“Acteon:
In Loratha and Demis, winter’s bones crack,
Do you hear the thunder of the coming attack?
Thalia:
A tremor, a whisper, conflict yet unfurled,
In this deadly silence, drums shake the world.
Acteon:
From the depths of frost shall birth the flame,
When it burns, nothing remains the same.
Thalia:
In these quiet ashes, battle takes its breath,
From winter’s womb springs summer’s death.”
– The Cold that Burned, A Limrodian play
The Peacock’s Quill—that once-famed haven of laughter and light in the midst of Demis—had transformed into a fortress under siege.
As Lithas slipped inside with her guards, the taproom echoed with hurried footsteps and low, anxious whispers. Except for their blood-spattered armor, her accompanying guards easily blended into the tableau of tense figures that awaited them there, bracing themselves for the coming battle. As she scanned the crowd, Lithas spotted Avila, leaning against a wooden pillar. A study of cool detachment in the midst of chaos.
The moment he noticed their arrival, the old man pushed himself from his post and approached Lithas. His pale eyes studied her. She tried to imagine what she might look like from the outside. Grime and blood staining her once-pristine armor, face pale and drawn, breath coming in labored gasps. Oh, if her trainers could see her now…
“They’ve broken through, haven’t they?” Avila began. His voice was low but serious and Lithas felt a shudder course through her. But the old man was not finished yet. “Consider a withdrawal, Lithas. I hear they didn’t surround the city, probably don’t have the numbers for it. You might be able to sneak out and head back to Sariz. Or, at the very least, think about capitulation. There is no shame in that. It might be your only hope, if you want to save your people.”
A rigid coldness seized Lithas as his words hung between them. Behind her, still close to the door, Kellen and Kael silently watched their exchange. For a moment, she lacked the words to speak. So she turned her gaze from Avila to the rest of the room—her people, having entrusted their lives to her. Nervously chatting, drinking, and double-checking their gear, while they waited. Waited for death to come rush through Demis. Is this what they wanted? To die in a foreign city, for a cause they did not choose. To die for her.
She suddenly was back in O’Levam, that accursed training complex near Lhasa, nestled in between mountain flanks. Bruised—she had been constantly bruised, for years—Lithas stood next to the other trainees in a neat row. Trainer 67z stood before them, face impassive as always. The woman was no Elevated herself, but that did not stop her charges from fearing her almost as much as death itself.
“You’re weapons,” 67z started in her nasal tone. “Perfectly honed, obedient to a fault. Out there, you represent Lhasa. Nobody else. Always remember that.” She looked at them, like they were about to embarrass her personally. “Today, we practice to hold the line. Because weapons don’t retreat. Cowards retreat. Cowards get punished.” This had been one of 67z’s favorite exercises. While her mouth formed a straight line that would have made any architect proud, 67z stepped aside and let her five trainees face a mountain of a woman.
Kar. Delegate of Lhasa’s seventh district. The Stone Bulwark. She greeted them with an almost imperceptible nod. Then, Kar raised two spears of flinty rock out of the ground. Lithas flexed her muscles, summoning heat into her palms.
A quick, reassuring glance at her colleagues. Then they charged. It had not gone well.
Back in Demis, an older Lithas—more beaten, in a way, yet far from broken—thought of Demis’ fallen walls, of the price they had already paid, of the devastation being wrought outside as they spoke. She lifted her chin, golden eyes meeting Avila’s with fierce defiance. “Cowards retreat, Avila,” she responded and let her voice ring out clear and resolute amidst the quiet whispers of the inn. “We do not negotiate with those who slaughter innocents. We stay. We fight.”
Avila held her gaze for a long moment, his expression becoming unreadable to Lithas. Then, he simply nodded, accepting her decision. He turned away—mumbling something about preparations—and disappeared into the inn’s dim interior, leaving Lithas behind.
While she tried to shake the conversation with Avila from her mind, Lithas turned to Kellen and continued. “Prepare yourself. This will be bloody.” With a salute, her captain nodded. Then, followed by a part of her guards, Lithas stepped outside. Behind her, Kellen readied the rest of her troops, leading them out of the inn.
The streets of Demis had turned into a battlefield. It was so strange to Lithas how something so alive with the melody of street musicians and the scent of spiced delicacies could turn into a living nightmare mere hours later. The buildings that flanked the stone-paved roads already bore signs of the conflict. Once beautiful façades were scarred and pitted, windows shattered, doors smashed. A thick pall of smoke hung heavy in the air, mixing with the acrid scent of burned wood. From the relative safety of the inn courtyard, Lithas took in the scene. Screams of agony, terror, and rage formed a constant background. The downfall of a city she had just gotten to know.
