That morning, everything seemed to be going perfectly. It was a warm early spring day. The rivers and lakes were no longer solid ice. The ground was drying from the previous snow. New buds appeared and blossomed into colorful flowers. Birds sang again in the trees, welcoming all that passed beneath them. Finally, the gentle spring breeze blew calmly over all living things.
Strangely, everyone in Regensburg was filled with anxiety. The market had become a sea of people, more crowded than a pigsty. No one felt comfortable. Despite this, all their mouths were wide open, discussing the same thing—the war with the Kingdom of Ingvaeon in the north was imminent.
The heavy thud of boots pounded the ground, shaking the dust of the streets. One by one, towering figures in shining armor and long muskets emerged from behind the barrack doors. On their backs, the emblem of a sun on a blood-red background was clearly displayed. They were the tercios, the elite Aragon Imperial army feared throughout the continent. Like giant ants marching in formation, they moved slowly but surely, leaving Regensburg for Leipzig, the border city.
The Emperor's order was final: raze Prüm, the sacred city of the elves, to the ground, and spill blood in Aureo, the capital of Ingvaeon. No mercy, no compassion. The royal family must be annihilated. The red sun of the empire would soon fly over the ruins of the elf kingdom. This was not a war; it was a massacre.
Cheers erupted, shaking Regensburg. The imperial people, long indoctrinated with hatred for the elves, joyfully welcomed this holy war. They saw it as an opportunity to enslave the elves and avenge their defeats in previous wars. Flags fluttered, war songs echoed, and the fighting spirit burned in every heart.
***
The leaves of the trees as far as the eye could see turned red before finally falling, creating a stunning natural canvas once a year. The warm days slowly faded, while the cold nights became more frequent. It was not uncommon for the sky to decide to drench the earth with rain throughout the night, creating puddles everywhere. Six months had passed since the Aragon Imperial army set foot on the land of the elves and wreaked havoc on everything in its path.
Prüm, once known as the City of Light, now lay submerged in eternal darkness. The ruins of the Great Temple towered high into the sky, its stones cracked and stained with blood. The World Tree, a majestic source of life, remained only as a black stump emitting thin wisps of smoke. The wind whispered through the ruins, carrying the scent of charred remains and the stench of blood. The head of the Grand Patriarch Parseval, who once radiated wisdom, now hung like a rotten fruit from the branches of the dead world tree. His eyes were wide open, as if still holding the last remnants of fear and sorrow. The people of Prüm, who once lived in harmony with nature, were now trapped in a vicious cycle: killed by the Imperial army or enslaved forever.
Meanwhile, far away in Aureo, the capital of the Kingdom of Ingvaeon, life continued despite the shadow of war. The morning sunlight still illuminated the beautiful gardens surrounding the palace, and birds continued to chirp joyfully among the red leaves. However, behind this beauty, worry began to creep into the hearts of every citizen. News from the front lines kept arriving, bringing tales of destruction and suffering. Merchants in the market began to complain about rising food prices, while craftsmen busily prepared weapons to be sent to the battlefield. In the corners of the city, mothers gathered, sharing news and pouring out their anxious hearts. Children, who usually played joyfully in the fields, now often sat in silence, their eyes staring blankly at the sky.
The same fate befell the elite of the Kingdom of Ingvaeon. The King had dispatched the Crown Prince and more than seventy thousand elves under his command to the border. Unfortunately, good news about the Ingvaeon army's victories had never arrived. The King and his ministers could only sit scratching their heads while preparing for the worst. The sky seemed to be against the elves, they thought.
However, this did not mean that all hope was lost. A ray of sunlight pierced through the stained glass window, illuminating the quiet study. Behind a desk cluttered with scrolls of maps and documents, a young princess was deep in thought. Her silver hair flowed beautifully, perfectly reflecting the sunlight. Her sharp blue eyes shifted from one document to another, meticulously checking every detail. A faint smile graced her lips, a smile that held a great secret. After months of tireless work, the strategy to turn the tide of the war was finally complete. Now, she just needed to wait for the King's order to be deployed directly to the border.
"Will you meet His Majesty after this?" a soft voice called to the young elf.
"Of course," she replied flatly. "This is the perfect opportunity for me to become the savior of Ingvaeon."
