While Frostfang prepared for a trial that would ignite war, in a hidden corner of the world, the threads of fate had already been woven months ago by a hand that ice could not touch. Beneath the weight of a groaning glacier that thrummed with a low hum, the Frostscales sharpened their lances and raised their voices in a clamor for vengeance, oblivious to the echo of a tick-tock that reverberated beyond their frozen tunnels. That sound, a pulse that Klytheris still felt in his scales, did not come from the gods nor the Rhokari, but from a place where shadows danced with blood and time, a place where the dungeon's queen and her guardians wove a game that Frostfang had yet to comprehend.
The air in the Main Chamber of the fifth floor vibrated with a deceptive stillness, broken only by the crimson pulse of the red orb floating above Thal'Korath's throne—a structure of black stone carved with claws and fangs that seemed to throb with life. Luminous vines climbed the walls, their tendrils glowing like exposed veins, while the metallic scent of black roses filled the space, a sickly-sweet perfume that turned acrid in the throat, like fresh blood on cold iron. Aurora, majestic in her shadow armor that rippled like a dark river, watched from the throne, her amber eyes swirling with golden runes that seemed to whisper ancient secrets. At her side, Kaili stood with arms crossed, her iridescent wings buzzing with a chaotic glow that cast green and violet flickers across the stones. Aevia, in her mature form, remained standing with a serenity that concealed storms, her dress of shadows and clotted blood swaying as if time itself had woven it with invisible threads.
"She needs to learn strategy, not just power," Kaili said, her voice sharp as a black ice dagger, honed and merciless. "Destroying is easy, my queen. Manipulation is art, and you must master it to truly reign."
Aurora tilted her head, her pearlescent horns catching the orb's light in subtle glints that danced across the throne. "And how do you propose to teach me, Kaili?" she asked, her tone deep and resonant, laced with a curiosity that made the vines tremble around her.
Kaili grinned, a sardonic curve revealing needle-sharp teeth, her golden runes flaring with a glow that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. "With fire and blood, my queen," she replied, her gaze locked on Aurora as if already envisioning the chaos she planned. "A war between those lizards and the rhinos. Let them fight like rats in a cage, tear each other apart, and you'll pull the strings from the shadows. You'll learn to bend nations without lifting a claw."
Aevia stepped forward, the floor beneath her cracking faintly as if time itself protested her presence. "Kaili's right," she said, her melodic voice resonating with the echoes of distant clocks, a sound that tangled in the air like an eternal whisper. "I've seen the threads of fate, Mother. I can travel back ten months and plant the seed. An ambitious counselor from Frostfang will be my needle, and with him, we'll weave a tapestry of war to make you stronger."
Aurora looked at her, her wings unfurling slightly, casting warm glimmers that contrasted with the chamber's chill. "And what will you do with this counselor, Aevia?" she asked, her amber eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and expectation, as if she already anticipated the answer.
Aevia smiled, an expression that didn't reach her hourglass eyes, where red sand flowed in impossible directions, a controlled chaos mirroring her essence. "I'll mold him," she replied, her tone soft but heavy with a certainty that chilled the soul. "I'll give him orders, a clock, and a spark to ignite chaos. I won't kill him myself; that fun I'll leave to Kaili when he's no longer useful."
Kaili let out a dry laugh, a sound that echoed off the walls like a bone snapping, her golden runes blazing with an intensity that illuminated the black roses around her. "Oh, I'll make sure his end is a masterpiece, time-girl," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm and a dark promise. "Plagues and shadows, a feast for my wings. But go, make your move. Let my queen learn to rule over ashes."
Aevia bowed her head to Aurora, a gesture of absolute devotion that seemed to still the very air. "For you, Mother," she murmured, her words an oath that made the red orb above the throne tremble. "Let this world burn so you can rule it, let the flames be your school and the blood your ink." She extended a hand, and the air around her shattered like broken glass, a silent explosion that tore through reality. Bloody shadows and golden gears spun in a whirlwind that roared with the hum of a thousand clocks, and her form dissolved into fragments of stardust, vanishing in a tick-tock echo that reverberated through the chamber like a heartbeat defying time itself.