Through this apocalyptic landscape, Lorathan soldiers prowled.
Clad in dark armor, faces hidden behind visors, they moved in groups with brutal efficiency. Occasionally—here and there—they would be met by a desperate band of Demisians, trying to defend their home from pillaging and destruction. Sparks flew and swords clashed as each of these encounters turned into a savage dance of death.
Lithas was torn from her thoughts as a cry echoed down the streets. Yet again, a squad of Demisian soldiers had engaged a, much larger, group of Lorathans. Swords met in a vicious, clanging symphony of dancing metal. The fighting was entirely close quarters, brutal and unyielding, each side pushing against the other in a desperate bid for control over this section of the street. Time to add her weight to this.
“Get ready!” Lithas’ voice cut through the air, steely determination in her tone. Kael and Kellen moved to flank her, weapons drawn, expressions resolute.
With a deep breath, Lithas stepped forward and led her guards into the fray. As they stormed down the cobblestones, the sounds of battle grew louder, enveloped them. By now, the intensity of the conflict was almost palpable.
But she did not forget her training. Lithas’ world seemed to immediately narrow as she engaged the first enemy, her focus now resting solely on the present moment. A Lorathan soldier lunged at her, sword gleaming in the torchlight. She deflected his blow with a burst of heat, throwing him off balance and giving her an opening to counterattack with her khopesh. Blood spurted and another body joined the packed ground.
Lithas took a fleeting moment to scan the chaos around her. The screams and clash of steel had become somewhat of a grim symphony to her ears. She had expected the worst but the battlefield was not lost. Not yet. Supported by her guards, the Demisians even had somewhat of a chance now to turn this skirmish around.
Facing them, one group of Lorathans stood out in particular. Dressed in gleaming armor that appeared to absorb light, rather than reflect it, they moved through the battle with an eerie calm. As if they could not be bothered by the mayhem around them. Every so often, a burst of viciously jagged ice would lash out toward them—it seemed the Demisians had an Elevated with them—but, more often than not, their armor just seemed to absorb it, leaving them unscathed.
Dust-steel.
The realization hit Lithas like a punch to the gut. She had sold that armor, those weapons, to Loratha. No matter how she turned it, this was partly her fault. Every death caused by these soldiers would be because of her. She had known about the impending conflict. Known, but not cared. Not enough, anyway. Not when there was profit to be had.
Lithas stood frozen for a moment, eyes locked on the dust steel-clad soldiers. She had enabled this onslaught. Could Loratha even have attacked Demis without the dust-steel? The knowledge bore down on her, making it hard to breathe.
A Lorathan soldier seized her momentary distraction and charged at her with a battle cry, axe raised. A distant part of Lithas’ mind noticed the man but did nothing to prevent it. Maybe she deserved whatever would come. Kellen intercepted the Lorathan, tackling him to the ground, before he dispatched him with a swift strike. “That was close. What’s wrong?” He cast a worried glance toward Lithas, but she had already snapped back to the present.
There would be time for guilt later. Now, there was only the fight.
As the battle wore on, the area around the inn turned into a furnace. Without her realizing it, their intersection had become somewhat of a chokepoint in the street-by-street fighting that had gripped Demis by its throat. Lorathan soldiers descended on the Demisians and her guards like a relentless storm. An unyielding assault. Lithas’ only hope was that she also spotted blue-clad squads jogging around corners to join the fray. Perhaps this was where it would all be decided.
Yet, each parry, each thrust, each desperate counterattack from Lithas and her guards met with an equal response. Tempered steel rained down on them. She saw her retinue fall. Throats being slit, bodies being trampled. No matter how many soldiers Lithas broiled alive—always careful to dodge the dust-steel elites—their line of defense around the inn looked more and more precarious. First, it began to buckle, then it slowly gave way.
Lithas’ body still throbbed from the wounds she had sustained at the wall—now joined by fresh cuts—the sensation becoming a steady drumbeat of pain that echoed through her. Her breath came in ragged gasps by now, movements growing more sluggish with each passing moment. The only thing keeping her still upright was pure, raw will.
Combat became somewhat mechanical to Lithas. Just another set of studied movements. She extended a hand, palm outward, and the air in front of a Lorathan attacker shimmered with heat. The soldier staggered backward, screaming—his armor smoking—just in time for Kael to bring his weapon down, ending another threat.
