through the earth.
The enemy leader wasn't just a brute; he was a tactician, using every advantage the battlefield offered. He manipulated the ground beneath my father, causing it to buckle and shift, but the My father's ability to adapt was beyond anything I had ever seen. He moved with such precision, dodging and striking with an almost supernatural grace, his sword leaving trails of blue light in its wake.
The snowstorm intensified, the cold biting deep into my bones. The enemy leader weaponized the falling snow, transforming it into deadly ice shards that he launched with terrifying speed. My father cut them down effortlessly, his sword a blur of motion. The enemy unleashed a shockwave of dark energy, the impact throwing my father back, but he rebounded with equal force, his strikes growing more ferocious, more relentless.
But then, without warning, my father staggered. He fell to his knees, blood spilling from his mouth. The sight was like a knife to my heart. The enemy leader saw his chance and pressed the attack, his strikes merciless, unrelenting. My father struggled to defend himself, his movements slower, his strength fading. I tried to rush to his aid, to fight by his side but the enemy leader glanced my way, and in that moment, I was paralyzed, unable to move, my body betraying me. I felt the warm trickle down my leg as fear rooted me in place.
My father slashed the ground with a fierce downward strike, the blade carving a deep trench that forced the enemy leader to stagger back, creating a momentary respite. He used the moment to steel himself. Then he tightened his grip on the sword, his resolve hardening like ice. The chilling aura of his weapon seemed to drain the very warmth from the air. The sword's eerie blue light pulsed like a heartbeat of death, casting long, sinister shadows across the battlefield.
The enemy leader's face contorted with palpable fear. His eyes widened, and his usual smirk faltered, replaced by a look of stark dread. He staggered back, his confidence shattered, and he assumed a defensive stance, his body rigid and his focus laser-sharp. Every muscle in his form was taut, bracing for the next attack, as the chilling light from my father's sword seemed to seep into the very core of his being, leaving him visibly shaken and intensely wary.
But when my father tried to raise it, he coughed up more blood and the blade slipped from his grasp.
The enemy leader's trepidation and hesitation vanished, replaced by a savage grin. He surged forward, his flaming black sword cutting through the air with lethal intent. The final blow came like a storm, striking my father with devastating force. The impact sent him crashing to the ground, his body crumpling under the weight of the attack, broken and bleeding.
The world seemed to hold its breath. My father lay motionless, his strength and fury snuffed out like a dying ember. The battlefield, once a deafening storm of chaos and death, had fallen into an unnatural hush. I stood frozen, my heart hammering with terror and grief. He was supposed to be invincible, a man forged from unbreakable steel—a force I had never seen falter. But now, for the first time, he looked mortal.
If only he wasn't weakened, if only he could summon the power from the Calling. The regret gnawed at me, a bitter ache in my chest. Desperation surged through my veins, and without a thought, I charged at the enemy, driven by blind fury and the need to do something, anything. But then, my father's voice, though weak, sliced through the chaos, freezing me in my tracks.
"Stop!" he commanded, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that left no room for defiance.
The enemy leader's smirk faded, replaced by a curious gleam in his eyes as he glanced back at my father. "Who is this?" he asked, his tone carrying more intrigue than contempt.
My father's voice, now laced with urgency. "Find your sister and run, Jovian. I'm leaving it to you."
The enemy leader's expression shifted, a twisted grin forming on his lips as the realization dawned. "Your son? The princeps?" His voice turned dark. "Then, I won't let him escape," he murmured, stepping toward me with lethal intent.
But my father, clinging to the last remnants of his strength, lunged forward, seizing the leader. He wrapped his arms around the man's armor, with a grip like vice. The enemy's eyes widened in shock as he struggled to break free, but my father's hold was unyielding, tightening his arms around him with the force of iron, leaving the enemy leader with no room to escape.
"What are you doing?" the enemy demanded, a flicker of fear in his voice.
"Run, Jovian!" my father screamed, his voice a raw blend of agony and determination. Then he began to mutter under his breath.
I understood immediately, he was forcefully trying to invoking the Calling, which would lead to self-destruction. My father intended to take the enemy down with him in a final, desperate act.
Top of Form
Bottom of Form
I hesitated, torn between my duty and the love that anchored me to my father. But his eyes—unyielding, commanding even in the grip of death—left me no choice. With a final, heart-wrenching glance, I turned and sprinted toward the castle.
Behind me, the air crackled with raw, untamed energy, as if the very essence of the world was being drawn taut.
A deafening roar followed, not unlike the wrath of gods, as a wave of raw, destructive energy exploded outward. It was as if the heavens themselves had opened, unleashing a force beyond mortal comprehension. The very earth seemed to buckle, and the shockwave slammed into me like a mountain falling from the sky. I was thrown forward, my body hurtling through the air before crashing to the ground.
The world around me dissolved into a blinding haze of dust and debris. The cacophony of destruction roared in my ears, but it was a distant, fading echo. My vision darkened, the edges of my consciousness blurring as the overwhelming force of the blast drowned everything else. Just as the last remnants of light and sound slipped away, the crushing weight of darkness claimed me.