Ten Months Ago…
The icy path snaked through jagged peaks, a trail of hardened snow crunching under the hooves of the snow yaks, their heavy steps echoing through the white desolation like distant drums. Slyth's carriage, counselor to Thrassk's court and master of intrigues, was a mobile fortress carved to defy the relentless cold: dark wood reinforced with translucent ice plates, thick furs shielding the windows like armor against the wind, and protective runes etched into the sides glowing with a faint blue pulse, whispering promises of safety. Four massive beasts pulled it, their breaths forming dense clouds that rose like ghosts in the frigid air, their eyes gleaming an opaque white beneath the howling storm that surrounded them. The wind sliced like blades, slipping through the cracks and freezing the occupants' breath into tiny crystals that fell to the floor with a fragile clink.
Slyth, wrapped in a white wolf cloak that brushed the ground, drummed his fingers on the armrest in an impatient rhythm, his gray-scaled face twisted into a grimace of disdain. He hated travel—the cold that gnawed at his joints, the constant jolting that rattled his thoughts. He preferred the council chamber, where his words were weapons sharper than any lance, where his whispers wove webs of power that bent wills and raised his name among Frostfang's shadows. But Thrassk had summoned him, and he obeyed… always with his own schemes dancing in his mind like shadows in a torchlit cave.
"How much longer, Rextor?" he growled, leaning toward the window, his breath fogging the icy glass in a white veil that dissipated with a crack.
The driver, a burly Frostscale with white-gray scales that seemed carved from the ice itself, didn't turn his head. "A few hours, Counselor," he replied, his voice deep as a glacier's groan, resonating in the carriage's confined space. "If the wind doesn't bury us first."
Slyth snorted, adjusting his cloak with a sharp tug that rustled the furs. "Time always conspires against me," he muttered, but his eyes glinted with an ambitious spark that warmed his cold blood. He had a plan, one he'd begun weaving in the shadows of his mind months ago: exploit the tensions with the Rhokari, those horned brutes with thick hides who trampled the lands at the glacier's edge, to rise in the court. If he could pin the anomalies his scouts had whispered about—shadows in the mountains, tremors the spirits couldn't explain—on them, if he could convince Thrassk of war… then Brakon, the lance-wielding warrior counselor, would fade into a forgotten echo, and he, Slyth, would be the voice whispering in the king's ear, the puppeteer behind the ice throne.
Inside the carriage, his five elite guards sat in silence, their ice armor reflecting the dim light filtering through the cracks. Brakk, the Icebreaker, gripped his warhammer with claws that could crush stone, his breathing slow and heavy like a war drum. Kara, the Stalker, sharpened a black ice dagger with precise strokes, her narrowed eyes gleaming with lethal calm. Jaxx, the Mage, toyed with a frost crystal between his fingers, a blue shimmer dancing across its surface like a half-formed spell. Sybil, the Seer, whispered runes under her breath, her faded blue scales marked with tattoos that seemed to shift in the gloom. And Torvin, the Warrior, inspected his eternal ice sword with steady hands, its edge glinting with a glow that sliced the light itself.
Suddenly, the carriage halted with a screech that rattled their bones, a sharp sound cutting through the wind's hum like a dagger tearing fabric. The yaks snorted, pawing the snow with hooves that kicked up white clouds, their eyes flashing with an unease that made the carriage's runes flicker. Slyth frowned and leaned out the window, the cold lashing his face like a whip.
"What's going on now, Rextor?" he barked, his voice sharp as the ice coating the path, laced with an irritation that barely masked his curiosity.
The driver didn't answer, his gaze fixed ahead, his scales creaking with a tension Slyth didn't immediately grasp. He followed Rextor's eyes and saw her.
Standing in the middle of the path, blocking it like a specter born from the storm, was a woman.
