Glasssrass was a city encased in ice, its soul carved from the snow that endlessly blanketed its expanse. A chill so brutal hovered in the air that even the hardiest of crops and livestock were rendered unsustainable. The rivers lay trapped beneath a crystalline shroud of ice tucked against the fringes of Nyu's Polar region.
Glasssrass was the heart of the training ground for the royal house's elite soldiers, chosen to serve the crown in the harshest conditions imaginable. The forbidding cold served as both a relentless taskmaster and impenetrable shield, ensuring that only the strongest survived and that prying eyes were kept at a considerable distance.
As the tenuous light of dusk broke over the horizon, cadets pounded their boots through the snow-covered training grounds. Their steps sank into the white powder, the crunching sound swallowed by the vast, icy wilderness.
Restelo stood at the edge of the camp and watched the scene unfold with an air of detached interest. Vampires were not susceptible to the bite of cold or the caress of warmth; their internal thermostat was forever fixed at an unchanging neutral. To Restelo, Glasssrass and its inhabitants were a feast waiting to be consumed, an army ripe for the picking. An instrument for his revenge.
"Look at them, scrambling like ants in a blizzard," he muttered to himself, his fangs subtly elongating at the thought of fresh, royal blood coursing through his veins. "The best and brightest the crown has to offer. What a delicious irony it would be to turn them into the very thing they've been trained to fight."
Restelo's eyes darted on a young cadet struggling at the back of the pack. Something about the boy's palpable vulnerability intrigued him and sparked an itch he'd long forgotten.
Pitty. But that would have to wait.
He descended the hill at a languid pace while a hissing sound filled the air. His skin met the last rays of sunlight, giving off tendrils of steam. It was as though the heavens themselves protested his unholy presence.
Physical pain, however, was of little concern to him—especially when compared to the humiliation inflicted by the audacity of that lesser demon.
Baal. The very name churned his insides like boiling acid. The demon had dared to challenge him and had succeeded in destroying one of his most prized creations right before his eyes, the beautiful Marcella. Such insolence couldn't go unanswered.
Restelo's boots crunched over the frozen earth as he approached the perimeter of the camp. Each step sent a chill up his spine, not from the cold—he barely felt that—but from the anticipation that electrified the air.
Before he could fully make out the banners flapping over the encampment, a voice as hard as ice shards cut through the winter air.
"Halt! Stay where you are!"
Restelo froze in his tracks, eyes narrowing as he turned toward the source. From the shadow of the camp's imposing wooden gates emerged a figure. This was no ordinary guard; the man's armour glinted silver as if under the moonlight, its weight bearing down on his broad shoulders with an air of authority.
"You there! Identify yourself!" the man barked, his fingers a hair's breadth away from the hilt of his sheathed sword. "You're on royal land. The penalty for trespassing is death!"
For a second, Restelo considered his choices. Could he charm his way past this obstacle, or would he have to resort to force? A slow, chilling smile spread across his face. "Oh, would you be terribly disappointed if I said I came in peace?"
The Commander eyed Restelo from head to toe as though looking for some indelible mark of his intentions. "Men like you don't know the meaning of peace. You're a Vampire! Creatures of your kind know only death and destruction."
"Ah, my reputation precedes me," Restelo purred, his voice dripping with a velvety menace. "How terribly vexing to be so transparent."
Restelo moved a deliberate step forward, crossing the threshold of the camp. The Commander's face flushed crimson, veins popping along his temple. "I said halt, damn you!"
"Oh, I heard you quite clearly," Restelo retorted, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "I just chose to ignore you."
Before the Commander could even touch the hilt of his sword, Restelo lunged at him with preternatural speed. His teeth sank into the Commander's neck, snapping his head back with a sickening crunch. The man's eyes widened in disbelief before he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
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No sooner had the Commander's body dug in the snow than Restelo was fleeing as a dark blur against the snow-covered landscape. It was a spectacle that defied logic, a symphony of violence orchestrated in the blink of an eye. He moved among the platoon of young, untrained cadets who couldn't even begin to comprehend the horror that was unfolding.
Their mouths opened in silent screams, too shocked to react or even to grasp a weapon.
In less time than it took for a winter gust to sweep through the trees, Restelo had done his gruesome work. One by one, the young men dropped like marionettes whose strings had been cut, staining the white snow a horrifying shade of red. No cry for help was uttered, no sword unsheathed. It was over almost as soon as it had begun, and the camp that had been full of life mere moments before now reeked of death.
Restelo stood amidst the massacre, his face an unreadable mask. The wind howled through the camp as if in mournful acknowledgement of the lives snuffed out so ruthlessly. But for Restelo, there was no remorse, no second thoughts—only the grim satisfaction of a predator that had claimed its prey.
