The frigid wind lashed Slyth's face, counselor of Frostfang and weaver of shadows, as the Frostscale retinue pressed through the icy defile toward the border of Rhok'thar. It wasn't a natural wind but a relentless, almost artificial gust that roared from the jagged mountains, as if intent on clawing them back to the safety of their frozen citadel. Snow swirled in biting eddies that stung his gray scales, and the ice beneath his boots cracked with each step, as though the glacier itself resented their advance.
A bad omen, Slyth thought, yanking his yeti-fur cloak tighter with a sharp tug that echoed in the oppressive silence. Or perhaps just fate mocking me for forcing me into this infernal journey.
He didn't relish the idea of confronting the Rhokari, not even under the pretense of this mission thrust upon him by Thrassk after the council in the throne hall. He viewed them as lesser beings—crude savages, clumsy, incapable of grasping the subtlety of politics or the art of deception he'd honed into a deadly dance. But the king, in his foolish obsession with appearing just after approving the public trial, had commanded it with a roar that still thrummed in Slyth's scales: "Go to the border, Slyth. Demand a representative for the Hall of Justice. Let them come answer for the Frozen Claw Crypt, or their silence will be their confession and my claw their punishment."
"Trial," Slyth muttered to himself, his voice a hiss swallowed by the wind's howl, his dull scales catching the faint light filtering through the peaks. "Justice is an illusion, a lie the weak tell themselves to avoid facing reality. Reality is power. And power is seized, not bargained for."
He glanced at the warriors and mages accompanying him, the elite of the Frostguard marching with steady steps, their ice armor glinting like shards of the glacier itself. Baelar, the grizzled captain with white scales cracked by years of war, strode beside him, his eternal ice lance gripped in a claw that never wavered. Behind them, three mages in black robes embroidered with blue runes wielded staves that hummed with frosty energy, their narrowed eyes scanning the mountain shadows. They were strong, loyal, a wall of discipline any foe would dread. But Slyth knew he wasn't there to fight—not yet.
"No matter," he thought, a cold smile curling his lips as the clock beneath his tunic pulsed against his chest, a tick-tock that sent shivers through him like an echo of his fate. "This isn't a battle of lances or spells. It's a war of words and wills. And in that, brute strength is irrelevant."
He was a master of deceit. He'd planted the evidence in the Crypt's ruins—broken horns, false hides, bloodstained bones, her black rose—following the orders of that woman with hourglass eyes ten months ago. He'd steered Frostfang's fury toward Rhok'thar with Thrassk's blessing, and now, with this mission, he had the chance to spark the chaos she'd demanded. He recalled the terror that had paralyzed him when her power shattered his guards in a breath, the certainty of death in those red-sand eyes, and then the order masked as a promise: "I won't kill you with these hands. Obey, and live." The clock cracked faintly under his claw, a heartbeat that stalked him like an inescapable shadow.
"A perfect plan," he told himself, clinging to those words as the wind howled around him, laden with ice that cut like needles.
After hours of trudging, the defile widened into a desolate plain, a stretch of snow and ice ringed by jagged mountains rising like the fangs of a forgotten giant. No walls or towers marked this border—just an imaginary line separating Frostscale dominion from the realm of Rhok'thar, etched by the silence broken only by the wind's wail and the promise of a confrontation Slyth knew he could twist to his favor.
"We're close now," Baelar growled beside him, his deep voice slicing through the wind's hum as he tightened his grip on his lance. "If the rumors hold, the Rhokari will be waiting."
"Let them wait," Slyth replied, his tone sharp as the ice beneath his boots. "They don't dictate this game."
And then he saw them.
In the plain's center, barring the way like a living rampart, stood the Rhokari.
It wasn't a scattered patrol, as Slyth had expected, but an imposing delegation led by a colossus nearly five meters tall. His body, cloaked in grayish-brown fur that seemed woven from the earth itself, loomed like a walking mountain, his muscles rippling beneath polished bone-plate armor that gleamed with a ghostly white. A helm crowned with mammoth tusks, chipped and weathered by battles, framed red eyes that blazed with a mix of intelligence and barely restrained ferocity. Flanking him, two smaller figures completed the group: one with sandy fur, lean and sharp-eyed under a brown tunic, and another with white fur, clutching a staff adorned with animal skulls that clinked with each gust of wind.