All the death. It just left her cold. They had seen to that, in that mountainous jungle. She remembered target practice. Lhasa always had an ample supply of convicts at hand. Very convenient.
Shaking off these memories, Lithas refocused on the battle that raged before her. Despite the chaos around them, she could feel the adrenaline waning, her energy being sapped, slowly but surely. She fought on regardless, almost without conscious thought now. Her powers lashed out—burning, broiling, searing. Even leeching away any remnants of warmth. Whatever helped in pushing the Lorathans back.
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Yet, despite her best efforts, they were gradually pressed back. The defensive semi-circle around the Peacock’s Quill was shrinking, the inn’s entrance looming ever closer at their backs, trapping them. The Demisians were losing ground, and Lithas, with a sinking heart, suddenly knew they could not hold much longer. They would break. And then they would die.
There was a shift. A horn sounded in the distance, its low, resounding call piercing the cacophony of battle. In her near-stupor, Lithas almost missed it. But then, from the east, a new force surged forward. At the head of his soldiers, proudly bearing the eagle of Demis, was Prince Cerax. The prince rode his mount like a possessed man as his hoarse voice echoed through the narrow streets. “For Demis! For our city, our home!”
Around Lithas, his shouts ignited a new fervor in the hearts of his men. Cheers rose from the tired defenders of Demis. Stunned, Lithas saw them gather their last reserves of energy, saw steel return to spines, and witnessed as they hacked at the advancing Lorathan forces. Cerax himself charged into the mass of black and red, joined by his personal guard and Vexaria Corvus at his side, raising twin dueling swords. The Demisian soldiers rallied around their leader in a fierce counterattack. Inch by blood-soaked inch, they pushed the Lorathans back.
From their position close to the inn, Lithas watched the scene unfold with Kellen and Kael at her side. The frenzied surge of the Demisians had left them behind. Stranded. A sense of hope flared in her breast at the sight. Lithas turned to Kellen, her cracking voice barely audible over the surrounding chaos. “Kellen, see that? We might have a chance after all.”
Kellen, face set in a grim mask, nodded but said nothing in return. Lithas watched as the prince’s forces continued to push onward. A wildfire of unity and hope blazed through the ranks, rekindling the defenders’ spirits. Yet, amidst the momentary relief, Lithas’ gaze was drawn to movement at the rear of the Lorathans.
The soldiers were retreating, yes, but not in defeat. No, they were making way.
From the receding ranks of Lorathan soldiers emerged a handful of gray-robed figures, advancing down the street.
Lithas felt ice spread from the nape of her neck down to the small of her back. She could not quite name it but there was something fundamentally terrifying about these men and women. Stoic faces, eerily calm amidst the chaos, radiating absolute indifference to the carnage around them. Then she realized where she had seen them before—earlier, at the gates. These people had broken Demis’ defenses, had torn down walls that seemed impregnable when she had first entered the city.
Their powers came alive again, indiscriminate and catastrophic.
Not a hundred paces from Lithas, buildings were reduced to rubble by the casual wave of a hand, people incinerated where they stood. All around her, almost in the blink of an eye, fires ignited, running rampant through the crippled city.
In one terrible moment, every step that had been conquered with blood was rolled back. Demis’ advance collapsed toward the inn. The screams of the dying echoed hauntingly in the night as Lithas fought again. Desperately, futilely.
To her right, one of Lithas’ guards fell to his knees, choking. Water streaming from mouth and nose. Devan, dreaming of retiring after this final mission, to be with his young family, back in Sariz. On her other side, Lov suddenly halted, turned, and slashed off the face of her companion, tears streaming down an otherwise impassive face. Isthal and Lov, young enough for passionate love. Lithas had her eye on them, watching for an opportunity to make an example of why couples within a company of guards were a bad idea. They had never given her the opportunity. As if her puppet strings had been cut, Isthal collapsed. Eyes resting on Lov, uncomprehending.
Lithas turned away.
Had to.
Had to fight off Lorathan blades, spears, axes. Had to… no, not that. After her encounter with Grave, she did not dare confront one of the gray robes. One of the Elevated, for that was what they had to be. Lithas swallowed and looked around. Their troops faltered—no question about it—any momentum swept away by the sheer destructive force of the newly arrived Elevated. Under her boots, the streets ran red, the lifeblood of Demis soaking the cobblestones. It was an awful sight, like a nightmare come to life.
Lithas stood, watching helplessly. Heart pounding with a mix of fear and rage. But even as despair threatened to overwhelm her, she squared her shoulders and tightened her grip on her khopesh. No, they were bloodied but they were not beaten. Not yet. Not while she still drew breath. They wanted fire? She could incinerate their whole world, for all she cared.
