In a grand room adorned with gold banners and four insignias—three along the walls and one prominently displayed at the center—a round table took its place as the focal point. Seated at the table were three men, each exuding an air of authority. Behind each of them stood two armed guards, their hands resting lightly on the swords sheathed at their hips, ready for action at a moment's notice.
The air was tense, heavy with unspoken rivalry. One of the men finally broke the silence.
“It’s been too long since we’ve had a meeting,” said the man seated beneath the horse insignia, his tone measured but carrying an edge.
“Yes, far too long,” replied the second man, positioned under the bear insignia. His agreement felt less like camaraderie and more like a calculated acknowledgment.
Both turned their gazes toward the third and final man, seated beneath the wolf insignia. He allowed the silence to stretch before finally speaking, his voice calm but laced with quiet authority.
“Indeed, it has. But it seems time has dulled the sense of some,” he said, his words cutting through the room like the edge of a blade.
The tension thickened, the subtle battle for dominance now laid bare, each man testing the others’ resolve as the power dynamics continued to shift.
“It may have, but time also dulls the fangs of others,” said the man under the horse insignia. His gaze sharpened as he turned toward the second man. “Wouldn’t you agree, Ulric Blackbear?”
He lingered on the last name with thinly veiled disgust, his tone a subtle challenge. Like a calculated move in a game of chess, his words carried weight. Yet, unlike chess, this was a game with three players, each maneuvering for control
“As with teeth, when in times of need, new ones emerge, sharper than ever, Edrin Windstride” Ulric Blackbear said, his voice laced with barely hidden anger. His grip on his composure faltered, clearly aware he was losing this round.
“Enough of this charade,” commanded the third man, the one beneath the wolf insignia. The game of chess was thrown aside, the tension now shifting toward a more direct confrontation.
“Whatever do you mean, James Frostbane?” Edrin Windstride asked with a sly smile, still attempting to gain the upper hand, even as his words masked his growing frustration.
“I agree,” Ulric Blackbear muttered, his tone colder than before. “This is a waste of time.”
The room seemed to grow colder, the dynamics of power shifting again, no longer a game but a battle of wills.
“We all know why we are here,” James Frostbane said, his voice steady but heavy with the weight of the truth. “The Emperor is dying, and with it, our clans’ agreement to be under one flag will cease. War will come.”
“That it will,” Ulric said, a manic glee in his voice, “and death shall rule the lands once again. My warriors have sheathed their blades for too long.”
Edrin Windstride’s expression darkened. “You both speak of treachery. His Imperial Majesty has an heir.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Edrin added, his words a challenge.
James Frostbane sneered. “The boy lacks the power his father held. There is no need for our clan to bend the knee to such weakness,” he spat. “My men are the most sought after in all of time, and I will not hold our wrath back. Such a puny man will not hold us down!”
“Bold words from a Frostbane,” Ulric growled, his anger rising. “My men shall rip you to shreds.”
He turned his gaze toward Edrin. “And you…” He paused, letting the words hang heavy. “You continue to vie for favor with a dying breed. You will only die with them.”
“Enough blood will be spilled,” James Frostbane said, his voice resolute. “But now you must choose: will it be our blood, or the blood of those beyond our borders?”
“Only under His Majesty’s rule can we do that,” Edrin demanded, his words sharp, refusing to break from his loyalty to the dying emperor.
“You still whimper under him,” Ulric snarled. “His son has no right to rule. He has no strength.”
Edrin’s eyes flared. “HE IS THE EMPEROR’S SON!” he shouted, his voice shaking with frustration. “And his power is in the blood that flows through his veins.”
James Frostbane’s gaze hardened. “No one shall ever rule over our clan again.”
“I cannot agree with your terms, Frostbane,” Edrin said, his disgust evident. The tension was rising, the rift between them now deeper than before.
“I agree,” Ulric growled, his fists clenched. “Never again shall we bend the knee.”
“However,” Ulric said, turning his gaze toward James, “our clan has not forgotten the shame you’ve brought upon us.”
James Frostbane’s eyes narrowed. “Your clan was defeated in battle. That is not the shame we gave you, but the shame you brought upon yourself,” he replied coldly. His gaze shifted between Ulric and Edrin. “It is clear this is futile. I shall show you what should have been through blood.”
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“WE WILL BURN YOUR LANDS!” Ulric roared, slamming his hands into the table. The force of the blow cracked the wood, and he propelled himself to his feet in a furious, defiant motion.
The guards of the other two men immediately moved to draw their weapons, but their commanders held them back, signaling for restraint. The tension was thick as the three men rose from their seats.
“Then we shall settle this on the field of battle and wipe your clan out,” James said, his voice steady and venomous. He turned his gaze toward Edrin, his words cutting deeper. “And we won’t leave your mages behind either.”
“YOU BOTH SHALL FALL TO THE EMPEROR’S MIGHT!” Edrin declared, his voice filled with righteous fury.
For a moment, the three men stood, staring at each other across the broken table. The guards were ready, anticipating a fight that could erupt at any second. The silence stretched, thick with the promise of war.