Tall and voluptuous, her figure was a silhouette of dangerous curves hinted at beneath a vaporous dress woven from liquid shadows and clotted blood, a garment that flowed like a dark river trapped in time. Her pale skin shimmered with an iridescent glow, as if stardust ran beneath it, threaded with black veins pulsing like clock hands, a visible heartbeat defying mortal logic. Her hair, a cascading wave of jet black, blood red, and impossible violets, moved against gravity, dancing with a wind that didn't touch the snow around her, as if time itself guided it. Around her neck, an hourglass pendant dripped black blood that fell to the ground and evaporated in crimson wisps, while a mantle of floating clocks and golden gears spun behind her like the wings of a broken angel, humming with a tick-tock that echoed in Slyth's bones like a memory he couldn't place.
But her eyes… they were infinite abysses. Miniature hourglasses replaced her pupils, red sand flowing in chaotic directions, a whirlwind of chaos and order that mesmerized and terrified in equal measure. A golden hand ticked slowly behind them, marking a rhythm that froze the soul, a beat that seemed to still the world around her.
Slyth blinked, and a crooked smile curled his lips, his scales crackling as he straightened. "Interesting," he murmured, his mind already spinning possibilities like a loom in the dark. An easy prey, he thought, a distraction for this infernal journey, a lost beauty he could bend with his words and add to his tally of trophies.
"Stop here," he ordered, his authoritative voice slicing through the carriage's silence like a lance piercing flesh. "I'll handle this."
Rextor glanced at him, his scales creaking with a tension Slyth deliberately ignored. "Counselor, don't—" he began, his deep tone heavy with warning.
"Silence," Slyth snapped, shoving the door open with a push that made the hinges groan. The cold hit him like a hammer, a frigid wind stealing his breath and freezing the scales on his face, but he stepped out with firm strides, his cloak billowing behind him like a banner of arrogance. He approached the woman, his boots crunching the snow with a sound that echoed in the oppressive silence, and lifted his chin with a confidence dripping from his words like sweet venom.
"Good evening, miss," he said, his honeyed tone laced with condescension, a weapon honed by years of courtly intrigue. "Lost in the storm? I'm Slyth, counselor to Thrassk, and I'm at your service." He extended a scaled hand, his claws glinting in the dim light, expecting a bow, a blush, a surrender to feed his ego.
She looked at him, and for an instant, the wind seemed to still, the storm's howl falling silent as if the world held its breath. Slyth felt a shiver—not from the cold surrounding him, but from something deeper, a chill that slid through his veins and froze his blood in a suspended heartbeat. Yet he brushed it aside, blinded by his own vanity, by the certainty that no one in this frozen world could defy him.
The woman smiled, an enigmatic curve that didn't reach her hourglass eyes, a gesture promising more than it revealed. "I don't need your service, Lizard Man," she said, her voice a chorus of whispering clocks, soft yet resonant, as if a thousand gears turned in unison beneath her words. "You need mine."
Slyth frowned, his smile faltering for the first time, a crack in the mask of confidence he'd worn his entire life. "What are you saying, woman?" he growled, his hand retreating slightly, his claws flexing with a mix of irritation and curiosity.
She didn't answer with words. She extended a hand, her long, pale fingers glowing with a light that seemed torn from the stars, and Slyth felt a tug in his mind, as if invisible fingers pried into his thoughts, peeling back the layers of his ambition with an ease that left him breathless. Images of his desired future—Thrassk bowing to him, Brakon humiliated, Frostfang's court whispering his name in fear and reverence—flashed before his eyes and twisted into broken fragments, dissolving into bloody shadows that made him gasp.
"Stop!" he roared, staggering back a step, his hand reaching for the ceremonial dagger at his belt, his claws trembling for the first time in years. "What are you doing?"
She tilted her head, her teeth gleaming too white, too sharp to be human, a flash that cut through the gloom like a blade. "Just looking," she said, her voice dripping with a calm more terrifying than any scream. "And what I see is weak. Not like my gardener… he doesn't need to be forced to bloom."
Before Slyth could retort, a shout sliced the air, a roar that shook the snow beneath his feet. "Protect the Counselor!" Brakk bellowed, leaping from the carriage with his warhammer raised, his boots crushing the ice with a crunch that echoed like thunder. The five guards fanned out in an instant, a whirlwind of ice and steel filling the path with the clash of metal against metal, their armor gleaming under the storm's pale light.