“Stand fast!” Lithas shouted over the din and gritted her teeth. “This isn’t over yet, we can still beat them back.” Grim-faced, her remaining guards fell into position around her, Kael among them. Lithas noticed the missing faces. Too many missing faces. With a sour feeling in her stomach, she led the renewed charge.
Alongside the remnants of Demis’ defenders—swept up in their advance—they threw themselves against the sea of invaders once more. Despite seemingly insurmountable odds, they battled on, now mainly driven by the raw will to survive. For what else was there to hold on to?
With a swift, fluid motion, Lithas’ heat whip lashed out, cleaving through a Lorathan soldier. She moved to find her next target. Only to see Kellen—through the smoldering gap made by her heat whip—grappling with a gray-robed Elevated. Hand to hand combat with one of those monsters? What was he thinking? As if to mirror her thoughts, the other Elevated suddenly thrust his hand forward, and with a gut-wrenching sound, Kellen was thrown back in a wide arc. His left arm thumped onto the ground, cleanly severed from the rest of his body, as if with a scalpel. Half a battlefield away, her captain lay screaming as he cradled the bleeding stump.
Lithas’ stomach immediately transformed into a cold knot. “Kellen!” she yelled—voice breaking a little—as she started toward him. Only to be intercepted by a Lorathan soldier, armor glistening in the wan moonlight.
As she twisted away from a lunging broadsword strike, Lithas extended her hand, focusing her power on the soldier. Heat swallowed the Lorathan like a hungry maw. But then nothing happened, the heat simply sliding off his dust-steel armor, rendering her attack useless. A smile played on the soldier’s lips.
How she hated the smugness of dust-steel soldiers. Oozing superiority as they thought they had neutralized Elevated. Her time to smile. As if an Elevated did not spend hours lying awake, thinking about how to counteract the damn material. As always, all it took was a bit of creativity. The secret of her craft, so to speak. Concentrating, she withdrew the heat around the soldier. More and more and more. The air around him chilled rapidly, until frost formed beneath his feet. Caught by surprise, the soldier slipped as his footing became unsure on the slick, frost-covered cobblestones.
Not wasting a single moment, Lithas lunged forward, khopesh arcing through the air. It collided with the soldier’s side in a sickening thud, bypassing the protection of the dust-steel armor at a joint. Tempered steel did not care for dust-steel. She felt it bite into flesh. Deeply.
Her feeling of victory proved to be short-lived, however. Sharp pain blossomed in her side. Lithas looked down, only to discover a deep gash. The handiwork of her recent opponent, apparently, who had slumped to the ground, unmoving. She had not even noticed that. As her hand instinctively moved to the wound, she hissed in pain.
Lithas clutched her side and staggered over to Kellen. His face was waxen, pain blotting out his eyes as he lay in a crimson puddle. Despite that—despite all of that—he still smiled weakly. “Glad... you’re alive,” he rasped out, coughing. “We did our part, didn’t we?” She knelt beside him, desperately trying to think of a way to stop the bleeding. How she wished to have healing powers.
It took her shocked mind far too many precious moments before it came to Lithas. With a last uncertain look at her captain, she quickly gathered heat in her palm and, abandoning all hesitation, flung the concentrated mass at Kellen’s stump. A sickening hiss, followed by a ragged cry, and it was done. The smell alone turned her stomach. She could hardly keep her gaze on Kellen’s half-lidded eyes afterwards, as his head lolled to one side.
Still bent over her captain, Lithas frantically looked around, taking in the carnage. It was bad. Demis was falling. There was no doubt about it anymore. All around her, Lorathan soldiers were busy reducing the once-vibrant city to a smoldering ruin. Their main front of resistance had melted away completely and cornered squads of Demisians either threw down their weapons or were slaughtered to a man. Sometimes both, the hatred stoked by many years of rivalry proving too strong. She could feel her own strength ebb, every breath an effort, every movement a struggle against the growing pain in her side.
Through all the chaos and destruction, Lithas saw a figure, standing alone. Bloodied but unbowed. Prince Cerax. Dismounted, his face looked ashen. Only his eyes still seemed to blaze with a kind of grim resolve. In one hand, he held the banner of Demis, its vibrantly colored eagle a stark contrast to the death and devastation around them. Lithas watched as the prince gazed around the bloodied carcass of Demis. And she continued watching—disbelieving—as Cerax, with a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his city’s fate, lowered the banner.