Across the table sat another elf, strikingly beautiful, leisurely sipping warm herbal tea. The golden blonde hair of the younger sister shimmered under the sunlight, contrasting with her sister's silver locks. Her large, clear blue eyes radiated elegance, along with her porcelain-like smooth white skin. Her slender, perfect figure formed a stunning curve, like a statue carved by a god. Their gazes met briefly without much small talk. Their relationship had always been like this—cool yet calculated.
"How are the preparations, Fleda?"
The blonde elf smiled brightly. "Everything is going smoothly, Sister. His Majesty has approved our request to deploy two hundred royal guards. Additionally, the dark elf tribe will be arriving soon."
The princess nodded in satisfaction. "Very good. And what about the muskets for the dark elves?"
"They're ready. Safely stored in the warehouse."
"That's good to hear." The princess's blue eyes shifted to the window, gazing at the panorama of Aureo stretching beneath the Königsburg castle. "After this, Aragon will only be a stepping stone for me to seize the Ingvaeon throne. And I will make them pay for what happened in Karavuto."
The blonde elf's gaze shifted to one of admiration for her sister. "I believe we will succeed, Sister. With the help of the dark elf tribe and the dragons, nothing can stop us."
"Thank you, Fleda. I believe so too." The princess's face displayed a smile that resembled more of a smirk.
***
The vast expanse of snow stands as a silent witness to the frozen conflict between the empire and the kingdom. The fields that were once fertile have now become barren and desolate, their colors muted by the incessant snowfall. The trees, once adorned with lush leaves, now remain as mere skeletons, their branches weighed down by thick ice.
The long winter has drained the strength and spirit of the soldiers, transforming the battlefield into a white graveyard. They prefer to retreat to their respective fortresses, wrapping themselves in thick blankets to shield against the biting cold. Amidst the deadly snow, news of the arrival of the First Princess and her sister begins to spread along the frontlines. However, it is not the usual royal army they are expecting.
When the Princess's forces arrive, the soldiers are taken aback. The reinforcements they bring are very different from the royal army. Right behind the Princess, two hundred royal guards march in formation. Their armor is complete and gleaming from head to toe, reflecting the sunlight. Meanwhile, the sacred symbol of the Kingdom of Ingvaeon, the Mímameiðr tree, is prominently displayed on their cloaks, said to have branches extending across every land.
The grandeur of the royal guards seems to fade when the gaze shifts to the line behind them. There, standing tall, are the black elves, beings with jet-black skin and hair, their yellow eyes glowing sharply, clad in bratt cloaks that match their skin color, adding to their mysterious aura. Each of them carries a black musket that appears foreign to the royal soldiers.
"Welcome, Your Highness," an elf with neatly slicked-back hair greets the princesses at the fortress gate. His face is serious, but slightly melancholic. "Thank you for accepting our request for assistance. Please, let us enter first."
The Princess and her sister walk past the weary soldiers. They witness firsthand the dire condition of their troops. Tattered tents, damaged war equipment, and faces filled with despair create a heart-wrenching sight for anyone who sees it. The royal soldiers whisper among themselves, their eyes filled with curiosity and a hint of fear. Almost all of them have never seen beings like the black elves before.
Accompanied by a neatly groomed elf, the Princess and her sister enter the fortress, leaving their troops in the courtyard within the fortress walls. The cold, damp stone corridor greets them, silent except for the sound of their own footsteps. In the meeting room, the Fortress Chief Gervasius, with a balding head, sits in his old chair. His thick white mustache and beard are well-groomed, reflecting the weight of responsibility he has long borne. "Please, have a seat, Your Highness," he greets respectfully, "your arrival is like a ray of light in the darkness. However, I must be honest, our situation is critical."
In the meeting room, the Princess and her sister, along with Gervasius, are engaged in serious discussion. No one knows exactly what the three figures are discussing. But surely, something significant is about to happen. Meanwhile, outside the fortress, the royal guards and the black elf forces begin to mobilize. The royal guards, with their ingrained discipline, promptly head to the barracks that have been prepared. The black elves, accustomed to living in the wild, efficiently set up tents near the fortress walls. Despite their exhaustion from the long journey, they move swiftly, preparing for the inevitable battle the next day. The royal soldiers, who were once filled with curiosity and slight fear, now begin to observe the black elves with a newfound respect. The presence of these reinforcements, though foreign, brings a glimmer of hope amidst the despair that envelops them.