And then chaos erupted, a spectacle of destruction that shook the world.
Brakk charged first, his footsteps trembling the snow like an earthquake, each stride a boom that rattled distant peaks and sent snaking cracks through the ice. "Die, witch!" he roared, his guttural voice cutting through the wind, raising his warhammer with claws that seemed torn from a giant. The weapon, forged in ancient glaciers and blessed by forgotten shamans, could split mountains with a single blow, its head etched with runes that glowed with an icy blue shimmer. It descended with a roar that tore the air, a flash of ice and fury that seemed to rip reality itself, the wind howling in its wake like a chorus of damned souls.
Aevia didn't even flinch. With a snap of her fingers, time fractured around her, a silent burst that made the air quiver as if the world had paused to hold its breath. The hammer stopped inches from her face, trembling in midair as if caught by an unseen force, its runes flickering in a frenzy of blue light. Then, with a flick of her wrist, time reversed. The hammer spun backward in an impossible arc, the air screaming with a hum that made Slyth's ears bleed, and slammed into Brakk's chest with a wet crunch that echoed like a tree splitting. His ice armor exploded into shards that rained over the snow like a crystal storm, and his body flew back, crashing into the carriage with a thud that groaned the wood and splintered the reinforcement plates. Blue blood gushed from his mouth in a thick stream, splattering the ice with a hiss, and he collapsed motionless, a broken puppet whose strings had been severed with an ease that froze Slyth's soul.
Kara moved silently, her glacial camouflage blending her into the snow like an invisible specter, her steps barely a whisper against the wind's roar. Her black ice daggers, poisoned with a liquid that could melt steel and dissolve flesh in seconds, flashed as she stabbed from behind, a twin strike cutting the air with lethal precision that had claimed lives in Frostfang's shadows. But Aevia turned her head just slightly, a motion so subtle it seemed impossible, and time froze around her. Kara hung suspended, her daggers a breath from Aevia's back, her eyes wide in a silent scream that never left her throat. With a gesture, Aevia accelerated time around the daggers alone, and they disintegrated into a whirlwind of gray dust that fell over the snow like ashes from a dead fire, leaving Kara trapped in an eternal instant, a living statue whose eyes gleamed with a terror she couldn't voice.
Jaxx raised his frost staff with a shout that echoed through the mountains, and the air turned white with a massive spell that tore through the storm itself. "Freeze her!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap that shook the ground, and a tempest of ice roared toward Aevia, a vortex of jagged spikes so dense it could bury entire cities beneath a frost tomb. The ground beneath her cracked with a groan that echoed like a lament, and the wind became a deafening howl that ripped snow from nearby peaks, sending it spinning in a white chaos. The spikes, each as sharp as a lance and charged with a cold that could stop hearts, descended with a fury that seemed torn from the winter gods. But Aevia raised a hand, her fingers glowing with a red light that cut through the whiteness, and time slowed. The spikes floated like lazy snowflakes, glinting in the air with deceptive beauty, then dissolved into vapor with a soft hiss, evaporated by a temporal flow that carried them to their end before they could touch her, leaving a silence heavier than the spell itself.
Sybil advanced with a hiss that sliced the air, her eyes blazing with frost runes that seemed to burn in the gloom, her voice a glacial whisper filling the space with a power that had broken minds in the northern wars. "Look at me, creature!" she snarled, and an icy murmur rose around her, a mental magic that could bend entire armies with visions of terror, nightmares that stripped sanity like wind tearing leaves. The sky above Aevia darkened, clouds swirling in a black vortex, and grotesque shadows danced around her, twisted forms of ice and blood screaming with voices not of this world. But Aevia laughed, a sound that shook the snow beneath Slyth's feet, a crystalline echo cutting through the shadows like a scythe. With a twist of her wrist, time warped, and the spell turned back on Sybil like a flooding river. The seer screamed, dropping to her knees as her mind filled with nightmares: oceans of ice melting into blood, her own body crumbling into blue dust blown by an eternal wind, faces of the fallen shrieking at her from the dark. She clawed at her face with trembling talons, her nails leaving blue gashes that bled onto the snow, until she collapsed, shaking and babbling broken words, her mind a shattered shell consumed by a power she couldn't fathom.
