The Shattered Crowns

Maeliev's melted blade hovered at the base of her neck. The edge trembled slightly in his grip, but his aim was true. Temperance's Blessed stared up at him, her expression barely touched by fear. Instead, she sneered, blood painting her lips.

"Perhaps," she said in muddled tones, the aftermath of battle thick in her voice, "you should focus less on me and more on what's left of your Deathwatch."

Her words struck him like a knife to the gut. For the first time since the fight began, Maeliev allowed himself to glance over his shoulder—and what he saw stole the air from his lungs. The Deus were swarming his company. Menik stood paralyzed, his blade limp in his grasp, as his gaze fixated on the charred, motionless body of Lutharn. The Deathwatch huddled together in the open courtyard, backs pressed to one another, their movements growing sluggish and desperate under the relentless assault.

There were too many.

His grip on the hilt tightened. He had done it again.

"Kill me," Temperance's Blessed murmured, her smirk widening, "and the Deus will tear them apart. Is that not what the Purebloods preach? That the life of a Prideborn outweighs the lives of all others on Lorian?"

The contract that bound him as Prideborn pulled at his very soul, a weight he could never cast aside. He had sworn to protect them. He had sworn not to let them die.

Maeliev ground his teeth, his molten blade shaking as he locked eyes with her. "Your deal?" he asked at last. He knew her kind too well. A Blessed of the Pureblood pantheon always had a deal to offer.

Her smile sharpened like the edge of a blade. "Simple. The Deathwatch have already won the bastion. You take the Deus and me into your Pride, and we will spare your elves. Not another soul has to die."

"You're mad," Singas shouted from below, his voice sharp with disbelief. "She asks too much!"

Temperance's Blessed ignored him, her amber eyes fixed on Maeliev. She waited, her confidence unshaken, knowing full well he had no other option.

Maeliev's voice was tight. "That obligation goes both ways," he said. "My Pride is shamed. My protection will mean little, save for your survival."

"And will your Pride shelter me? Shelter my Deus?" Her voice was unrelenting, demanding his word.

"Yes," Maeliev said, the word heavy as stone. "It will."

"Then we have a deal," she said smoothly, as though the battlefield around them had ceased to exist. "No matter what being a Prideborn entails."

Maeliev straightened, his voice rising loud enough for all to hear. "Welcome to Pride Orotho. Your life now follows the words of the house. Do well to remember it. I will speak of your new birth into Pureblood culture with my sisters." His gaze swept over the Deus, his words directed at them as much as at her.

The rushing of footsteps broke through the quiet tension. The remaining Deathwatch burst into the courtyard, their blades raised and their armor battered. The blizzard had finally dissipated, but the battlefield still reeked of blood and frost. Maeliev kept his blade steady at Temperance's Blessed's neck as he hefted the Chaplain's warhammer in his other hand.

"Take the Deus and Temperance's Blessed," he commanded. "Feed them. They are of Pride Orotho now."

The Deathwatch froze, their expressions shifting between confusion and outright resistance. Menik's brow furrowed, his lips parting as though to protest. A few murmurs rippled among them, but no one openly defied him. Slowly, reluctantly, they began herding the Deus into the lower levels of the bastion.

Volix stepped closer, his voice low. "Was that wise?"

Maeliev leaned down, scooping the discarded crown from the stone floor. He held it out to Temperance's Blessed, who took it with an infuriatingly self-assured smile. "You certainly know how to treat a lady," she said with a coy smirk before turning to saunter off, her cloak swaying behind her.

"Damn Blessed," Maeliev muttered, his jaw tightening.

Volix raised an eyebrow. "I'll say it again—was that wise?"

"She is Temperance's Blessed," Maeliev said simply, as though that explained everything. "To be blessed by the Pureblood pantheon grants her... certain allowances. Even if she isn't Pureblood, she will be recognized as Prideborn. It's a status no one will question." He paused. "Her Deus, however, will need a lifetime to earn it."

Volix tilted his head, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "Yes, Chaplain."

"I am not the Chaplain," Maeliev snapped, sheathing his ruined blade alongside the warhammer.

Volix glanced at the charred corpse of the Chaplain, now draped in smoldering remains of his cloak. "Well, I don't hear any complaints."

Menik perked up, his voice unexpectedly light. "Does this mean I get to ride one of those Chaplain warhorses? I've always wanted to try."

Maeliev sighed, old memories pressing down on him like a weight. Once, he would have gladly taken the title. Back then, every action he took brimmed with the pride that defined him. But now, that pride felt like a noose around his neck.

"We'll see," he said curtly. "Right now, we finish what we came for. The city still stands."

Volix threw the Chaplain's half-burnt cloak over Maeliev's shoulders. "At least look the part," he said with a chuckle.

Maeliev ignored him, crouching beside Lutharn's body. The brute's bloodied blade still rested in his grasp, surrounded by a ring of corpses. It was the funeral Lutharn would have wanted—a warrior's death, his enemies piled high around him.

The other Deathwatch members stopped, their swords clanking softly against the stone as they circled Maeliev. None spoke, their silence one of respect. Maeliev pressed a hand to Lutharn's closed eyes. "Your duty is done," he murmured. "Go find your true self, free from this war."

Menik lingered nearby, his youthful face pale and drawn. Maeliev rose, his body aching as he rested a hand on Menik's shoulder. "What were his last words?" he asked softly.

Singas tried to speak, but Maeliev silenced him with a hard look. "I asked Menik."

The younger elf trembled under Maeliev's gaze. His voice wavered. "He... he told me to kill someone."

Volix raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Sounds like Lutharn. Did he give you a name?"

Menik hesitated. His lips parted, and he whispered, "Kokabiel."

The name hung heavy in the air. Even Volix stilled.

"The one of legend," Singas said, his voice reverent. "The Hero of an Age long past. A mercenary who turned the tides of battle with a single stroke of his blade. The Star of the Elves, blessed by our Gods—"

"Enough," Maeliev interrupted, his tone sharp. "Legends. Nothing more."

Singas frowned. "You dismiss our history so easily? The Neph created us, Maeliev. Our Gods are real, our stories—"

"Kokabiel is a myth," Maeliev said, cutting him off. "Nothing more."

But Menik stiffened, his silence more telling than any protest.

Volix clapped a hand on Menik's back. "True or not, Lutharn left us his wish. And it's yours to fulfill."

Menik nodded solemnly. "I will. He entrusted me with his blade."

Maeliev's gaze lingered on the boy. "Warm yourself, all of you. The city still stands, and the Deathwatch have work to do."

As they left, Maeliev remained on the bastion's peak, staring out at the frozen horizon. The weight of Lutharn's final wish bore down on him. If Kokabiel truly lived, their fight would be far from over.

And then there was Temperance's Blessed, whose sly smile haunted his thoughts. His sisters would have plenty to say about her when she arrived at their home.

He sighed, the cold biting deeper into his bones. The path forward was uncertain, but one truth remained: duty was heavier than a mountain, and death lighter than a feather.