The Shattered Crowns

After Menik left, Maeliev remained where he was, his sword now resting across his knees. The Lunar Storms swirled faintly above, their ethereal light casting long shadows across the camp. This was the last quiet he would have before the battle began. The weight of it settled on his shoulders, a burden as cold and heavy as the ice beneath him.

He closed his eyes and began the old ritual, the pre-battle traditions of the Prides. It was a practice that had endured for centuries, long before the Age of Stars, when the Pureblood elves first walked the lands of Trie. Though Maeliev had disgraced his Pride, he still clung to the traditions, if only to remind himself of who he had been before the Deathmark was burned into his flesh.

His voice was low, a whisper against the stillness of the night.

"Makeeth, Lord of Storms, Ever-Living Tempest," he began, his breath steadying as he spoke. "I call upon you in this hour of need. Let your storms rage within me, fueling my blade with fury and power. Wash away my fear, my doubt, so that I may stand unbroken in the face of death. Guide my hand with your unrelenting force, and let my enemies fall as leaves before the wind. This I ask, O Mighty God of Storms and Atta."

The air seemed to shift slightly, the faintest ripple passing through the Lunar Storm above. Whether it was his imagination or something more, Maeliev didn't know. He bowed his head briefly before continuing.

"Temperance, Keeper of Balance, Light of the Crimson Star," he said, his voice softening. "I bow to your wisdom and your laws. Illuminate my path, so that I may walk with purpose and clarity. Temper my rage, so that it does not consume me. Show me the boundaries I must not cross, and grant me the strength to endure the cold truths of this war. Let your light guide us through this darkness, O Creator of Systems and Boundaries."

The Lunar Storm seemed to glow faintly brighter, its light brushing against the edges of the camp. Maeliev took a deep breath, his hands resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

"Deoxy, Mother of Change, the Many-Faced," he continued, his tone reverent. "I ask for your guidance, as one who seeks to endure. Shape me into something stronger, something that can survive this frozen land and the battles to come. Change me, Mother, so that I may adapt and overcome. And when the time comes, let me create something greater than myself. This I ask of you, as a child seeking his mother's wisdom."

The faint howl of the wind returned, swirling softly around him. Maeliev didn't pause, moving swiftly to the next name.

"Vibero, Lord of Truth and Contracts, Keeper of Oaths," Maeliev said, his voice tightening. "I come to you with a heavy heart. I have broken a sacred vow, a bond I once held dear. I ask not for forgiveness, but for a chance to atone. Bind me now with a new oath, one that will hold me until my final breath."

He drew his dagger and pressed it lightly to his palm, slicing a thin line across his skin. Blood dripped onto the snow, dark and vivid against the pale ground. He clenched his fist, letting the pain ground him.

"I offer my life in service to my brothers," he said, the words trembling with weight. "Let their lives come before mine. If they are to die, let me die alongside them. This is my oath, sealed in blood. I ask this of you, Vibero."

The air grew heavy, as if something unseen had taken notice. Maeliev exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the contract settle deep within his chest. There was no turning back now.

"Cerberus, Great Teller, Weaver of Thought," Maeliev continued, his voice quieter now. "Grant me wisdom in the days to come. Show me the path that will lead us to victory, or at least to a meaningful end. Let my thoughts be clear and my mind sharp, so that I may guide my blade and my brothers through the storm."

He hesitated before the final names, the most controversial among the Seven. Many in Trie debated their true nature—were they separate beings, or two halves of the same divine force? Maeliev didn't know, and he didn't care. All that mattered was that they listened.

"Kemeris, Creator of Reactions, and Crotas, Lord of Layers," he said, bowing his head deeply. "I call upon you both, as the forces that shape our world. Let your cycles guide me, your power sustain me. Kemeris, grant me the strength to unleash destruction upon my enemies. Crotas, show me the truths hidden beneath the layers of this world. Together, let your will be done."

The Lunar Storms began to fade, their light dimming as the night deepened. Maeliev opened his eyes, his breath steady and his mind clear. The prayers were done. The silence of the camp pressed in around him, but he felt no fear.