It fell with a clang onto the dirty pavement stones.
Like a wave, a chilling silence spread over the battlefield, spread outward from where the flag touched the ground. The resulting cheers of the Lorathan soldiers rang hollow to Lithas’ ears—their joy just another cruelty inflicted onto the city and its inhabitants—mocking the bloodshed they had wrought on Demis.
Then that single, momentous clang of the flag was followed by a cacophony of metal on stone. All around her, Demisian soldiers threw down their weapons, eyes empty.
The Lorathans advanced. First cautiously and then, as no resistance emerged, with a bold confidence. Before long, Lithas and her guards were rounded up along with the other survivors. She did not see many remaining faces from her company when she scanned the crowd. The last of them were disarmed. Their hands were bound with rough ropes or pieces of cloth ripped from the dead, for as many as the Lorathans could find material for. Yet even as they were led away, Lithas could not tear her gaze from Prince Cerax. The prince stood tall, gaze unflinching as he watched his city fall. And yet something seemed broken in those piercingly blue eyes, as he too was being disarmed and bound.
Together with captives from other battles throughout the city, they were corralled in a burned-out square. Lithas did not hear any more sounds of fighting from the city. It seemed like theirs had been one of the last pockets of resistance. A soldier behind her forced Lithas to her knees. She had to fight down the urge to burn the man to a crisp. No point in that, when they could just slit Kellen’s throat or anyone else’s.
Lorathan soldiers guarded them, faces masked by visors. Cold, ruthless eyes watched them warily. Soldiers, drinking from flagons in celebration. Soldiers, maiming prisoners in retribution for lost friends. Joy and cruelty, hand in hand all along the line of black and red.
Then she spotted Cerax. Even among the captives, the prince stood out. Beneath the armor, his once fine clothes were now torn and bloodied. Yet, while Lithas watched, he still comforted one of his soldiers. Giving, while everything was taken from him. Beside him, Vexaria Corvus kneeled and watched her prince, her gaze an open well of admiration, love, and grief.
Lithas turned, her attention caught by some commotion to her right. Emerging from the throng of Lorathan soldiers, Grave stepped forward. His cloak flowed around him, a dark specter amidst the ruins. His icy gaze immediately fell on the prince. “Prince Cerax of Demis.” The title dripped with contempt. Grave’s voice echoed through the square. The place had become so silent that one could hear every shuffling motion, every cough.
“They call you the Bringer of Chaos,” Cerax raised his head to meet Grave’s gaze. “I see that title is apt.”
“Your city has fallen, Cerax,” Grave gestured around the square, encompassing ruined buildings and lives alike. He spoke with a deep voice, to make sure that everyone could hear. “Your people, defeated. But we’re not unreasonable. Surrender, and your life may yet be spared. You’ll have the opportunity to face justice in Loratha. I give you my word on that.”
“My life, at the cost of my people’s freedom?” Cerax’ gaze hardened. “To give you the legitimacy of a formal capitulation, the satisfaction of a mock trial? I think not.”
A cruel smile played on Grave’s lips, as if he was glad for the prince’s answer. “Very well, have it your way then.” With a swift motion, Grave drew his blade, its dark sheen glinting ominously.
For a breathless moment, time seemed to stand still on that forsaken square of Demis.
Before anyone could react—or even so much as process what was happening—the blade swung in a deadly arc, severing the prince’s clothes, skin, muscle, spine, and then his life. It was a perfect stroke. Perfectly lucky.
A collective intake of breath rippled through the gathered crowd—Demisians and Lorathans alike—as the prince’s body slumped forward. With a thump that echoed in the hushed square, it came to rest on the ground. And then silence, utter and pure. Cerax’ blood seeped into the cobblestones, staining them a dark red that was even visible from Lithas’ point of view. Beside the toppled body, an ashen-faced Vexaria looked like her body could not decide whether to vomit or to faint.
Lithas clenched her teeth as she slowly regathered her senses, hands forming fists despite the ropes that bound them. She had to fight down the urge to unleash a sea of fire, to consume Grave and everyone gathered here. A surge of helpless rage overtook her, mingling with a deep-seated terror that she had not felt in a long time. I said never again, she thought, full of fire. Never again bound. Never again powerless.
Tears of anger and frustration welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. That she could do at least, if nothing else.
She saw Grave continuing to speak, to give orders to the gathered soldiers. She did not hear a single word, the rushing of her blood drowning out any other sound. But, as she was led away by the soldiers, she vowed to herself—she would remember this day, remember the pain and loss. And she would make Loratha pay for every life they had taken.