Death lingered in the towers, clinging to the frost-laden air even as the winds withdrew and Temperance's biting cold began to retreat. Maeliev adjusted his finely tailored uniform, his armor absent but his broadsword hanging at his side. Each step echoed faintly in the stone halls, the weight of duty pressing on his shoulders.
"Pride Orotho," a Deathwatch soldier said with a stiff bow, his posture as unyielding as the icicles hanging from the ceiling.
"Be at ease," Maeliev replied, his tone curt. He wasted no words. "Has Temperance's chosen spoken yet?"
"Not a word," the soldier answered, his voice edged with hesitation. Maeliev grunted, his face unreadable. The initial strike into the Frostblood elf city would be a brutal one—littered with traps, possibly even Karnen. Frostblood elves, like the cold they embraced, were known to be relentless.
"It seems I will need to have words with her myself," Maeliev said, stepping forward with purpose.
"Of course, Pride Orotho." The soldier stepped aside, allowing Maeliev to pass through the heavy door.
Inside, the cold was sharper, biting at his skin despite the insulated walls. Temperance's blessed sat in a chair, her posture regal despite her situation. She didn't rise at his approach, her chin tilted slightly upward in defiance. Her pale blue eyes lazily drifted over him, sharp and calculating, as if dissecting him down to his marrow.
"The head of my Pride," she drawled, her voice like frost curling against glass, "or should I call you my captor? How gracious of you to visit. You clean up nicely, for a Pureblood."
"Not of my own volition," Maeliev replied tersely, his hand brushing the hilt of his broadsword, ready for whatever venom she might spit.
"Then it seems we are in agreement," she said with a faint smirk.
Maeliev pulled a chair across from her and sat, his gaze unflinching. "Let us not waste time with games, Petra. I wish to know the ambush points you and your kin have established. I need details of any other blessed of Temperance in the city, and if you know where the Karnen lurk, I would appreciate it."
Petra's lips twitched before soft laughter spilled from her, light and mocking. It rose into guffaws that echoed in the frigid chamber. She wiped a tear from her eye. "And they say Pureblood elves are masterful with their words. Is this truly what passes for eloquence?"
"Frostblood elves speak just as cautiously," Maeliev countered, his tone even. "You are part of my Pride now, Petra, and it would do you well to tread carefully. Your words hold weight—especially with the lives of your people hanging in the balance."
Her laughter faded as her icy demeanor returned. "Your Pride? Don't presume to claim me. I gave my word not to harm your Pureblood kin, but make no mistake—if it were my choice, your corpse would be frozen to the stones of this bastion, a warning to any who dare attack my people."
Her words hung in the air, sharp as a blade. Maeliev met her gaze evenly, unshaken. "Diu vivere militare est," he said softly, his voice calm but weighted. "To live is to fight. It is the motto of the Deathwatch."
She sneered. "You speak in tongues, foolish elf. Waving that sword of yours around, pretending you're better than the rest of us."
"But you understand the meaning, don't you?" Maeliev pressed, leaning forward slightly. His calmness was unnerving, like a predator waiting for its prey to stumble.
Petra hissed, "I know what it means."
"Then you should also know that we will take the city," he continued, his tone barely above a whisper. "And we will close the tear in reality that threatens this land—whether or not you choose to help us."
Her expression twisted into something between fury and resignation. "You would bargain with a Frostblood elf? I thought your kind were known for their sneers and disdain toward us."
"I care little for what others think I should do," Maeliev said. "I gave a Frostblood elf the Pride name. Does that not speak to what I'm willing to do for Lorian's survival?"
Petra studied him for a moment, her piercing gaze searching his face. At last, she relented. "My name is Petrarut," she said quietly.
"Petra," Maeliev said with a small smile. "It fits."
Her tone turned biting again, sharp as the winter wind. "They call you the Exiled Prideborn. You're willing to drench these streets in blood to reclaim your honor. Nothing is safe in your wake."
He nodded. "I fight because my Pride demands it. Because Lorian needs this wound patched."
"And you would throw yourself into the jaws of death, even if I give you nothing?" she asked, her voice laced with skepticism.
Maeliev rose from his chair, brushing the snow from his sleeves. "We are all slaves to some form of honor, Petra. Thank you for your time."
He turned toward the door, but her voice stopped him. "There's something foul in the Cervus palace," she murmured. "Our Lady has not left her home since your forces arrived. Something stirs deep in the palace's depths. I heard the clanking of machines when I attended one of her last meetings. Whatever it is, I want no part of it."
Maeliev paused, glancing back at her. "Thank you."
Petra sniffed, turning her nose up. "I didn't do it for you. If you die, my claim to the Pride dies with you. You need to live, elf."
"I'll try," Maeliev said, his tone dry as he opened the door. To the guards outside, he instructed, "If she wishes to walk outside, allow it, but only with five of you escorting her."
"Yes, Pride Orotho," the guard replied.
He glanced back at Petra. "An olive branch from me to you. Don't make me regret it."
She didn't answer, but her gaze lingered on him, unreadable.
Outside the chamber, Maeliev strode through the snow-covered bastion, the crunch of his boots swallowed by the distant roar of Atta cannons. "Volix, walk with me," he said, pulling on his armor as he went.
The hybrid fell into step beside him, his heavy footsteps punctuating the silence. "Pride Orotho?" Volix asked, his gruff voice breaking the quiet.
Maeliev shook his head. "That title means little on the battlefield."
"Still, it's yours," Volix replied. "I may be a hybrid, but I would die before dishonoring a Prideborn. And the whispers suggest that, once this is done, you'll be named a Regalius. I wouldn't want to be caught arguing with one of those."
Maeliev smirked faintly, though his eyes remained fixed on the frostbitten city looming ahead. "The Deathwatch will be at the front. The streets will be littered with traps, and the blessed will likely be among the defenders. If Petra spoke the truth, there's something worse in the Cervus palace."
Volix grunted. "We're Deathwatch. We go where others won't."
"Yes," Maeliev murmured, his thoughts drifting. "And sometimes, we pay the price."