Torvin was the last, his great sword raised in an arc that split the wind with a shrill whistle, his voice a roar echoing through the mountains like a defiance of fate. "For Thrassk!" he bellowed, and the blade, forged from eternal ice and tempered in the glacier's depths, shone with a glow that could cleave dragons, its edge flashing with a blue torn from winter's heart. The strike descended, a lightning bolt of death that cut the air with a force that shook the ground, an attack that had felled armies in the northern wars. But Aevia extended a finger, a gesture so delicate it seemed impossible, and time stopped. The sword hung motionless, humming in the air with a buzz that rang in Slyth's ears, trapped in an instant she controlled. She touched the blade with deceptive gentleness, then accelerated time around Torvin alone. His armor aged in seconds, rusting and crumbling into fragments that fell with a dry clatter; his skin wrinkled, his scales peeled away like dry leaves caught in an autumn wind, and his roar broke into an aged wheeze that faded into a ragged gasp. He dropped to his knees, a decrepit old man whose strength had vanished in a blink, his sword hitting the ground with a dull clang that echoed like a final lament.
Slyth stumbled back, his heart pounding like a frantic drum, the snow's cold burning his scales as his knees buckled under the weight of what he'd witnessed. The five guards—his elite, his most loyal and feared protectors—lay broken in the snow in less than a breath, their bodies shattered by a power that wasn't magic, wasn't brute force, but something beyond, something that bent reality itself like clay in the hands of a cruel god. The air around him buzzed with a tick-tock that seemed to emanate from the woman, a sound tangling in his mind and making him gasp, his breath forming clouds that dissipated in the cold with a tremor he couldn't control.
And then, she killed.
Not with weapons, nor spells, nor the shadows dancing around her. She did it with time, a power so vast that Slyth felt the entire world bow before her.
She extended both hands, her fingers glowing with a red light that cut through the gloom like spilled blood, and the air filled with a low hum, like a thousand clocks screaming in unison, a sound that shook the mountains and sent snaking cracks through the ice. Around Brakk, time accelerated into an impossible frenzy, a whirlwind of chaos tearing his body apart in an instant. His scales peeled away like ashes in a hurricane, his flesh dissolved into blue dust that flew in the wind, and his bones melted in a flash of light that faded with a hiss, erasing him from existence as if he'd never trod Frostfang's ice.
Kara, still frozen in her eternal moment, was touched by a brutal rewind that ripped the fabric of time around her. Her form unraveled in a flash of white light, reverting to a state before her birth, her scales dissolving into an echo that faded into the snow with a silent whisper, as if time had reclaimed her to the void of nothingness, leaving behind an emptiness that froze Slyth's heart.
Jaxx was ensnared in a loop, time spinning around him in an infinite circle that hummed with a sound that made Slyth's ears bleed. His scream repeated over and over, an eternal echo filling the air with a wail that seemed torn from the glacier's depths, his body motionless at the center of a whirlwind of snow and ice, a prisoner of an instant that never progressed, a punishment condemning him to an eternity of silent suffering.
Sybil, already broken, endured a chaotic blend that tore her mind like wind stripping flesh from bone. Her memories twisted, her nightmares merged with reality in a whirlwind of images that made her howl, a sound splitting the air and sending echoes through the mountains. Her body collapsed, a trembling shell clawing at itself with desperate talons, her eyes dimming into a madness that consumed her entirely, leaving a silence heavier than her scream.
And Torvin… Aevia snapped her fingers with a delicacy that belied the brutality of her power, and time erased him. His aged form dissolved into bloody shadows that rose like red smoke, swirling in the air before scattering in the icy wind with a whisper that echoed like a forgotten farewell. Nothing remained of him—no echo, no trace—wiped from existence with an ease that turned Slyth's blood to ice, making him gasp, his breath escaping in trembling clouds that faded in the cold.
He fell to his knees, the snow's chill searing his scales, his claws sinking into the ice as if he could cling to something solid in a world crumbling before his eyes. "Who… who are you?" he stammered, his voice trembling like glass about to shatter, each word a struggle that seemed to tear his breath away. "What do you want?"