***
News that the royal army would attack had reached the ears of those at Fort Steinwacht, not far from the border. There, the imperial forces had taken up residence after seizing it from the kingdom. However, instead of strengthening the fort's defenses, the atmosphere surrounding the fort was filled with excessive confidence—even arrogance.
The morale of the imperial forces was very high; a string of victories in previous battles had fostered a sense of contempt for the royal army. The imperial generals, filled with certainty about their superiority, refused to hide behind the fort's walls.
Orders were issued: the imperial forces would leave the fort and confront the royal army on open ground. The soldiers, filled with high fighting spirit and a slight sense of disdain for their enemy, hurried to prepare themselves. Weapons were loaded with ammunition, combat formations were retrained, and every imperial soldier radiated an unshakeable aura of confidence. They were fully convinced that they would once again crush the royal army on the battlefield.
That morning, the sun did not reveal itself to the imperial forces. Instead, clumps of clouds covered the sky as far as the eye could see. It was not ideal weather for battle, compounded by the cold air that struck the skin of every soldier in line. Thick snow also slightly hindered the mobility of the soldiers assigned to escort the artillery. Nevertheless, the entire imperial force—numbering no more and no less than 15,000 personnel—managed to form their characteristic square formation without much difficulty. On the right and left flanks of the formation were heavy cavalry equipped with full armor and armed with carabins, ready to provide support and attack if necessary.
As the imperial forces marched out of Fort Steinwacht, they moved toward the flat plains flanked by two hills and surrounded by forests. The ground was covered with a thick layer of snow that crunched under the feet of the soldiers as they advanced, while their breath was visible in the cold air. The anticipation of battle hung heavily in the air, mingling with the chill of the weather.
On the opposite side of the plain, the royal army was gathering. The sight of their forces, numbering around 7,000, was in stark contrast to the imperial army. Among them, the black elves stood out, wearing their distinctive black bratt cloaks. The presence of the black elves intrigued yet unsettled the imperial soldiers. They moved gracefully, contrary to their fierce reputation. Their sharp yellow eyes scanned the horizon, seemingly unaffected by the cold or the impending confrontation.
The imperial soldiers exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued by the presence of the black elves in the front lines of the royal army. No spears were visible, unlike the imperial tercio formation, which was filled with spears in the center. Instead, the elves had short knives mounted at the ends of their muskets. Whispers spread among the ranks, speculating about the abilities of these mysterious warriors. However, the prevailing sentiment was one of disdain. With 15,000 troops at their disposal, the imperial forces felt confident in their superiority. They had faced the royal army before and emerged victorious, and this time would be no different.
As the two armies drew closer, the imperial generals observed the formation of the royal troops. The black elves stood firm in a horizontally extending line. Their black cloaks fluttered slightly in the cold wind, while the rest of the royal army formed a solid line behind them. This sight only added to the arrogance of the imperial forces; they believed that their large numbers and the superiority of the tercio tactics would guarantee their victory.
"Look at them," sneered an imperial soldier, pointing toward the royal army. "They think they can scare us with their dark clothing. But they are outnumbered and outmatched."
Another soldier nodded in agreement, his voice filled with contempt. "They don't even have pikemen. We will crush them like insects beneath our boots."
Markgraf Erik von Jürgen—the leader of the imperial forces—exchanged glances with his subordinate generals. They had witnessed the struggles of the royal army in many previous battles and were confident that today would be no different. The black elves, despite their fearsome reputation, were merely a distraction in the grand scheme of the battle.
As the two armies finally faced each other on the snowy expanse, tension hung in the air. The imperial forces stood tall, their armor gleaming, while the royal army held their ground, determination etched on their faces. The soldiers raised their banners high, signaling that the confrontation was about to begin.
"Prepare for battle!" von Jürgen shouted, his voice booming across the plain. The soldiers responded with a roar, their confidence echoing in the cold air.
