The road to Aqualis Bastion was a lonely path, broken only by the crunch of boots against frost-laden ground. The air grew colder as he neared the frozen expanse that was once Ironhold Bastion, now submerged beneath layers of ice and water—a tomb built by sacrifice. Its name had long been replaced with Aqualis Bastion—a testament to the heroism and sacrifice of the woman who had given her final stand here.
The moonlight danced across the icy crust in brilliant shades of pale silver, casting an otherworldly glow over the frozen field. On the horizon, the faint spires of Aqualis Bastion rose, barely visible through the thick veil of the frozen lake. Yet beneath this serene, frozen beauty lay the remnants of a battlefield. It appeared peaceful at first glance, tranquil in its icy splendor—but beneath the still surface lingered memories.
He stopped at the edge of the frozen lake, his breath a mist in the frigid air as he stared across the ice. His shoulders slumped, and he drew in a long, shaky breath. His gaze lingered on faint outlines buried beneath the ice—the spires of the ancient Bastion clawing toward the surface, stubborn, lost, and enduring. His chest tightened as memories surfaced, unbidden and unyielding.
This was where she had fallen.
The ruins carried whispers of old stories—myths to the people of Aquindor, tales of war and sacrifice that had drifted into obscurity with time's passage. For the common folk, her story had become a hushed bedtime tale: one of bravery, magic, and finality, stripped of the weight it once carried. Yet for him, it was no myth. His gloved hand clenched tighter against his thigh, the strain pulling at his muscles. He could still feel her presence here, as real as the ice under his boots, etched into every stone and shard of ice.
The past came rushing back, vivid as the day it was forged.
A flicker of memory: a distant courtyard, firelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, and the voice of a storyteller weaving its way through the cold air.
"And so, with her trident raised high, she summoned a great wave, washing away the enemies of Aquindor," the storyteller had said, weaving the tale with practiced ease. "She sacrificed herself so the Bastion would stand, saving the kingdom."
The child had gasped, wide-eyed, as the storyteller leaned closer, adding with a knowing grin:
"And they say her spirit still lingers by the lake, watching over us even now."
The memory clung to him bitterly. His jaw clenched as he stared at the frost beneath his boots. That story, so neat, so easy, felt hollow compared to the truth he carried. The chaos. The desperation. The price of her choice. None of it had found its way into that story. None of it had found its way into the dreams of the young, no matter how much they might have needed the truth.
He moved carefully toward the remnants of the outer walls, their crumbled stones barely visible beneath layers of frost. Time had buried much beneath the ice and snow, but the echoes remained. He knelt, his hand grazing the surface of frozen lake. A faint glimmer caught his eye as his fingers brushed the frost. The ice shimmered faintly beneath his touch, revealing intricate carvings hidden within the ice—symbols of her legacy. He traced a crescent moon, waves frozen mid-crash, and the faint outline of a woman holding a trident aloft. His breath hitched. These were not her; they were echoes of her memory, preserved by the slow passage of time and the unyielding cold.
His lips parted. His voice emerged as a trembling whisper, heavy with longing and sorrow.
"Ilyana..."
The Frost Reaver—her trident, her final stand—lay here beneath the frozen expanse. He could sense it, a faint pulsing glow beneath the ice, as though it still remembered her. His hand hovered instinctively, but he clenched his fist before his touch could break the ice. It was not yet time.
The wind picked up, sharp and biting, carrying whispers that sounded like mourning. His breath caught as the wind swirled, and beneath him, the ice shifted—a deep groaning sound, as though it, too, mourned her passing. The frost glimmered faintly underfoot, alive and restless in a way that unsettled him.
Her image came to him unbidden: silver-blue hair flowing like a river, aquamarine eyes calm yet fierce, holding the sharp edge of a storm. Her warm laughter had pierced through the darkest days like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, a stark contrast to the fiery determination in her voice when their arguments felt as though they could shake the heavens themselves.
"Even now, you carry burdens I wished you wouldn't," her voice whispered in his mind, steady yet achingly distant.
The memory gripped him, its weight pressing down like the chill of the air around him. His gaze lingered on the faint glow beneath the ice, as though it pulsed in response to his thoughts. His breath misted into the cold as he straightened, each step along the snow-laden perimeter stirring fragments of the past.
The frozen surface beneath his boots remained solid, the cold biting through the soles as he stood amidst the vast, frozen expanse. His resolve felt fragile, a simmering tension building in his chest, threatening to overflow. He could hear her voice again: steady, unwavering, commanding even amidst the chaos of battle. She had always been unyielding, calm, even as storms raged all around her.
And then, as always, the memory of her end surfaced, sharp, vivid, and unrelenting.
The Bastion had fallen, its defenders overwhelmed by an unending tide of enemies. Amid the chaos, she had stood at the heart of it all—calm, resolute, and unyielding. Her voice had carried over the din of battle, commanding the remnants of the defense with unwavering clarity.
When defeat became inevitable, she had made her choice. Summoning the last reserves of her strength, she unleashed Pralaya Sphota—a cataclysmic surge of magic that engulfed the battlefield in a tidal wave of destruction. The roar of the sea and cries of soldiers mingled together in a symphony of sacrifice and finality.
She had chosen her end, and the memory lingered like salt in an open wound.
"They've forgotten you," he whispered into the stillness. His voice was barely audible, swallowed by the wind. The frozen lake shimmered faintly, and something shifted beneath its surface.
From the mist clinging over the frozen lake, she emerged—a spectral figure wreathed in ethereal light. Her silver-blue hair swam through the mist like a river, and her aquamarine eyes pierced him with their steady, unwavering calm.
"You still linger," she said, her voice neither accusing nor kind.
"I couldn't save you," he confessed, guilt weighing every word. "I couldn't save any of you."
Her form flickered, the glow dimming for a moment. "You were never meant to save us. We chose to stand, knowing the cost. Your guilt is misplaced—it is never yours to bear."
His voice cracked. "But they've forgotten you. Your sacrifice is now just a story, lost in time."
Her gaze softened, warmth mingling with cold as her presence lingered "The world moves on, as it must. We fought not for remembrance but for what mattered. Guard them, as you once guarded us, even if they never speak our names again."
The spectral figure began to fade, dissolving into the mist. The Frost Reaver glowed faintly beneath the ice, its light unwavering—a reminder of her strength, her sacrifice, and her choice.
He knelt, reaching toward the ice but not touching it. Her words lingered, etched into his bones. He rose slowly and stood motionless for what felt like hours, grief and resolve warring within him like twin specters, each tugging him in opposing directions. Finally, he turned to leave, his steps heavier now. His heart ached with the weight of her memory, yet a flicker of resolve remained.
Behind him, Aqualis Bastion lay silent, its frozen expanse glimmering beneath the moonlight—a solemn, unyielding testament to the heroism of the woman who had become its eternal guardian.