"That's Ghaul, the Speaker of the Rock," Baelar murmured, squinting as the wind tore vapor clouds from his mouth. "Emissary of King Rhazgar. They say his strength can split stone, but it's his mind that makes him dangerous."
"We'll see," Slyth shot back, his confident smile masking the quickening pulse of the clock against his chest. "Strength doesn't win wars like this."
He raised a claw to halt the retinue, the crunch of boots and hum of staves falling silent in an instant. He stepped forward alone, his cloak billowing behind him like a banner of arrogance, and lifted his voice with a false cordiality honed by years of courtly intrigue.
"Greetings, Speaker Ghaul," he said, dipping his head slightly, a gesture dripping with condescension rather than respect. "I am Slyth, counselor of Frostfang, sent by King Thrassk. We've come to talk."
Ghaul, who towered over him in size and presence like an avalanche over a snowflake, regarded him with a mix of distrust and scorn that shook the ice beneath his feet. "Talk?" he roared, his voice a thunderclap that rattled the plain and sent echoes bouncing off the mountains, his breath forming a thick cloud that crystallized in the frigid air. "What do you want to talk about, lizard? The lies you've spat about Rhok'thar? The desecration you pin on us without proof?"
Slyth held his composure, his smile unwavering despite the hostility thrumming in the air like a war drum. "We've come about the Frozen Claw Crypt," he said, his voice smooth but firm, cutting through Ghaul's roar like an icy dagger. "Its destruction months ago. The death of Kraal, its Guardian. And the evidence—broken horns, marked hides, bloodstained bones, a black rose—that points to Rhok'thar as guilty. Thrassk demands a representative in the Hall of Justice to answer for this. Come to Frostfang, or Rhok'thar's silence will be its confession, and war its punishment."
Ghaul narrowed his eyes, his mammoth tusks casting sharp shadows across the snow, his fur crackling with the tension of his frame. "The Crypt…" he muttered, his voice deep as a landslide, rumbling in Slyth's chest. "So that's what you're after. Blaming us with childish tales."
"We're not here to blame," Slyth lied, his words dripping with twisted logic he'd sharpened into a lethal weapon. "We seek answers. Our scouts found the evidence in the ruins. All the signs, Speaker, lead to Rhok'thar."
"You lie!" Ghaul bellowed, taking a step forward that shook the ground, his bone armor clanking with a dry snap that stilled the wind for a moment. "The Rhokari don't strike from the shadows. We don't defile the sacred like cowardly rats. We fight face-to-face, with strength, with honor. If we'd touched your Crypt, lizard, you'd know it by the echo of our tread."
"That's what you say," Slyth countered, unmoved by the threat, his voice a whisper that sliced deeper than any shout. "But the facts speak for themselves. Broken horns from your warriors, hides tanned with your marks, bones carved with your runes. And the black rose? An insult only a bold enemy would leave."
Ghaul snorted, a blast of vapor shooting into the icy air, his red eyes glowing like embers in the gloom. "You think us foolish enough to leave evidence behind? That I, Ghaul, would send Rhok'thar on a shadow mission and then etch our name in the snow?"
"I don't think it," Slyth said, his tone laced with sarcasm as he crossed his claws behind his back. "I know it. And Frostfang's people will know it too when the trial begins. Send a representative, or Thrassk will take it as an admission of guilt."
"Enough!" the sandy-furred counselor cut in, stepping forward with a raised claw, his voice firm yet calm, slicing through Ghaul's fury like a knife through flesh. "We'll get nowhere with shouts and accusations. Speaker Ghaul, Counselor Slyth, keep your tempers, or this plain will run red before we even speak."
"I agree," added the white-furred one, his staff striking the snow with a dry clink that echoed like ancient spirits. "Let's talk with reason, not rage. If there's a trial, let it be fair."
Ghaul whipped his head toward his counselors, his fangs flashing beneath his helm, then fixed his glare back on Slyth, his eyes narrowed with a distrust heavy as a slab. "Fair?" he growled, his voice low but thick with contempt. "A trial in Frostfang, under Thrassk's claws and a lizard like you weaving lies? Don't make me laugh."
Slyth tilted his head, his smile widening with a softness that veiled the edge of his intent. "I don't ask you to trust me, Speaker," he said, his tone honeyed like poisoned nectar. "I ask you to trust reason. Deny the charges in the Hall of Justice. Bring your truth, if you have it. Or stay here, and let silence speak for Rhok'thar."