As tension in the plain reached its peak, the gray sky suddenly began to tremble. The sound of large wings rustling broke the silence, and from behind thick clouds, a flock of griffins emerged, gliding gracefully and swiftly while forming a V shape. They were magnificent creatures with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle, their feathers shimmering in the dim light, creating a sight that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
The imperial troops were stunned, confusion spreading through their ranks. "What are those?!" a soldier shouted, his eyes wide at the unusual creatures. Von Jürgen, initially confident, now felt uncertainty grip his forces. They had never seen griffins involved in battle before; griffins were considered less intelligent monsters and followers of the Dragon God Indomitus. While elves were known for their affinity with nature, enlisting the servants of a dragon god in their war was unthinkable.
However, the perfectly coordinated movements of the griffins, as if following a pre-planned strategy without riders, startled von Jürgen. Their flight path, their deliberate approach towards the imperial lines, and their lack of aggression towards the royal army could only mean one thing: these magnificent creatures were not wild animals, but allies of the Ingvaeon Kingdom. This was a calculated tactic, a demonstration of the elves' newfound power, and a terrifying omen for the empire.
"They're with the elves!" von Jürgen exclaimed, his voice filled with fear and anger. "Prepare for an aerial assault!" The warning spread through the ranks like wildfire, transforming the initial confusion into palpable fear. As this grim realization sunk in, the entire flock of griffins dispersed, their talons releasing jagged, iron ball-shaped fragmentation bombs. Explosion after explosion rocked the imperial lines, tearing apart the once-orderly tercio formation. Soldiers screamed in pain as metal fragments pierced their armor, while cavalry horses panicked and ran wildly. The deafening roar of explosions and the cries of the imperial soldiers created a scene of utter chaos.
Von Jürgen decided not to be swept up in the panic of his subordinates. "Don't panic! Maintain formation!" he commanded. However, his voice was lost in the ensuing chaos. The imperial tercio formation was completely shattered. The long pikes were useless against the aerial assault. Musketeers tried to shoot the griffins, but the creatures moved too quickly and high, and the smoke from the explosions obscured their aim.
"Focus on the griffin leader! Bring the light cannons forward!" Von Jürgen tried to turn the situation around, but their cannons were too slow to be redirected. In this chaos, the imperial army didn't realize that in the adjacent forest, the royal light cavalry was waiting, ready to take advantage of the ensuing pandemonium.
Led by the dark elves clad in black cloaks and wielding black carbines, the cavalry moved swiftly and skillfully to slip around both flanks of the imperial forces. "Attack!" a voice echoed from the direction of the forest. With that command, the light cavalry surged forward, attacking with fervent spirit. They moved quickly, encircling the imperial forces that were struggling to regroup.
The dark elves immediately fired their carbines with precision, targeting the imperial soldiers caught in confusion. The heavy cavalry of the empire, once the backbone of their forces, now found themselves trapped in chaos. They tried to reform their lines, but the sudden assault from the royal light cavalry pushed them back. Horses ran wild, and imperial soldiers fought to maintain their positions.
Meanwhile, the combat skills of the dark elves stood out prominently. With extraordinary speed and agility, the dark forces infiltrated the gaps in the enemy lines. Their attacks were launched with precision, targeting the most vulnerable points in the defense. As their carbine ammunition ran out, curved swords were drawn, swiftly cutting down any imperial soldiers that still obstructed their path.
After completing their task, the griffins vanished above the thick gray clouds, leaving behind chaos without a trace of victory for the empire. The sound of their wings faded as quickly as they had come, as if it were merely the wind passing by. From the aerial assault before, not a single griffin had been injured, let alone fallen or killed.
For the first time, the bugle of the royal army sounded loudly. It was the signal for the infantry to advance. Led by the line of dark elves, they stepped forward steadily, closing the distance with the imperial forces still trapped in chaos.
On the northern side, the wall of the royal infantry moved forward slowly. The snow crunched beneath their feet, but no gaps appeared in their ranks. With each step, they drew closer to the imperial formation, which was beginning to falter. Once they reached the ideal distance, the infantry immediately fired their muskets simultaneously. Shot after shot was fired with intervals that grew shorter and shorter.
