On the outskirts of Helena, the first rays of the new day stretched across the sky, painting the horizon in faint gold.The sun hung low, its light just beginning to crest the city’s walls. For a brief, glaring moment, its brightness all but blinded the Windstrider sentries who peered down from the battlements, hands raised to shield their eyes.
Beneath that brilliant glare, safely hidden in the lingering shadows, marched the Frostbane forces—Xen’s battalions moving with disciplined silence. Their dark silhouettes crept closer, the early dawn providing just enough concealment to shroud their approach.
Then, as the sun climbed a fraction higher, the tops of imposing siege towers came into view, rising steadily behind the Frostbane infantry. Almost at once, the Windstrider defenders on the walls erupted into a flurry of urgent activity.
“Archers!” shouted one voice.
“Spearmen, form up!” another called.
From Sanders’ vantage point—whether a nearby hill or among the ranks—the scene was one of sudden chaos on the walls. Windstrider soldiers scrambled to ready their bows, hauling quivers and adjusting helmets. Spearmen hurried into position along the ramparts, bracing themselves to repel the coming assault.
Yet the Frostbane army continued forward with calm precision, undeterred by the commotion overhead. Their footsteps fell in a measured rhythm, siege engines rolling behind them.
As the men advanced toward the city walls, a pale radiance washed over the battlefield—an early morning light that seemed to command the dawn, though the sun had yet to fully reveal its power. From the top of the Windstrider battlements, a lone figure emerged: a mage, appearing to be in his early thirties, dressed in the clan’s colors.
Without hesitation, the mage raised a staff or hand—no one could tell in the dazzling glare—and released a spell. The crackling mass of energy streaked across the sky before colliding with a siege tower, its impact like thunder echoing off the walls. Men screamed as flames shot upward, scorching the wooden frame of the tower.
“He’s only second rank,” Sanders remarked with a note of disappointment, turning to the group of battlemasters beside him. “Get to your companies and prepare to attack.”
With grim nods, the officers moved out, weaving through the ranks of Frostbane soldiers who formed up behind them. The mage, emboldened by the destruction he’d caused, launched a second spell that slammed into another tower, setting it ablaze in a burst of roaring flame.
Just then, the world seemed to go utterly quiet, as though all sound had been stripped away. It was the kind of stillness one might feel in the darkest hour of night, when every sense strains for any hint of movement. Even the warmth of the rising sun vanished, replaced by a sudden, stark chill. Color itself faded from the battlefield, and for a split second, it was as if everything stood in grayscale.
Sanders felt it before he saw it—a stirring of frost-laced energy gathering somewhere in the distant treeline. Without explanation, his gaze shifted, as though guided by instinct more than sight. His heart hammered when he realized just how far away that treeline was. “That has to be at least eight hundred meters,” he thought, his mind reeling at the impossible distance.
A single arrow rose from the forest, silent and spectral in the half-light. It soared gracefully through the still air, tracing a pale arc against the muted sky. Time seemed to stretch, every heartbeat echoing like thunder in Sanders’s ears, yet the world remained hushed, as if holding its breath.
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Then, in an instant, the arrow struck its mark: the young mage on the wall. There was no flare of magic, no lingering cry—only the abrupt end of his existence as frost and power converged. The impact tore him from reality so completely that when sound came rushing back, it felt like a tidal wave of noise crashing through a collapsed dam.
In that same moment, the color and warmth of dawn returned with jarring suddenness. The sun’s rays bathed the battlefield once more, and the Frostbane soldiers around Sanders shook off their shock with a collective roar. As if spurred by that thunderous release, the battlemasters raised their voices.
“Charge!” came the unified cry, carrying across the field in defiance of the moment’s earlier silence.
To the south, James stood in his command tent, eyes fixed on a large map of Asline spread across a wooden table. It had been three days since the Frostbane forces laid siege to the city, yet no significant assault had been launched—only a few probing strikes to gauge the enemy’s defenses. These small skirmishes revealed that the remnants of the Windstrider army, reinforced by other city garrisons, were holed up behind Asline’s fortified walls.
Worst of all, Edrin himself was said to be within the city. Earlier that day, James had sent a messenger, proposing a parley with the Windstrider leader. Now he waited for Edrin’s reply, unsure if diplomacy could stave off more bloodshed—or if Edrin would simply dismiss the offer altogether.
In the command tent, a messenger burst in with urgent news
“Commander, he has agreed to meet with you, sir—but only in the dead zone,” he announced, referring to the barren strip of land between the siege camps and the city walls. “At noon tomorrow.”
James nodded curtly. “I understand. You’re dismissed,” he replied, dismissing the messenger as he returned to his maps and plans.
The next day, with the sun high and its light unyielding, two figures advanced into the dead zone. Amid the desolation, a single table and two chairs had been arranged as a neutral meeting point between the forces. The silence of the barren land made the meeting feel as if it existed outside of time.
“Greetings, Edrin,” James said as he stepped forward, his voice echoing slightly in the still air.
Edrin inclined his head in acknowledgment. After a brief pause, he spoke, his tone even yet guarded. “James, I assume you wish for me to retreat?”
A brief moment of stillness passed before James responded, his gaze fixed steadily on his counterpart. “It would be for the best for the both of us,” he replied.
"I don't see how it benefits me, James," Edrin replied, his tone edged with frustration. "I'm holed up behind these walls with an army of twenty thousand, and another force is coming to reinforce us. Why should I risk everything here?"
James's gaze was steady as he responded, "Spare me the theatrics, Edrin. By now, you must have received the reports. The cities of Vadel and Helena are either already under our control or will be very soon." His words carried the weight of certainty.
Just then, a piercing cry—"crawwwee"—rang out from the sky as a Chillwing descended into view, its icy plumage glinting in the light. The creature circled above like a harbinger, a living confirmation of the dire intelligence.
"That, my friend, is the report of Vadel's fall," James continued, his voice calm but unyielding. "Your army won't make it here in time. There's no need for you to die here, and for more innocent blood to be spilled."
The silence that followed was heavy with the unspoken implications of their next moves. Edrin's eyes narrowed as he absorbed James's words
"I cannot just retreat; the people would never allow it," Edrin said, his voice thick with determination and regret. "Some blood must be spilled."
James met his gaze steadily. "Then how about a duel between champions of our choosing?" he proposed calmly, his tone both measured and resolute.
Edrin paused, weighing the gravity of the suggestion. Finally, he nodded. "That is agreeable," he replied. "Let it be in four hours."
With that, both men rose from their seats and departed, each stepping away to prepare for the duel that would decide the course of their conflict, leaving the weight of destiny hanging in the air.