Aevia stepped toward him, her clockwork wings buzzing with a hypnotic rhythm that filled the air with a tick-tock echoing in Slyth's bones, a sound that seemed torn from time's very depths. "I've already told you, Lizard Man," she replied, her voice soft but laden with a weight that crushed, a whisper slicing through the wind like an invisible blade. "I want you to help me. To help my mother rule this world."
Slyth swallowed hard, terror and confusion warring in his mind like beasts trapped in an icy cage. "Your… mother?" he repeated, his voice breaking into a gasp, his eyes locked on those hourglass eyes spinning in impossible chaos.
She smiled, and the air filled with a sickly-sweet scent, like blood mingled with rotting honey, a perfume that tangled in Slyth's throat and made him cough. "Listen well," she said, leaning forward until her clockwork eyes filled his vision, the red sand swirling in a vortex that seemed to drag him to the edge of madness. "In months, my mother will destroy the Frozen Claw Crypt. When it falls, you'll plant broken Rhokari horns, false hides, and bone fragments in the ruins. My mother will leave her mark—a black rose—to seal her work. You'll convince your king to hold a trial to blame them. You'll ignite a war. And I want no mistakes."
Slyth blinked, his mind spinning like a whirlwind trapped in ice, each of her words stabbing into his brain like an icy dagger. "A trial? A war?" he stammered, his voice shaking with a mix of fear and ambition that left him gasping. "Why me?"
She straightened, her figure rising like a specter against the white sky, her dress rippling with shadows that danced to the rhythm of her clocks. "Because you're a manipulator," she replied, her tone dripping with a calm more terrifying than any threat. "But not like my gardener, who weaves beauty without chains. You're a broken clock, Lizard Man, and I'll wind you to serve my purpose." She paused, her smile softening, almost mocking, a glint of amusement flashing in her sandy eyes. "I won't kill you with these hands. You have my word. So obey, and live to see the chaos you sow."
She extended a hand, her fingers glowing with a red light that cut through the gloom, and a small hourglass appeared between them, its crystal shimmering with a faint blue that contrasted with the storm. The sand inside moved up and down, down and up, an erratic flow defying logic, a chaotic pulse that echoed in Slyth's claws as he took it. She dropped it into his trembling palm, and he gripped it tightly, feeling a subtle crack he ignored, his mind too overwhelmed to notice the omen it held.
"Do you understand?" she asked, her voice a whisper that sliced through the wind like a blade, her eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made him shudder.
Slyth nodded slowly, his throat dry as the snow beneath his knees, his voice a hoarse croak escaping between gasps. "Yes," he said, each word a struggle that seemed to rip his breath away. "I understand."
"Good," Aevia murmured, her smile widening with a satisfaction that chilled Slyth's blood. Then, with a flick of her hand, time warped again, a silent burst that made the air tremble as if the world bowed before her. The five guards reappeared, intact but unconscious, slumped in the snow as if they'd fallen in an unseen battle, their armor glinting under the dim light, their faces frozen in expressions of terror they couldn't recall. She looked at him one last time, her eyes blazing with dark galaxies that seemed to spin within. "Prepare yourself, Slyth," she said, her voice an echo resounding through the mountains. "The fire is coming, and my queen will dance among the flames."
Her form dissolved into red sand and stardust, spinning in a whirlwind that roared with the hum of her clocks, a sound filling the air and tangling in Slyth's mind like an echo he couldn't silence. The icy wind scattered the fragments, carrying them toward distant peaks, and he was left alone on the path, the clock in his hand pulsing like a broken heart, his mind a storm of terror and twisted ambition consuming him like a fire beneath the ice.
Present - Frostfang
The council chamber in Frostfang was thick with oppressive cold, the carved ice walls reflecting torchlight in blue glints that danced like trapped spirits. The glacier's low hum reverberated from its depths, a heartbeat answering the tick-tock echo that had begun months ago when the sky wept blood and the Frozen Claw Crypt fell to ruins. Thrassk, the king, loomed on his fang-crafted throne, a colossal figure whose shadow devoured the light, his white scales streaked with bluish veins gleaming like the glacier's core. His yellow eyes cut through the air like ice spears, and his breath formed frost spikes that rose and shattered against the floor with a dry crunch, echoing in the chamber's tense silence.
