The Shattered Crowns

Chapter 35: Nightfall Seige



The fires crackled weakly against the cold, the heat barely stretching beyond the circle of Mukashi gathered around. They ate in relative silence, save for the occasional crunch of frostbitten rations or the faint clink of metal cups. But as the cold began to seep into their bones, they turned to the only warmth they could conjure: conversation.

"I'm telling you," Signas said, his voice rising with mock indignation, "I struck down three men in a bar fight. With my bare hands, no less."

Lutharn let out a harsh laugh. "And each of them was just that—men. Not elves, not orcs. Men. Bulkier than us, sure, but clumsy. In a bar, with no room to move? They'd have crushed you."

"You'd be flat on your back in seconds," Ruthedar added, smirking.

Signas puffed out his chest. "Upon an oath, they fought like orcs!"

Maeliev dropped down beside Volix, pulling his rations from his pack. "We're supposed to trust this man to hold the line tomorrow?" he muttered.

Volix snorted. "He'll fight when it counts. They all will."

Menik, his helmet pushed up to warm his hands by the fire, called out, "What about you, Maeliev? Ever fought a human as strong as an orc?"

"I've fought humans. And orcs." Maeliev bit into his ration, his tone casual. "Most humans die quickly. They're strong, but if they can't land a blow, they're just fodder. Orcs are different. They hit like hammers, and they don't stop until one of you is dead."

Signas seized the opportunity to salvage his story. "See? Orcs! That's what I was saying."

Maeliev raised an eyebrow. "You've never fought an orc, Signas. Most of them live in the mountains, dedicating their lives to their craft. They'd split you in half before you even raised your blade."

The firelight cast sharp shadows across Signas's face as he opened his mouth to protest, but no words came.

"Let it go, word-spinner," Volix said, shaking his head. "You wouldn't last a heartbeat against an orc."

After the meal, the Mukashi began preparing for the long night ahead. Maeliev sat by himself, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. His eyes drifted toward the horizon, where the city of Udarn loomed like a phantom.

The glacier it rested on jutted out into the frozen wilderness, a natural fortress as unforgiving as the elves who inhabited it. The walls were impossibly high, carved from the same ice that encased the glacier itself, and the towers that rose above them seemed to pierce the storm clouds. Their architecture wasn't just practical—it was purposeful. Every spire, every turret was a testament to survival, a declaration that the Frostblood elves had mastered this harsh land and bent it to their will.

The Solar of Temperance stood at the forefront, a circular watchtower that had once been a beacon of elven unity. Now, it was a stronghold of defiance, its icy surface glinting in the faint moonlight.

Behind it, the heart of Udarn sprawled like veins across the glacier. Its streets were hidden in shadow, but Maeliev could imagine them clearly: narrow pathways carved through ice and stone, lined with buildings that clung to the glacier's edges. The city itself seemed to hang precariously over the cliffside, as if daring the world to challenge its balance.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Volix said, stepping up beside him.

Maeliev didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the city, his mind racing with thoughts of what awaited them.

"It won't fall easily," Volix continued. "You can see that much."

"No," Maeliev said quietly. "It won't."

The fires burned low as the Lunar Storms began their silent descent across the land, their shimmering mists barely visible in the faint light of the moons. The howling wind quieted, its rage replaced by an eerie stillness. The frozen lake outside the camp reflected the dark sky above, fractured with glimmering streaks of light from the storm's strange auroras. Maeliev stood just beyond the circle of tents, his sword resting in his lap. The others had retreated to their cots, seeking what rest they could before the coming dawn.

For Maeliev, sleep was an indulgence he could not afford.

He sat cross-legged on the cold ground, his breath forming soft plumes in the air. The blade in his hands caught the pale light of the moons, its edge sharpened to perfection. Slowly, methodically, he ran a whetstone down its length, the rhythmic scraping the only sound breaking the quiet of the camp. Each pass was deliberate, a ritual as much as it was preparation. It wasn't the steel he sought to sharpen—it was his mind.

Maeliev's gaze flicked to the horizon, where Udarn's spires rose like specters against the night sky. He could feel the weight of the city pressing down on him, not just as a physical presence, but as a symbol of everything the Deathwatch had been tasked to accomplish. The Frostblood elves were only one layer of this siege. The anomaly—the Leakiunius Mae—was the true enemy, a tear in reality that threatened to spill chaos into their world.

If the Deathwatch failed, it would not be armies or cities that fell, but the very balance of existence.

A soft crunch of snow behind him drew Maeliev's attention. He didn't look up; he already knew who it was.

Menik's voice was quiet but insistent. "You're not going to sleep, are you?"

"No," Maeliev replied without stopping his sharpening. The whetstone scraped down the blade, the sound sharper in the cold night air. "Rest is a luxury I can't afford."

"You're going to need your strength," Menik pressed, stepping closer. "We all will."

Maeliev glanced up at the younger elf, his dark eyes unreadable. "Strength doesn't come from sleep, Menik. It comes from preparation."

Menik hesitated, as if searching for the right words, then sat down beside Maeliev. He wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, his breath misting in the air. "You think we'll survive this, don't you?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken fear. Maeliev turned his gaze back to his sword, the whetstone still in his hand. "Survival isn't guaranteed. Not for any of us."

"That's not an answer," Menik said, his tone sharper now.

"It's the truth," Maeliev replied. "If you're looking for reassurance, you won't find it here."

Menik was silent for a moment, his hands clenched around the edge of his cloak. Finally, he said, "I'm not afraid to die, Maeliev. I just don't want it to be meaningless."

Maeliev paused, the whetstone hovering above the blade. He looked at Menik, studying the younger elf's face—the flicker of determination in his eyes, the tension in his jaw. There was something admirable in his conviction, even if it was born from naivety.

"Then fight," Maeliev said simply. "Fight like your death matters. That's all any of us can do."


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