"Volix, walk with me," said Maeliev as he adjusted the straps of his armor, his voice firm and steady. The metal plates clinked softly against one another, muffled by the blanket of snow beneath his boots.
The hybrid fell into step beside him, his heavy gait crunching through the frost-laden ground. Above them, the rhythmic roar of Atta cannons echoed across the bastion, their fire striking towers older than most who fought in this siege. The air trembled under the percussion, a sound that promised ruin.
"Pride Orotho?" Volix asked, his gruff voice holding both respect and curiosity.
Maeliev didn't stop walking, his focus fixed ahead. "We both know that title means little on the battlefield," he replied evenly.
"Still, it is your position," Volix said. "I may be a hybrid, but I'd die before dishonoring a Prideborn. And the whispers… they suggest that if we succeed, you'll be named Regalius. I wouldn't want to be caught arguing with one of those."
Maeliev huffed a humorless laugh. "Regalius." The word tasted bitter on his tongue. "A title as hollow as the Prideborn name. Let others whisper if it gives them comfort."
His gaze shifted to the sprawling winter city in the distance, its pale towers clawing at the overcast sky. "The Deathwatch will be at the front," he said, his voice turning grim. "We'll march into streets filled with traps and ambushes, and perhaps even face the blessed of Temperance. If Petra wasn't lying, she's not the only one waiting for us."
Volix grunted, his expression unreadable beneath his thick helmet. "We are Deathwatch. If there's danger, it is ours to meet."
Maeliev gave no response, his silence stretching between them until they approached the rest of their group. The Deathwatch soldiers were gathered around the remains of a fire, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air. Menik, the youngest among them, was the first to notice their leader's approach. He rose to his feet, his face set with frustration.
"Maeliev!" Menik barked, his voice sharp. "Did the witch speak? Did she give us anything?" His tone dripped with venom at the mention of Petra.
"She said nothing," Maeliev lied, his voice calm but firm. It was not the time to burden them with half-truths and cryptic warnings.
Menik's fists clenched. "Damn it. So Lutharn's death was for nothing, then. We should be done with her, with this whole damn mission."
Maeliev stepped closer, flicking the younger elf on the forehead. "Do not dishonor our fallen brothers with your anger," he said sternly. "The Deathwatch understand the price of their duty. To wear this armor is to forfeit the right to live. We do not question their deaths. We honor them."
His gaze dropped briefly to the sword strapped to Menik's hip—the blade that had once belonged to Lutharn. The young elf followed his eyes and stiffened, his hand brushing the hilt almost protectively.
From the fire, Singas chimed in with his usual sardonic edge. "And we'll honor Lutharn by dying next, under shards of ice and spears of frost."
"Yes," Maeliev said plainly, his eyes fixed on the looming Cervus palace in the distance. The structure glittered like something from a fairytale, its spires encrusted with frost and light. "That is where we're headed. The ruby throne lies within, where the Cervus commands her forces. And beneath it…" He trailed off, his voice heavy. Beneath it was something far worse.
Volix, ever the optimist, clapped Singas on the shoulder. "Relax, lad. Most don't have a Prideborn leading them. If anyone can get us through this mess, it's him."
Maeliev didn't share his confidence. His mind lingered on Petra's cryptic words about the machines deep within the palace. Whatever was stirring down there, it would tear through more than just the Frostblood elves.
Still, there was no turning back.
The Deathwatch assembled their gear with practiced efficiency. Only Menik lingered at Maeliev's side, his youthful face drawn tight with unspoken thoughts. He stared at the castle, its snow-draped towers gleaming in the distance.
"Do you think we'll see Lutharn and Ruthedar's dreams fulfilled after this?" he asked quietly. There was something fragile in his voice, a faint hope clinging to the edge of despair.
"As long as I live," Maeliev answered, his words resolute. He knew no other way to respond.
Menik exhaled a faint laugh. "I thought you'd say something like that. You always do. It's almost like… like you think it's a curse to live."
The words struck deeper than Maeliev cared to admit. He searched for an answer but found none. Menik, perhaps sensing his silence, gave a small nod and walked away to join the others. Maeliev stood alone, his boots buried in the snow, his gaze fixed on the glittering palace.
The silence was broken not by the wind or the cannons, but by the memory of a prophecy he could never quite shake.
It came back to him in vivid fragments—the haunting words of the Priestess of Mentis, spoken in hushed reverence beneath the shifting banners of her temple:
"None will stand in the way of the Black Lion. His fury will burn away the old, and all will cease to be in his presence. Peace shall not reign while he draws breath. Only turmoil lives where the beast walks. And so it will stride past the Prides of Trie, its claws sinking into the great unknown, larger than any before it.
"Chunk by chunk, the Black Lion will shatter, as his ancestor had."
Maeliev closed his eyes, willing the memory to fade. The Priestess's warning clung to him like a shadow, her words an unwanted prophecy tied to his every step. He did not want to be a beast. But the bloodshed he brought, the lives he led into ruin—how could he be anything else?
So lost in thought, Maeliev nearly missed the sound of the Deathwatch's horn. The blaring call echoed through the bastion, shaking him free from the weight of the past.
"Pride Orotho," Volix said as he approached, his expression unreadable. "It's time."
Maeliev nodded, his jaw tightening. The plan formed in his mind—a dangerous gamble, one that could damn them all as traitors to the Deathwatch code. But what choice did he have? To follow orders would be suicide, and he would not let more of his brothers fall needlessly.
Turning to Volix, Menik, and Singas, he spoke with quiet authority. "We'll reach the Cervus that sits upon the ruby throne. If we can end her, the Frostblood elves' resistance will collapse."
Menik frowned. "How do we even get to her? The gates will be locked, and the streets will be crawling with their soldiers."
Maeliev's voice hardened. "While the rest of the Deathwatch strikes at the gates, we'll slip away. We'll find another path into the palace."
Singas balked, his face pale. "That's treason. To abandon the Deathwatch in the middle of an assault—every Pureblood knows the code!"
Volix grunted dismissively. "Like the code matters. All those heroes in the stories you spout off about? They broke orders too. That's why they're in the stories."
"It matters," Singas argued, his voice rising. "If we abandon our honor, what's left to us? What separates us from the Frostbloods?"
"Life," Menik said sharply. "We'll be alive. Is that not enough?"
The group fell into silence, their breaths visible in the icy air. At last, Maeliev spoke.
"It has begun."