The counselors formed a semicircle before him, their figures taut under the flickering light of perpetual crystals embedded in the walls. Brakon, the veteran warrior, pounded the floor with his lance, his white scales crackling with a barely contained fury that seemed to warm the air around him. Klytheris, the lesser shaman, hunched over his rune-covered staff, his clouded eyes glinting with a mix of fear and resolve. Zhara, the gray-scaled elder, stood still, her claws crossed and her gaze fixed on the chamber's center with an unspoken doubt. Vroth, the young warrior, growled from a corner, his lance trembling in his claws, his white scales blazing with a rage that seemed poised to erupt. And Slyth, seated in his chair, sweated coldly beneath his tunic, the hourglass clock pulsing against his chest like a heartbeat he couldn't silence, his dull gray scales catching the light with a sheen betraying his unease.
Slyth had spent weeks weaving his web after the meeting with Thrassk, after that day when the king had approved his public trial proposal to pin the Crypt's fall on the Rhokari. He'd sent scouts to the ruins, whispers in the shadows ensuring they'd find what he'd planted months ago under the orders of that woman with hourglass eyes. And now, the scouts had returned with the proof he'd sown, an echo of a pact that still made him tremble on the coldest nights.
At the chamber's center, a scout with cracked scales, his armor scarred by ice and ash from the ruins, dropped a sack onto the ice table with a dull thud that echoed in the silence. The contents spilled out with a dry crack: broken Rhokari horns, splintered as if torn in brutal combat; tanned hides marked with ritual cuts, hardened by the cold; and blood-stained bone fragments, some carved with crude runes that seemed to shout their origin. Beside them, in an ice container, lay the black rose, its petals throbbing with a grotesque rhythm, dripping a thick black sap that hissed as it touched the frozen edge, melting the ice with a sputter that filled the air with a sharp, metallic stench tangling in the throats of those present.
"Speak, Slyth," Thrassk growled, his voice rumbling like a glacier splitting, a thunderclap that shook the ceiling's stalactites and sent icy needles crashing to the floor with a crunch that echoed through the chamber. "The scouts brought this from the Crypt's ruins. What does it mean?"
Slyth straightened, forcing a calm he didn't feel, his hand slipping under his tunic to grip the hourglass clock pulsing against his chest, a tick-tock whispering promises and threats in unison. "My king," he said, his tone soft but firm, a weapon honed by years of intrigue that cut through the silence like an icy dagger. "It means treachery. The Rhokari destroyed the Frozen Claw Crypt, and this evidence proves it: broken horns, marked hides, bones bearing their signature. And that rose…" He paused, his gaze sliding to the container with a flicker of fear he masked behind a veneer of certainty. "An insult, a taunt from Rhok'thar to mock us. I propose a public trial in the Hall of Justice. Let Rha'kash and the scouts speak, let the people see this proof and cry for justice. A war will punish them as they deserve."
Brakon grinned, a flash of fangs gleaming under the blue light, his lance trembling in his claw with a hunger that seemed to warm the cold air. "Finally, you speak my language, Slyth," he growled, his voice low but thick with a fury that vibrated the ice beneath his boots. "I want blood, not words. But if this trial brings their horns to my lance faster, so be it."
Klytheris looked at him, his eyes narrowing, his staff creaking under his trembling claws as he leaned forward. "And how are you so sure of this, Slyth?" he asked, his voice quivering with a mix of suspicion and fear that cut through the air like a frigid wind. "The scouts found this too quickly. Almost as if you knew where to look. That tick-tock I feel in my scales doesn't come from the Rhokari, nor the gods. Something else put it there, something alive."
Slyth swallowed hard, his hand tightening on the clock, the subtle crack of its crystal echoing in his mind like Aevia's voice. "A finely tuned instinct, Klytheris," he lied, his tone smooth but laced with an authority meant to crush the shaman's doubts. "The Rhokari are clumsy, brainless brutes. They left their trail for us to find, and the gods gave us that blood rain as a sign. There's no 'something alive' here—just divine justice we must follow."
