A Few Hours Earlier, Before Elfan Woke Up
The battlefield fell silent as Ryan, once a majestic and powerful dragon, stopped thrashing on the ground. His life extinguished by the insidious black flames that consumed him, leaving behind nothing but dust. Even the dragons who had tried to save him disintegrated into ashes, leaving no trace of their existence. The air, thick with the scent of death, was eerily still.
Elfan, unconscious and hurtling towards the earth, was intercepted mid-air by an elven woman whose golden hair obscured half her face. As she touched down with the grace of a falling feather, her gaze hardened, sweeping over the remaining orcs. "Kill these heathens for daring to lay hands on the king. Leave no survivors," she commanded, her voice as cold and unforgiving as steel.
From the shadows, 500 soldiers emerged, their dark armor reflecting the dying light. These were the Crimson Shadows, the elite force born from the Queen’s darkest secrets. Known only in whispers, their existence was more myth than reality. But here they were, living nightmares, poised to strike.
The orcs, though still numbering 1,200 from the original 2,000, stood no chance. Elfan’s remaining 900 soldiers, dazed and weary, could only watch as the Crimson Shadows descended upon the orcs with ruthless precision. These warriors were not merely soldiers; they were executioners, moving with the deadly efficiency of reapers in the night.
Commander Zack, rooted to the spot, watched in a daze. He was a man of the Whiteheart family, one of Elzaran’s most prestigious noble houses, and yet, he had never seen warriors like these. His knowledge of Elzaran’s military forces was vast, but these warriors were a complete mystery. Who were they? And more importantly, who had unleashed them?
The truth was simple: they were the Queen’s most feared creation. The Crimson Shadows, an elite unit formed with the sole purpose of eliminating any threat to the throne. They had remained hidden, biding their time, until now. The battlefield was their stage, and the orcs, their unwilling participants in a deadly dance.
The battle resumed with a ferocity that defied comprehension. The orcs, once fierce and relentless, were reduced to mere fodder. The Crimson Shadows moved like shadows in the night, their strikes lethal, their movements fluid. Blood and steel clashed, but the outcome was never in doubt. Orc after orc fell, their strength and numbers meaningless against such overwhelming skill.
Zack could only stand and watch in awe and horror. These were no ordinary soldiers; they were something far more dangerous. The woman who had saved Elfan fought with an elegance and precision that left no room for error. Her blade moved with such speed that it was a blur, a deadly extension of her will. And just as suddenly as they had appeared, they vanished, leaving the battlefield in silence once more.
In less than half an hour, the battle was over. The orcs had been annihilated, their corpses littering the ground, and not a single Crimson Shadow had suffered a scratch. Zack, still reeling from the shock, called out to the departing figures, "Who are you? Who sent you?"
One of them turned, her eyes cold and calculating, before disappearing into the shadows. Zack was left with more questions than answers, the mystery of the Crimson Shadows weighing heavily on his mind.
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Later That Night, in a Secluded Area of the Camp
Number Zero, the leader of the Crimson Shadows, convened with Razor, the commander of the Black Blazers. They laid Elfan and Anna down gently, their faces etched with tension.
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"His majesty still breathes, but his heart grows weaker with each passing moment. Why didn’t you intervene sooner? You could have saved Anna!" Razor’s voice was filled with desperation, his eyes locked on Anna’s still form.
"My orders were to protect his majesty, and only him," Number Zero replied, her voice cold but laced with a hint of regret.
"Protect him? Look at him!" Razor’s voice cracked with panic. "He’s dying! If he dies… we die. Do you understand? *She* will kill us. The Queen will never forgive us!" His eyes darted around, as if expecting the Queen to materialize from the shadows, her wrath imminent.
The chief healer, hands trembling, struggled to focus. "How is it going?" Razor demanded, his tone edged with fear.
"Our healing magic isn’t working," the healer stammered, his face pale. "His majesty’s magic circuits are shattered. Mana can’t flow into his body. If this continues… he’ll die from mana exhaustion."
Number Zero’s eyes widened in horror. "No… this can’t be happening. We—" She cut herself off, her mind racing. The Queen’s wrath was something she had feared, but now, it felt like a looming executioner’s blade. She grabbed Razor’s arm, her grip desperate. "We have to do something! We can’t let him die, Razor!"
"I know!" Razor’s voice trembled, fear seeping into every word. "But what can we do? We’ve already failed him. We’ve failed *her.*" The weight of their failure was a suffocating presence, crushing any hope they clung to.
Time slipped through their fingers like sand. The healers worked with frantic urgency, but nothing changed. Elfan’s breath grew shallower until it finally ceased altogether. The chief healer stepped back, his face ashen. "He’s… he’s gone."
Razor and Number Zero stared at Elfan’s lifeless body, the reality of their failure settling in. They had won the battle, but the price was too great. The king was dead, and they knew that their lives were forfeit.
Number Zero’s hands trembled as she tried to stifle a sob. "We’re dead… we’re as good as dead. The Queen… she’ll never forgive us." Her voice was barely audible, choked with fear.
Razor’s face was ghostly pale, his thoughts spinning out of control. "We have to keep this quiet. If the soldiers find out… we’ll lose them, and then we’re truly finished. We have to act like everything is normal until we figure out what to do."
Numbly, they both nodded, a silent agreement born of desperation. Razor glanced at Number Zero, his voice hollow. "We need to hold a meeting, decide what happens next. We have to move quickly."
Number Zero, her eyes wide with a mixture of grief and terror, nodded. "I’ll go to the border and contact her. Maybe… maybe there’s something we can do. Something to fix this…" But deep down, they both knew that nothing could fix what had happened. The Queen’s wrath was inevitable.
After a hurried and tense meeting, they decided that Zack and his soldiers would continue the march towards the Orcathian royal palace. They were instructed not to kill any members of the royal family, hoping to use them as leverage in negotiations. Half of the Crimson Shadows would remain to guard Elfan’s body and escort it back to Elzaran, while Razor stayed behind to lead the remaining forces.
Number Zero departed for Elzaran, intent on reaching the border to contact the Queen. As she left, Razor remained behind, the weight of their failure a crushing burden. They had barely escaped the Queen’s wrath this time, but the fear of what might have been would haunt them forever.
As Razor sat lost in thought, something stirred at the edge of his vision. He turned, dread filling him, only to see Elfan sit up and turn towards Anna, who was lying beside him.
Razor’s heart pounded in his chest, disbelief warring with relief. *This isn’t possible…* But as he watched, Anna’s pale face regained color, her chest rising and falling with breath. Hope flickered to life within him, fragile but real.
"How long was I out?" Elfan asked casually, as if nothing had happened.
Razor’s voice was thick with emotion. "Just a few hours, your majesty."
"We need to join the battle as soon as Anna wakes up," Elfan said, his tone firm and unaware of the chaos he had just left behind.
"Yes, sir," Razor replied, his mind racing with the next steps. He hurried outside, sending his fastest messenger to intercept Number Zero and stop her from reporting the king’s death. If the Queen found out, even mistakenly, there would be hell to pay.
As the messenger disappeared into the distance, Razor knew they had narrowly escaped the Queen’s wrath this time. But the shadow of fear would linger, a constant reminder of the consequences they had barely avoided.