The Rivian Palace had become a nightmare of ice and blood, it started in the corridors, where the frost crept along the stone walls spreading with incredible speed. The temperature plummeted so fast that servants dropped where they stood, their breath misting, their fingers turning blue. Candles flickered and died. Torches guttered. The unnatural cold destroying the stones themselves, a boy barely fourteen, rounded a corner with a tray of bread for the guards. He froze from the sudden, searing cold that gripped his lungs. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. His eyes widened as he saw the frost spreading toward him, and he dropped the tray, his hands already stiffening.
"Run!" someone shouted behind him a soldier, his armor coated in frost, his face pale with terror. "Run, you fool!"
But it was too late. The frost claimed the boy, his body becoming a statue, his face frozen in an expression of pure, uncomprehending terror.
The corridors became a death trap. Soldiers who had been patrolling mere moments ago now found themselves fighting for their lives against creatures that seemed to emerge from the very walls. Frost hounds burst through doorways, their claws raking across heavy armor, They moved with unnatural speed, their bodies wreathed in ice. "Form up!" a sergeant bellowed. "Shield wall! Now!"
His men scrambled to obey, their training taking over despite their fear. They locked their shields together, their helberds pointed outward, their bodies pressed against each other for warmth and courage.
A frost hound lunged at them, and the sergeant met it with his sword, the blade carving through the creature's skull. It fell, but more came.
"WHERE ARE THEY COMING FROM?!" a young soldier shouted, his voice cracking with terror. "There's no end to them!"
The sergeant grabbed him by the collar, his voice fierce. "Does it matter?! Fight, damn you! Fight or die!"
In another corridor, a group of mages had formed a desperate defense. Their hands blazed with fire and lightning, their spells carving through the frost hounds with efficiency. But the cold was draining them, their magic flickering as the frost crept closer.
"We cannot hold much longer!" a sorceress shouted, her face pale, her breath misting. "The cold is too strong! It's sapping our power!"
A mage beside her, an older man with a greying beard, raised his hands and unleashed a torrent of flame. "Then we hold until we cannot! We are the only thing standing between these creatures and the kings!"
A frost hound leaped over their defensive line, its jaws aimed at the sorceress. She barely had time to scream before a blade flashed through the air, cleaving the creature in two. A soldier stood over her, his face grim, his sword dripping with ice and blood.
"Get back," he said, his voice flat. "I'll hold them!"
The sorceress stared at him, her eyes wide. "You'll die idiot!"
He shrugged, a sad smile playing at his lips. "Then I'll die fighting, better than freezing."
He turned and charged into the oncoming horde, his sword flashing, his roar echoing through the corridor.
In the great hall, the chaos was even worse. The frost had spread across the floor, making it treacherous for anyone who tried to move quickly. Soldiers slipped and fell, their armor clattering against the stone, and the frost hounds were on them in an instant, their claws tearing through flesh and steel alike.
A captain stood at the center of the hall, his voice rising above the din. "Protect the inner chambers! Do not let them reach the kings and queens!"
His men formed a defensive line, their shields locked together, their swords and spears pointed outward. They held the line for a time, cutting down as much as they could of the frost hounds. But the creatures were relentless, and the cold was taking its toll.
A soldier screamed as a hound's claws raked across his face. He fell, his body convulsing as the ice from the creature's claws seeped into his wounds. His comrades tried to pull him back, but it was too late.
"Fall back!" the captain shouted, his voice raw with desperation. "Fall back to the inner chambers!"
They retreated, step by step, their shields still locked, their weapons still raised. But the frost hounds followed, their eyes burning with hunger.
In the kitchens, the servants had barricaded themselves behind a wall of overturned tables and pots. They huddled together, their breath misting, their eyes wide with fear.
"Wh-what's happening out there?" a young maid whispered, her voice trembling.
The head cook, a stout woman with a weathered face, shook her head. "I don't know. But we're not going to find out by sitting here. We need to get to the cellars. It's warmer there."
They moved quickly, their footsteps silent against the stone floor. But the frost had already found them. As they reached the cellar door, it burst open, and a wave of cold washed over them. They screamed, their bodies freezing where they stood.
In the barracks, the soldiers who had been off-duty scrambled to arm themselves. They pulled on their armor, their hands clumsy with cold, their voices sharp with fear.
"What the hell is happening?!" one of them shouted. "Why is it so cold?!"
Another soldier, his face pale, shook his head. "I don't know, but we have monsters here... They're tearing through the palace.."
A Temerian sergeant stepped forward, his voice commanding. "Enough! We're soldiers of the North. We've faced worse than a few dogs. Arm yourselves and follow me. We're going to the great hall."
They marched out, their boots crunching against the frost-covered floor. But as they rounded a corner, they came face to face with a pack of frost hounds. The creatures paused, their eyes fixed on the soldiers, their bodies tensing to strike.