Zhara, who'd remained silent, lifted her gaze, her clouded eyes fixed on the broken horns with an intensity that made Slyth look away for a moment. "And what if you're wrong, Slyth?" she asked, her voice calm but heavy, cutting through the air like a whisper outweighing Brakon's shouts. "That rose doesn't feel like the gods. It feels like something breathing, something watching us. What if we march on Rhok'thar and leave the real enemy in the shadows?"
Vroth growled from his corner, his lance trembling in his claws, his white scales blazing with a rage that seemed ready to burst. "Enough doubts!" he roared, his young voice thick with a fury that echoed off the walls. "Kraal's dead, the Claw's gone! The Rhokari did it, and while we talk, they're laughing in their bone fortresses. I want their horns under my boots, trial or no trial!"
Thrassk drummed his fingers on his throne's arm, the sound echoing like drops in an icy cave, each tap a pulse that shook the ice beneath the counselors' feet. "What do we gain from this, Slyth?" he asked, his voice a low roar thrumming in everyone's chest, his breath forming frost spikes that rose and shattered against the floor with a dry crunch.
Slyth turned to him, his smile vanishing, replaced by a cold certainty that sliced the air like an ice lance. "A clear enemy, a united people, and the war they deserve, my king," he replied, his tone firm as the eternal ice upholding Frostfang. "The evidence is here, planted by the Rhokari or found by us—it doesn't matter. The trial will condemn them, and Rhok'thar will pay in blood." His eyes met Thrassk's, a silent challenge masking the fear pulsing in his chest, the clock's tick-tock echoing in his mind like a reminder of the woman who'd broken him.
Brakon raised his lance, his voice booming with a fury that made the air tremble. "Let the Rhokari come!" he shouted, his breath forming a cloud that crystallized instantly. "Trial or not, their horns are mine."
Klytheris struck his staff against the ice, a weak thud resonating with a resolve that belied his frail frame. "You're blind, Slyth," he said, his voice trembling but sharp. "That tick-tock isn't divine. Something's manipulating us, and I'll find it, even if it's the last thing I do."
Thrassk stood, his colossal figure casting a shadow that swallowed the remaining light, his tail slamming the ice with a boom that shook the ceiling's stalactites, sending icy needles crashing down with a clamor that echoed like a challenge. "So be it!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap rattling the chamber, his claws gripping the throne until the ice groaned under the strain. "A public trial in the Hall of Justice. Rha'kash and the scouts will speak. Slyth, make it work—make the people burn with fury. Brakon, ready the Frostguard for the war ahead. Klytheris, consult the spirits, but bring me facts, not shadows." His gaze fell on Slyth, a glint of restrained fury flashing in his yellow eyes. "If Rhok'thar falls, it'll be by my claw. And if something else is behind this, I'll rip it from the ice with my own hands."
Slyth bowed his head, his trembling smile hiding the fear consuming him, the clock cracking under his hand with a sound only he heard. "As you command, my king," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper lost in the tick-tock echo resounding in his mind. Within him, Aevia's eyes glowed like a beacon in the storm, a reminder of the war he'd sworn to ignite and the fate awaiting him—a fate he couldn't see but felt closing in like the cold biting his scales.
The chamber began to empty, counselors scattering amid murmurs and the crunch of boots over fractured ice. Zhara lingered a moment, her clouded eyes fixed on the black rose, a shiver running through her as if the black sap whispered her name. Vroth stormed out with swift strides, his lance trembling in his grip, while Brakon barked orders to nearby guards. Klytheris shuffled away slowly, his staff leaving a trail in the ice, his mind lost in the tick-tock echo still pulsing in his scales.
Slyth remained behind, alone for an instant, his hand clutching the clock beneath his tunic, the crystal's crack echoing in his mind like Aevia's voice. "She won't kill me… she promised," he thought, clinging to those words like a shield against the fear consuming him, a fear he knew he couldn't escape—not while the tick-tock kept beating in his blood.