It was time.
The Deathwatch prepared in silence, a collective determination binding them. Each elf gathered their weapons—family blades handed down through generations, relics of battles long past, and for those without such inheritances, the standard-issue broadswords of the Deathwatch. These swords, austere and functional, bore no ornamentation save for the metal spider emblazoned on the hilt, a symbol of their role as hunters of death.
Maeliev's small company assembled before him, their faces pale under the biting wind. Snow swirled in the air, collecting in the crevices of their blackened armor. Each knew the weight of what lay ahead, and yet none spoke of it. This silence was the Deathwatch's last bastion, their unspoken rite before each battle.
Maeliev stepped forward, his voice low but commanding, cutting through the frost-laden stillness. "On my signal—a sharp whistle—we break formation and retreat. Do not falter. I need all of you alive for this to work. Do you hear me? All of you."
The three elves nodded, their expressions grim but resolute. Volix adjusted his hybrid-forged gauntlets with care. Menik rested a hand on the hilt of Lutharn's sword, his grip tightening. Singas, ever the poet, muttered something under his breath, his eyes distant.
"Let's move," Maeliev ordered, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
The Deathwatch marched in solemn columns toward the city gates, their black armor gleaming dully under the faint light breaking through the clouds. The very sight of them—silent, disciplined, and clad in steel—struck fear in any who dared to oppose them. They were more than soldiers; they were a grim reminder of the cost of defying the King of Lions and the Prides. No one whispered. No one spoke. Their thoughts were lost in the abyss of past sins, in the ghosts that walked with them.
And then, the frost came.
Snow and ice descended from the sky, as if the heavens themselves sought to purge the Deathwatch from Lorian. Icy shards rained down, but they bounced harmlessly off the enchanted steel of their armor. The Frostblood elves, cloaked in white and gray, blended seamlessly with the snowdrifts. They moved like whispers, like wraiths born of the winter itself. Only the faintest hint of red, the glint of blood, gave them away as they struck with lethal precision. Blades sought the gaps in the Deathwatch's armor, slipping through joints and weak points.
Maeliev's sword cut through the air in a flash of silver, severing the arm of a Frostblood elf who lunged for Volix. The attack was swift and decisive, the kind of strike honed through years of relentless discipline. Blood splattered across the snow, blooming like crimson flowers in the white expanse. Another enemy fell, and Maeliev's sharp eyes searched for the opportunity he needed.
There—amidst the chaos—a fleeting gap in the Frostblood elves' ranks.
He pursed his lips and whistled, sharp and clear, the sound piercing through the cacophony of battle. The other three heard it instantly, disengaging from their foes with practiced ease. They moved as one, cutting down the Frostblood elves nearest them before retreating into the shadows of the city.
The clashing of steel and the howling winds faded behind them, becoming a distant melody that no longer concerned them.
"They move like ghosts!" Singas whispered, his voice trembling as he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes darted to the swirling snow, half-expecting to see spectral figures emerging from it.
"They bleed like men," Maeliev muttered, his focus fixed on the walls flanking their path. His voice was steady, dismissing Singas's fear with brutal efficiency.
"A bastardized lot, those gray-skinned elves," Volix grumbled, his tone tinged with disgust.
"They are no more cursed than we are," Maeliev said without looking at him, his tone distant.
Menik hesitated before asking, "Is it true what the priests and priestesses say about them?"
Maeliev exhaled sharply, his breath fogging the air. "I haven't visited the temples in years. I wouldn't know."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Menik replied softly, but Maeliev didn't respond.
The group stumbled upon a smaller, nearly unmanned gate, tucked into a triangle-shaped outcrop formed by two walls. It was barely visible in the swirling snow, an oversight in the Frostblood elves' defenses. Only two sentries guarded it, their pale faces barely visible beneath the hoods of their winter cloaks.
"My duties pulled me from the blessings of the gods," Maeliev said softly, his tone edged with a mix of longing and bitterness. "It was a price I paid willingly. Then I became Deathwatch, and the gods had no room for me."
Volix glanced at him sidelong but said nothing.
Menik, oblivious to Maeliev's undertone, continued, "The priests say the Bloodless elves are monsters. That they don't bleed. That their flaky, oxygenless skin is a sign of their corruption. They have no hearts, no emotions."
Maeliev didn't bother replying. His sword did the talking, cutting down one of the sentries with a swift, silent strike. Volix dispatched the other with brutal efficiency, his blade splitting through the elf's chest in a shower of crimson. Menik and Singas, flanking the group, finished off a third unseen guard before anyone could raise an alarm.
"They feel emotions, just as we do," Maeliev finally said, his voice low but firm. "Don't let priests who've never set foot outside their temples tell you otherwise."
Singas hesitated. "But they don't—"
"They do," Volix interrupted, his gruff tone leaving no room for argument. "They may not have hearts, but they feel all the same. Their understanding of emotions might be twisted, but they are not unfeeling."
"Focus," Maeliev snapped, cutting off the conversation. "We're deep in enemy territory. Frostblood elves blend with snow better than any other. I need all of your attention on survival."
That silenced them.
The climb toward the Cervus palace was a slow, grueling trek through deepening snow. Stone streets once visible beneath their boots were buried entirely, the incline growing steeper with each step. The only sound was the crunch of their boots against the frost and the faint whistle of the wind cutting through the gray clouds.
"It's too quiet," Menik whispered, his voice barely audible over the howling wind.
"They're focused on the main gate," Volix offered, though his tone betrayed his own unease.
Singas shook his head, his breath visible in the cold. "No. The main force is fighting the Trie Empire. These Frostblood elves… they're guards. Nothing more."
Maeliev glanced back at them, his face grim. "If you think that, you're fools. They're here, hiding in the snow."
"Why not attack us?" Singas asked, his voice wavering.
Maeliev's eyes narrowed. "I don't know."
The group fell silent once more, their tension mounting with every step. The palace loomed ahead, its spires covered in frost, its walls lined with sharp-edged tiles that mirrored the surrounding snow.
"They mentioned something about the Cervus and the Princes," Singas ventured cautiously.
Maeliev didn't answer immediately. "Yes," he said eventually, his tone clipped.
"The faith says the Princes are dead," Menik added, his voice uncertain.
"The faith lied," Maeliev said flatly.
A heavy silence descended over the group. Only Volix dared to voice what the others feared. "If the Princes' influence is still alive, then we're in deeper trouble than we thought."
Maeliev's jaw tightened, his thoughts his own. He prayed that the Cervus palace wasn't the center of a festering wound in Lorian, but he knew better. He always did.
"The Deathwatch exists for this," he finally said, his voice cold and distant. "We kill those who would dare to invoke a Prince's name. This is why we were called."
And yet, he knew the truth. This was not a coalition of minor cultists. This was something far worse.