Faced with a critical situation, the front line of the imperial forces attempted to fight back. They fired their muskets in desperation, but the results were far from hopeful. Although the weapons used by the imperial soldiers were quite powerful, they could not match the accuracy and range of the dark elves' muskets. Every bullet fired from the imperial ranks seemed to miss, while the dark elves shot their weapons with deadly precision. Their shots not only traveled farther but also hit their targets more accurately, inflicting more severe wounds on the imperial soldiers trapped in panic. Additionally, the formation of the elves extended horizontally, increasing the number of barrels that could be fired simultaneously.
At the same time, the light cavalry continued to press on the western and eastern flanks, surrounding the imperial forces from all three sides along with the infantry. This coordinated assault pushed the imperial forces further into a corner. Their rigid formation was no longer effective against attacks from multiple directions. "Hold the line!" shouted von Jürgen, but once again, his voice was nearly drowned out by the chaos.
It didn't take long for the imperial forces to find themselves increasingly trapped with no way out. Shot after shot from the ranks of the black elves continued to rain down on them, tearing apart their already shaky formation. The sound of muskets firing and the screams of soldiers created a horrific symphony of chaos. Amidst it all, some soldiers began to flee, abandoning their comrades still caught in the battle.
Unfortunately, the only glimmer of hope for the imperial soldiers to see another day was extinguished. The royal light cavalry—like an unstoppable tsunami—managed to crush the imperial cavalry on both flanks. Afterward, they spread behind the formation of the imperial forces, cutting down anyone who tried to escape. The sound of hooves pounding and unfamiliar shouts filled the air, creating a chilling atmosphere.
Von Jürgen bit his lip until it bled, his command shouts drowned out by the cacophony of groans and the clashing of swords. His hand trembled as he raised his sword, trying to regroup the disordered ranks, but it was like trying to gather sand blown by a storm. Every soldier he attempted to rally fell one by one—like wooden puppets with their strings cut.
For God's sake, he watched them die in ways that made his stomach churn. The head of a young officer was severed by the slash of an elf's sword, blood spraying across the snow like spilled wine. Beside him, a cavalry soldier fell, his intestines spilling onto the frozen ground while his panicked horse trampled him, the sound of cracking ribs echoing loudly. The most horrifying were those who sank into the mud of blood and filth, their eyes still wide open, hands reaching out to the gray sky as if pleading for mercy that would never come.
The smoke of gunpowder billowed, mixing the scents of blood, iron, and burnt flesh. Von Jürgen choked—his command to retreat caught in his throat. Retreat? The rear path was already filled with piled corpses, meticulously guarded by the black elves who wore sinister smiles. He realized: this was no longer a battle. This was a massacre. And the order to "retreat" was nothing more than a hollow wish, like a fisherman's cry on a sinking ship.
Von Jürgen's legs finally gave way. His body collapsed, his knees sinking into the snow that had turned to blood-soaked mud. He had just become the target of one of the black elves' muskets. His breath came in gasps, his lungs burning from the gunpowder smoke and the stench of charred flesh. From the thousands of soldiers who had stood proudly just hours ago, only bloodied shadows remained—bodies twisted without heads, hands clutching broken weapons, or mouths agape, frozen in their final screams.
The nobleman then lifted his face to the gray sky, as if questioning the God he served, "What have we done to deserve such punishment?" The snow on his cheek felt warm from his own blood. From the corner of his blurred vision, he saw the imperial banner—the symbol of the red sun—tattered, half-burned, the other half trampled by wild horses.
"I hope the hell up there is not as bad as this…." His inner self roared, but his mouth only produced bubbles of blood. In his ears, the roar of battle began to fade, replaced by the raucous laughter and joy of the elf soldiers. The victory he had promised the Emperor had now turned into a mass grave—red-uniformed corpses lay like wilted flowers on the white expanse.
On that day, in the plains near Fort Steinwacht, the gray sky seemed to weep blood. The Imperial Army of Aragon—15,000 armored soldiers, spears and muskets raised, and the red sun banner flying proudly—was nearly obliterated by the royal forces, which numbered only half of that. Led by Markgraf Erik von Jürgen, the once-invincible northwestern division now lay in ruins: bodies strewn about, horses collapsed with their entrails spilled, and broken muskets or pikes scattered in the blood-stained snow. Less than a tenth survived; some fled in panic into the wilderness of Ingvaeon, greeted by the crack of elf carbines from behind the trees. The rest became prisoners with vacant eyes, witnessing the symbol of their imperial glory trampled by the enemy's war horses.
