The Shattered Crowns

The Chaplain stood amidst a sea of Deathwatch corpses, his battered form heaving as though the weight of the fallen pressed upon him. Blood seeped from punctures in his armor, and the stench of charred flesh stung Maeliev's nostrils. The right side of the Chaplain's body was unrecognizable—flesh and metal fused grotesquely where heat had ravaged him, cinders flaking from his cloak and staining the snow black.

Still, the Chaplain did not falter. His voice, hoarse and resolute, carried across the battlefield. "The other Deathwatch have secured their footholds. Soon, this bastion will fall."

Across from him, Temperance's Blessed raised an eyebrow, a scornful smile tugging at her lips. "You invade my home, tell me to kneel, and lecture me about defeat? What's next, Pureblood? Will you offer to take me as your bride, all in the name of diplomacy?" Her voice dripped with venomous amusement.

Behind her, the conclave of Frostblood elves stood still, their pale hands clasped in prayer as they maintained the storm raging overhead. The Blessed gestured for them to continue. "Hold the storm, Deus. I will handle this fool myself." Her fur-lined cloak billowed as she turned her full attention to the Chaplain. The way she moved, slow and deliberate, betrayed a chilling confidence.

The Chaplain gripped his warhammer tighter, his breath ragged. "We must move," Maeliev warned his company, his voice low. "These are elves blessed by Temperance. We can't face her alone."

But it was already too late.

The Chaplain roared and surged forward, warhammer raised high. He charged with reckless abandon, wielding the massive weapon in one arm instead of two, his steps clumsy and desperate. The Blessed sidestepped the strike with ease, her movements fluid and effortless.

"Oh, how far the Purebloods have fallen," she taunted, her voice carrying over the howling winds. "The once-mighty warriors who brought cities to their knees now stumble like hatchlings in the snow. Tell me, does your Lion Throne believe attacking distant kin is worth this humiliation?"

The Chaplain swung again, his hammer cutting through empty air. His strikes were powerful but predictable. She danced around him, her movements precise, almost mechanical.

"To protect Lorian from the Princes of Ruin, the Trie Empire will do anything," the Chaplain bellowed, his words carrying the weight of his conviction.

The Blessed's lips curled into a sneer. "Conviction without strength is wasted effort." She brushed her hand lightly against the unburnt side of his armor. "Hmm, this side doesn't match the other. Let me fix that for you."

The sapphire embedded in her crown dimmed from a vibrant blue to a dull, ghostly gray. A sudden burst of heat radiated from her palm, and the Chaplain screamed as his armor began to smolder. The metal blackened and fused to his skin, smoke rising as flesh burned away.

"You've been talking for an hour, biding your time," she said, her voice soft, almost teasing. "But now, I see it. You were never my equal."

The Chaplain roared in defiance and swung his hammer once more, but his movements grew sluggish, his strength draining with every second. She caught his wrist with ease, her grip ironclad. "You speak of strength and protection, but your body betrays you. So much heat, so little control."

She shoved him to the ground, her palm pressing against his chest. Frost spread from her touch, creeping through his armor as his heart slowed. "You were disappointingly easy to kill for a Chaplain," she murmured, almost bored. Ice pierced through the Chaplain's chest, and his body went still, his warhammer falling from lifeless fingers.

"No!" Maeliev shouted, his voice breaking as he lunged forward. His blade arced toward the Blessed, seeking to separate her from the Chaplain's body. Lutharn followed, his own weapon slicing toward her with brutal speed.

But the Blessed glided back with a smirk, her furred cloak trailing behind her. "How predictable," she said, her tone almost playful. "None of you Purebloods are ever a challenge. I look at you, and it takes mere minutes to map the system that will end you. Temperance must loathe your kind."

"You will bleed," Lutharn snarled, his voice low and seething. "Your blackened blood will stain these walls, and I'll carve your name into the hilt of my blade."

Maeliev said nothing. His grip on his weapon tightened.

The Blessed gestured to the conclave behind her. "Deus, stop the storm. It seems these... Purebloods wish to entertain me." Her lips twisted into a cruel grin as the Frostblood elves lowered their hands. The howling wind began to subside.

"Shit," Menik hissed, slicing through a Deus that had lunged at him.

"Watch their hands!" Volix shouted, his blade cleaving through a Deus with brutal efficiency. "If they touch you, they'll freeze your flesh. And avoid their saxe knives!"

Singas skewered another Deus with his ice pick, shoving the body away before it could drag him down. Frost clung to his armor, the edges beginning to chip and fall away. The skirmish around them was chaotic and relentless. The Deus surged forward, overwhelming the Deathwatch with sheer numbers, their hands reaching for any exposed skin.

"Keep your focus, Menik!" Lutharn barked, decapitating a Deus that had nearly grabbed Menik's helmet. "If you die, I'll drag your sorry corpse back just to kill you again. Don't make me waste my time."

"Thanks, Lutharn. I think," Menik muttered, his voice unsteady as he stabbed another Deus.

Meanwhile, Maeliev closed the distance between himself and the Blessed. "Lutharn, help the others," he ordered, his voice cold and unyielding.

"You think you can take her alone?" Lutharn sneered but obeyed, his blade slicing through another Deus. "Five minutes, Maeliev. If you're still alive, I'll let you keep your head. If not, I'll take hers and yours."

Maeliev ignored him, his focus entirely on the Blessed. She stood at ease, her mocking smile never wavering. "A Prideborn," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "It's been a long time since I've fought one of your kind. You were supposed to be the pinnacle of creation, weren't you?"

Maeliev charged, his blade aiming for her throat. She sidestepped gracefully, her movements almost too fluid, too precise. Her fingers brushed against the edge of his armor, and he felt the chill as heat drained from the metal. He severed the connection with a quick slash, forcing her back.

"You speak too much," he said, his voice steady despite his exhaustion.

"And you fight like a man clinging to a memory," she countered, her smirk widening. "The Prideborn felled their creators, and now they fall to us. Poetic, don't you think?"

Maeliev didn't respond. His blade sang through the air, striking with brutal efficiency. Each swing was calculated, a mixture of ancient Orotho swordsmanship and the raw fury of survival. The Blessed parried and dodged with a mechanical elegance, her attacks precise and unrelenting. She was like the snow—cold, fleeting, and deadly.

Finally, Maeliev's blade found its mark, sinking into her hip. Blue blood dripped onto the stone, hissing as it met the cold air. The Blessed hissed, retreating and throwing up a wall of snow to separate them.

"You've wounded me," she said, her voice tight. "Impressive. I haven't bled in centuries. But I've grown fond of you, Prideborn. Perhaps I'll keep you."

Her hand flung shards of ice toward him, the storm raging anew. Maeliev deflected them with his blade, but the effort left him exposed. She darted into his guard, her fingers reaching for his chest.

But Maeliev was faster. He dropped his sword and slammed his left hand into her face, driving her into the stone with the full force of a Prideborn. The impact reverberated through the bastion, her crown tumbling from her head as the jewel of resin dimmed to a lifeless gray.

The Blessed groaned, her lips curling into a weak snarl. Maeliev loomed over her, his breath heavy but steady. The fight wasn't over—but for the first time, she looked mortal.