The sergeant raised his sword, his voice a roar. "For Temeria!"
They charged, their weapons flashing, their voices rising in a chorus of war cries. The frost hounds met them head-on, and the battle was joined.
In the corridors, a lone servant, an old man named Gerhardt, hobbled through the chaos. He had served in the Rivian palace for forty years, and he had seen many things, but nothing like this. He clutched a candle, its flame flickering against the cold, his eyes wide with terror.
"Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Please, let me live. I've done nothing wrong. I've served my queen faithfully. Please..."
A frost hound rounded the corner, its eyes fixed on him. Gerhardt froze, his candle falling from his hands. The flame died, plunging the corridor into darkness.
The hound lunged.
Gerhardt's scream echoed through the palace, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror. Then it was cut short, and the only sound was the crunch of ice and the distant howl of the wind.
The palace was falling. And with it, the dream of a united North.
.
.
.
.
The summit chamber was a tomb, the massive doors hung crooked on their hinges, their surfaces scarred with claw marks and splintered by the force of the frost that had torn through them. The bodies of the guards lay scattered across the threshold, their armor rent, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and terror. Their blood had pooled on the floor, dark and thick, already crusted with ice.
A soldier stumbled through the doorway, his hand pressed against a deep wound in his side. His armor was cracked, his face pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had fought his way through the corridors, through the frost and the hounds and the chaos that had consumed the palace. He had seen his brothers fall, had heard their screams echo through the halls. But he had not stopped. He had to reach his king. He had to know if anyone had survived.
The scene that greeted him stopped him cold.
The chamber was a nightmare of ice and ruin. The great table that had held the kings and queens of the North was overturned, its surface coated in frost. Tapestries hung in tatters, their colors bleached by the cold. The chandeliers had crashed to the floor, their crystals scattered across the room, and in poses of final, frozen defeat, lay the bodies of the monarchs.
King Foltest lay near the overturned table, his body twisted, his face frozen in a mask of defiance. His sword was still in his hand, but his arm had been severed at the elbow, the stump glistening with ice. His eyes were open, staring at nothing.
King Henselt of Kaedwen lay crumpled against the wall, his body pierced by shards of ice that had erupted from the floor. His face was frozen mid-scream, his hands raised as if to ward off a blow that had never come.
King Demavend of Aedirn had been torn apart. His torso lay separate from his legs, his limbs scattered across the room. His crown had rolled into a corner, its gold dulled by the frost.
The Queen of Kovir and Poviss lay near the hearth, her body half-consumed by ice, her fingers still clutching at the floor as if she had tried to crawl away from the horror that had claimed her.
The soldier felt his stomach lurch. He had seen death before, had watched his comrades fall on the battlefield. But this was pure slaughter. This was the work of something that had no mercy, no pity and no humanity.
He looked up, his eyes searching the room for any sign of life.
And he saw her.
Queen Meve stood near the far wall, her sword clutched in her trembling hands. Her face was pale, streaked with blood that was not her own. Her crown sat askew on her head, her hair a tangle of frost and sweat. But she was alive. She was standing.
And beside her, her hands glowing with a soft, blue light, stood a sorceress.
Sheala de Tancarville. She was covered in frost, her robes torn, her face lined with exhaustion. But her magic pulsed around her, a barrier against the cold that had claimed so many. At her feet lay the corpse of a frost hound, its body shattered.
The soldier stumbled forward, his voice thick with emotion. "Queen... Queen Meve... I am pleased to see you alive.."
Meve's eyes found him, and she let out a shaky breath. "Yes," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Thanks to her." She gestured toward Sheala, her hand trembling. "The others were... they were..."
The soldier's eyes swept the room again, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. "Forgive me my Queen for arriving so late..." he said, his voice hollow. "Is there anyone else we can help.."
Meve nodded slowly, her face pale. "No... they are all dead.. all except Radovid. He was not in the chamber when the attack happened." She paused, her voice dropping to a ragged whisper. "I do not know if he survived."
Sheala's voice cut through the soldier's shock, calm and commanding. "This is no time to talk. Stay here and guard your queen." Her eyes swept the room, sharp and assessing. "I will check for any other threats."
The soldier nodded, his jaw tight. "Yes... yes, of course."
He moved to stand beside Meve, his sword raised, his eyes fixed on the door. Behind him, the queen's breathing was shallow, her body trembling with shock. The frost continued to creep across the chamber, slowly now, a reminder that the danger was not yet over.
Sheala turned and walked toward the shattered doors, her magic still pulsing in her hands.
The soldier watched her go, his heart pounding, he did not know what had happened or why. He did not know who was responsible for all of this, but he knew one thing with absolute certainty. The North would remember this for a long time, and it will never be the same now.
/-\
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