***
The victory of Ingvaeon marked a turning point in a war that had dragged on for nearly a year. For the first time, the Aragon Empire was forced to break its streak of victories on the sacred ground of elves. The myth of their invincible tercio forces crumbled, shattered by the lightning assault of the griffin squadron, akin to a thunderbolt. Von Jürgen's failure on the western front disrupted Aureo's two-way encirclement strategy, leaving the main forces in the east trapped in a half-baked plan.
The battlefield after von Jürgen's defeat resembled a painting of hell laid bare. The once pristine white snow was now soaked in congealed blood, mixed with mud and pieces of internal organs. The bodies of Aragon soldiers lay in horrific positions—some with half-burned faces, hands clutching broken weapons, or bellies torn open with intestines spilling out like frozen snakes. The metallic smell of blood and burnt flesh pierced the nose, exacerbated by the thick, hanging gunpowder smoke, creating a reddish fog over the plain.
Amidst all this, two elf figures walked calmly. Adele Theudifara Aureo, the First Princess of Ingvaeon with silver hair, stepped gracefully to avoid the severed head of an Aragon officer—her blue eyes wide open as if she had swallowed ecstasy. Behind her, Ermenfleda followed expressionlessly, her eyes closed not out of disgust, but because her focus was solely on her sister. Their white cloaks billowed gently, contrasting sharply with the torn bodies of soldiers, intestines hanging out, or faces frozen in terror.
Around them, nature began to claim its victims: crows pecked at the eyes of soldiers trapped beneath dead horses, foxes and wolves gnawed at the frozen flesh, while the wind whispered ironic messages—victory is not always beautiful. Adele smiled faintly, as if the roar of death was the wine she had been waiting for. Ermenfleda remained silent, continuing to step in harmony with her sister, like a shadow that needed no light to question.
"Hahahaha! Did you see that, Fleda!?" Adele's laughter echoed, slicing through the chaos of the post-battle scene. A crescent moon formed on her beautiful lips. "They didn't even last half a day!"
Ermenfleda smiled, responding to her sister, though with a more serious tone. "If you are happy, then I am happy too."
They then stopped in front of the body of an Aragon soldier still clutching his musket, his face shattered by shrapnel. Adele kicked the weapon aside as if it were a game. "They died holding weapons they never even had the chance to fire. Obedience is a language stronger than steel."
Ermenfleda opened her eyes for a moment and turned to look closely at the corpse. "You are right," she murmured.
In the distance, the cheers of the Ingvaeon soldiers could be heard—they had successfully captured Fort Steinwacht with minimal casualties. Adele laughed again, this time deeper, darker. "Do you hear that, Fleda? That's not just cheering. That's the laughter of this land, finally free from their grip."
Ermenfleda nodded, but her eyes were fixed on a wolf gnawing at the arm of a young soldier. Alive or dead, she thought, everything ultimately becomes food for the stronger.
"Summer," Adele whispered suddenly, her face close to her sister's ear, "you won't see a single imperial soldier in Ingvaeon before summer ends. And all of this—" she gestured around, "—will only be the beginning."
The night wind lifted strands of her silver hair, forming a silhouette of a thorny crown against the sky. Ermenfleda's eyes widened; this was the figure of her sister whom she had decided to follow forever. She remembered the past—two skinny elf children sleeping in a shabby hut, hunger no longer a stranger accompanying their bellies. Now, her sister stood like a goddess of war, her feet trampling the enemy's banner, her hands grasping a destiny that had once been only a dream. The throne of the first princess? For her, it was merely a stepping stone. Adele would not stop until Ingvaeon ruled every inch of Aragon's land, and Ermenfleda would remain a loyal shadow: silent, following, even if that thorny crown would one day pierce both their foreheads.
"And in the end, I will dress you in a cloak made of their capital's silk, Fleda. Red, like the blood we spilled today."
Ermenfleda chuckled softly, "Red is a color that fades easily, Sister."
"Hahaha! Then how about purple?"
They continued their steps while chatting, leaving the field of death that was slowly being swallowed by darkness. In the sky, the crescent moon shone—like Adele's smile, sharp, cold, and never full.
****