Restelo scanned the blood-soaked tableau before him, his ears straining to catch even the faintest sound—a whimper, a dying heartbeat, the shallow gasp of a last breath. But there was only silence, save for the wind's mournful cry through the royal flags and banners. A grotesque still-life painted in varying shades of crimson.
It took less than an hour for the last rays of the sun to dip below the horizon. Restelo stood amidst the wreckage of lives he'd just obliterated, each face a brushstroke in his dark masterpiece. His eyes roamed from one corpse to another, memorizing their features—not out of sentiment, but as a tactician memorizes a battlefield.
He felt an invigorating sense of power surge through him, a quiet thrill punctuating the dwindling twilight. This was no idle slaughter; each life taken, each soul bound in undead servitude, was a cog in the machinery of his vengeance.
As the sky grew darker, Restelo's thoughts churned like a stormy sea.
With a voice as cold and unforgiving as the night air, he commanded, "Arise!"
Slowly, the lifeless forms sprawled in the snow began to stir. It was a macabre ballet, limbs creaking, eyes opening but vacant of life, souls trapped in an eternal twilight between the world of the living and the realm of the dead. Some were missing arms or legs; others had heads that dangled unnaturally, connected only by tendrils of flesh and muscle.
Yet they stood, obedient to their new master's call. Their hearts no longer pumped blood, their lungs no longer drew breath; they were statues carved of flesh and bone, animated only by the unholy life force that Restelo had bestowed upon them.
Thralls, walking corpses.
The wind seemed to pause as if holding its breath, unwilling to disturb this perverse moment. Restelo surveyed his new army of the damned, a grim testament to his dark powers. For him, this was but the first step—a deadly whisper in the symphony of chaos he planned to unleash.
"Now, walk to Ravendrift! Bring me the head of Baal Berith!" Restelo's voice rang out like a thunderclap, each syllable etched with icy resolve.
Without a moment's hesitation, the motley procession of the damned lurched into motion. They trudged through the snow, their eyes devoid of life but instilled with a single, horrific purpose. The night air was thick with the stench of decay and impending doom.
The journey to Ravendrift will be arduous, even for beings untouched by the trials of human endurance. Through fields of ice and over rugged terrain, they moved in eerie silence. And as the spectral outline of Ravendrift loomed in the distance, its towers piercing the heavens like defiant spears, Restelo's grin widened. His moment was nigh watching his new army waling with one and only purpose, his words.
Baal Berith shall die.
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The goblin's worn shoes slapped on the palace's cold, stone floors. His gnarled fingers clenched the parchment like a lifeline, each crease and fold of the letter pulsating with an urgency he could almost taste. Dawnhaven was in danger; the palace was a heartbeat away from catastrophe.
He skidded past a group of laundry maids, their arms loaded with linens that smelled of lavender and the faint sweetness of rosewater. The closest maid squealed, nearly dropping her armful.
"Sorry! Message for the King!" he shouted. He didn't slow his pace, even as he darted around another corner.
A butler appeared, his arms steady under the weight of a tea service arranged on a silver tray. China rattled, and the liquid trembled as the goblin blew past him. "Careful, Dumdum! You idiotic pageboy!"
"Urgent message for the King!" was all the goblin managed before sucking air into his searing lungs.
Finally, Dumdum arrived. The throne room doors towered in front of him, ornate carvings and intricate designs serving as guardians to the chamber within. He pounded his tiny fists against the imposing wood, which gave way almost as if expecting him.
Inside, the room unfurled in opulence—a grand chandelier dripping with enchanted crystals bathed the space in a soft, golden glow while luxurious tapestries told stories of valour and ancient lineage on the walls.
His eyes flicked nervously from the majestically seated figure—far too distant to make out any expression—to the armoured guards that served as stoic sentinels. "Urgent message for His Majesty," he panted, the words barely escaping his cracked lips.
Before he could muster another word, a guard lunged forward and snatched the letter from his grip. As the guard approached the throne, the goblin strained his eyes, desperate to catch even a shred of the King's reaction. But Dumdum was just too far away, his gaze meeting only the guarded expressions of advisors and courtiers. The low murmur of hushed conversations met his ears, but the words were unintelligible, veiled in secrecy.
Minutes that felt like aeons passed. The door swung shut, sealing him back into the corridor, back into his insignificance. They hadn't even given him a second glance. To them, he was just a goblin, an errand boy, a cog in the grand machine of the court. His fears, thoughts, and feelings were inconsequential.
Yet the weight of the unspoken message remained. A horde of undead advanced toward Tear Lake, and he, relegated to the periphery, could only wonder what, if anything, would be done. He was dismissed, but the looming threat would not be so easily ignored.
But what if...