Finally, the stalemate broke. Without another word, the three men turned and strode toward their respective doors, their guards falling in line behind them. The tension lingered in the air, the future uncertain, but one thing was clear: the path ahead was drenched in blood.
“Sire, what is your command?” asked one of the guards, his voice low and respectful.
“Send messengers to the elders,” James Frostbane commanded, his voice cold and steady. “We march to war as soon as the emperor draws his last breath and the pact is broken.”
The group was soon joined by forty more men, their presence imposing and filled with purpose. At James’s side stood his most trusted man, Erik, a towering figure in armor that shimmered like frost beneath the dim light.
“Your word is my command, sire,” Erik replied, bowing his head before turning to relay the message.
As Erik spoke, 18 riders broke off from the group and rode north, their steeds thundering as they headed toward the Frostbane lands. The journey was long, but they carried with them the weight of an impending war—the sound of their hooves echoing the steps toward a future forged in blood.
“Where are we to go now, sire?” asked Erik, his voice steady but laced with the faintest trace of concern.
“To the emperor’s capital,” James Frostbane replied, his tone firm. “As accordance with the pact my forefather signed with the emperor, each clan head must be there for his passing.” He paused, his eyes narrowing, filled with cold resolve. “Though, I want our armies ready long before his death.”
“Which shall we take care of first?” Erik asked, ever pragmatic in the face of impending war.
“The filthy mages,” James growled, his voice sharp with contempt. “Their magic is the only reason we’ve been held back for so long. That damned pact the emperor made us sign... it’s good his son doesn’t have the power to uphold it. And its hold shall break with the death of the emperor.”
The air around James grew frigid, his Frostborn power manifesting as a cold mist swirled around him. His eyes burned with the intensity of his fury, his very presence chilling the air. “I shall personally take the head of that bastard’s son.”
The men around him faltered, feeling the weight of his power as the temperature plummeted. Frost began to form on the edges of their weapons, their breath coming out in visible puffs.
Erik, standing firm, met James’s gaze. “Sire, control yourself, I beg,” he said, his voice calm yet firm. “Strategize. There’s no need to rush into madness.”
James’s Frostborn energy shifted, the frost lifting as he took a slow, controlled breath. The power still simmered beneath the surface, but the freezing grip on the room eased.
“You are right, Erik,” James muttered, his tone dark. “But when the emperor dies, there will be no holding back. We will burn the empire to its core, and none shall stop us.”
The path grew steeper as they neared the capital, the early morning light casting a soft, golden glow on the snow-covered landscape. From the top of the hill, the sight of the city gleamed in the distance—an imposing vision of marble and gold. It sat atop a distant hill, no walls to protect it, for no enemy had dared to reach this far into Frostbane territory.
The capital, though positioned at the heart of all three territories, was primarily nestled in the Frostbane lands, a testament to the empire's former glory. But to James, it was more a symbol of the Frostbane clan’s defeat, the memory of surrender still bitter on his tongue. The city’s beauty only served as a reminder of the power they had lost, a power once held by his ancestors, now tarnished by years of submission.
“Oh, how I can’t wait to burn it to the ground,” James muttered, his voice low, filled with barely contained rage.
His men, surrounding him in a tight formation, nodded in agreement, their faces grim and eager for the destruction to come. The tension among them was palpable. Though they were still several hours out from the capital, the sight of it filled them with a mixture of disgust and anticipation.
“Send a messenger to the summoned armies to meet here,” James commanded, his voice unwavering.
“But, sire,” Erik began, his tone cautious, “won’t the Windstride clan know and prepare for it?”
James’s lips curled into a cold smile. “That’s what I’m planning on. I want both clans to see that our army is here, ready for what’s to come.”
He paused for a moment, his gaze narrowing as the weight of his next words hung heavy in the cold morning air. “However, I want a force of fifty thousand men on stand by, ready to deter the Blackbear clan should they make a move. Let them think twice before they act.”
James’s smile grew darker as he looked over at Erik. “And make sure this gets to the Venmoth.”
With that, the group continued their march toward the capital, the cold air feeling like a welcome home as their eyes remained fixed on the glittering city in the distance. The storm that was about to break upon it had already begun its march.
“This is where we separate,” James said, his voice cold and firm, as they neared the entrance of the capital, barely a mile away.
“But why, sire?” Erik asked, confusion and concern lacing his voice.
“Because when the Emperor dies, the pact will be destroyed, and our powers will no longer be suppressed,” James replied, a dark smile curling on his lips. “And when that happens, the three of us will battle. The capital will be destroyed in the combat, and many will die. As strong as you are, Erik, you can't take on one of the clan heads alone.”
Erik hesitated, his brow furrowing in uncertainty. “But sire, what if you can’t?”
James turned to Erik, his gaze unwavering. “Do not worry. I will not die here. I need you to lead the army in defense, in case the Blackbear clan makes a move while we're fighting the Windstride clan.”
“Understood,” Erik said, his voice steady, though his heart beat heavily in his chest. “Let’s go, men.”
The group turned and began to make their way back into Frostbane territory. The cold wind whipped at their cloaks as they moved forward, James’s eyes fixed ahead, filled with purpose and the weight of the coming battle.