The blaring of horns shattered the quiet, a call that echoed across the frozen lake. The others began to stir, their voices rising in a mix of groans and curses. Maeliev stood, his sword in hand, and turned toward the sound.

It was time.

The Frostblood elves would soon learn the name Maeliev Orotho. And they would remember it.

Maeliev sat motionless in the wake of the ritual, his breathing slow and steady as if the act itself had stripped the weight of his physical fatigue. The last of the blood from his palm had dried, leaving faint crimson lines etched into his skin. The quiet returned to the camp, broken only by the distant murmur of the wind and the occasional creak of ice shifting beneath the frozen earth.

Yet within him, there was no peace.

The words of his prayers still echoed in his mind, each syllable carrying its own burden. He had called upon the gods, sworn his oaths, and bound himself to their will. And yet, a small, persistent voice within him whispered doubts. It wasn't that he questioned the gods—they were undeniable forces, immutable in their existence. No, what he questioned was himself.

Would he be enough? Could he carry the weight of this mission, the lives of the elves around him, and the burden of the oath he had just taken?

His gaze drifted to the others sleeping in the tents. Menik, whose unwavering optimism was as infectious as it was naïve. Volix, the half-orc hybrid whose quiet strength and pragmatism reminded Maeliev of his own pride-stripped roots. Even Lutharn, brash and temperamental, carried his own resolve. These elves—flawed, broken, and condemned to die—had become something Maeliev hadn't expected: his responsibility. The ritual had cemented that. Their survival was now tied to him in blood and spirit. If he failed, he wouldn't just die—he would betray them.

And yet, some part of him wondered if any of them understood what they were walking into. Did Menik truly believe that hope and faith would carry him through this nightmare? Did Volix know that his strength, impressive as it was, would mean nothing against an enemy like the Leakiunius Mae? Did any of them truly grasp what it meant to face not just Frostblood Elves, but the rift itself—an anomaly born of chaos and capable of unraveling the very fabric of existence?

The Leakiunius Mae. Even thinking its name sent a ripple of unease through him. He could feel it now, like a distant drumbeat in the back of his mind, faint but growing louder with every passing moment. It wasn't a physical sound, but a presence—an oppressive weight that seemed to press against the edges of his thoughts. It whispered of things that defied reason, truths that no mortal mind was meant to comprehend. The Frostblood Elves weren't merely defending their home; they were holding the line against something far worse. And now, the Deathwatch would have to cross that line, tearing through everything in their path to reach the heart of the rift.

Maeliev's grip tightened on his sword, his knuckles pale against the cold steel. He had seen war before—he had fought men, orcs, and other elves in battles that had tested every ounce of his strength. But this was different. This was not a conflict of nations or ideals. This was a confrontation with the unknown, a clash with forces that cared nothing for the petty squabbles of mortals.

And yet, despite the enormity of the task ahead, despite the certainty of death, Maeliev couldn't shake the faint ember of defiance burning within him. Perhaps it was pride—the same pride that had once made him a son of Orotho, a Prideborn destined for greatness. Or perhaps it was something deeper, something darker. A refusal to be forgotten. A need to carve his name into the annals of history, even if it was written in blood.

As the first light of the Lunar Storms began to fade, Maeliev felt it again—that faint pressure at the edge of his consciousness. The rift was stirring, its presence growing stronger as they drew closer. It wasn't just a tear in reality—it was alive, a malevolent force that watched and waited. He could feel it now, like eyes in the darkness, cold and unblinking. It didn't speak, not in words, but its intent was clear: it wanted them to fail.

Maeliev rose to his feet, the snow crunching beneath his boots. He sheathed his sword, the blade sliding into place with a soft hiss. The camp was beginning to stir, the others waking to the sound of distant horns. The time for reflection was over. The battle would begin soon, and with it, the true test of his resolve.

He glanced once more toward Udarn, its spires barely visible through the mist and snow. It was a beautiful city, defiant and proud. But its beauty would not save it. Nor would the Frostblood Elves who clung to it so desperately. The Deathwatch would break them, as they had broken so many others.

And yet, as Maeliev turned away, a thought lingered in his mind, unbidden and unwelcome.

What if they're not the enemy?

The question hung in the air like a blade poised above his heart. He didn't have an answer. Not yet.