"And if I refuse your ultimatum?" Ghaul asked, his voice a low roar that rumbled through the mountains, his claw flexing as if already picturing it crushing Slyth's skull. "What will your king do then?"
"He'll declare war," Slyth replied without hesitation, his eyes glinting with a cold certainty that cut the air. "And Frostfang will march on Rhok'thar with all its ice and fire. But send a representative, face the trial, and perhaps blood won't need to flow… yet."
The white-furred counselor struck his staff again, the clinking skulls ringing like a lament. "Speaker, hear the lizard," he said, his voice quavering with urgency that belied his frail form. "If they blame us for the Crypt, a trial's our only way to prove Rhok'thar's innocence. Refusing now will only stoke their lances."
"Prove our innocence?" Ghaul roared, turning on him with a fury that made the counselor step back. "I don't have to prove anything to these lizards! They're the ones accusing us with tales and shadows!"
"Shadows Frostfang's people believe," the sandy-furred one interjected, his tone softer but steady, his eyes locked on Ghaul with a calm that defied his wrath. "If we don't go, Speaker, they'll take those shadows as truth. Send someone. Let them speak for Rhok'thar."
Ghaul snorted again, a sound that sent a cloud of vapor into the frigid air, his red eyes boring into Slyth as if they could pierce him through. "And who guarantees your 'trial' isn't a sham?" he growled, his voice a challenge echoing across the plain. "That you won't drag us into your tunnels just to slit our throats?"
"Thrassk guarantees it," Slyth lied, his smile steady as the clock pulsed harder, a tick-tock reminding him of Aevia's promise and the weight of his pact. "A king doesn't break his word. Come as guests, not prisoners. Speak your truth, and let the ice decide."
Ghaul fell silent for a moment, his heavy breathing forming crystals that dropped to the snow like frozen tears. Then, with a growl that rumbled like distant thunder, he stepped back, his armor creaking with the motion.
"Fine, lizard," he said at last, his voice deep and laden with a threat that hung in the air. "I'll send a representative to your trial. But mark my words: if this is a trap, if your words are venom cloaked as justice, Rhok'thar won't rest until your tunnels are dust and your head hangs from my tusks."
Slyth smiled, pleased. "No need to worry, Speaker," he said. "The truth always comes to light. Sooner or later."
He turned to Baelar and the others, raising his voice with an authority that rang across the plain. "Set up a camp. We'll stay here until Rhok'thar's representative is ready. Let them see our resolve."
The Frostscales obeyed instantly. Baelar barked orders, and warriors drove lances into the snow, forming a defensive perimeter that cracked with each strike. The mages raised their staves, weaving frost barriers that glowed with a faint blue, a shield against the cold and the hostile gazes Slyth knew watched from the mountain shadows. Ghaul frowned, his red eyes tracking every move, his silence a challenge as weighty as his presence.
"A camp?" Ghaul growled, his voice cutting the air like an axe. "Do you mock Rhok'thar, lizard? Think you can plant your lances on our border and expect us to bow?"
"No mockery, Speaker," Slyth replied, turning to him with a calm dripping with arrogance. "It's a courtesy. We'll stay until your representative is ready to leave with us. We want this… orderly."
"Orderly?" Ghaul roared, stepping forward, his shadow falling over Slyth like a storm cloud. "This is provocation. A baring of your fangs before we even speak at your trial."
"It's a show of our seriousness," Slyth corrected, his voice firm yet smooth as polished ice. "Frostfang doesn't issue empty ultimatums. If Rhok'thar doesn't answer, we'll march. Stay here and watch us, or send your emissary and face us with words. The choice is yours."
The sandy-furred counselor stepped forward, his conciliatory tone cutting through Ghaul's fury. "Speaker, we gain nothing fighting here," he said, his eyes glinting with an intelligence Slyth hadn't expected. "If they provoke us, let it be on their ground. We'll send someone, but it won't be surrender."
Ghaul glanced at his counselor, then at Slyth, and finally snorted, a sound that shook the snow beneath his feet. "Very well," he growled, his voice low but thick with a dark promise. "I'll go myself. But not as your prisoner, lizard. I'll go as Speaker of Rhok'thar, and if your trial's a lie, I'll rip your head off with my own hands and skewer it on a lance for Thrassk to see."
Slyth dipped his head, his smile widening with a satisfaction that masked the clock's crack against his chest. "A pleasure to have you as our guest, Speaker," he said, his tone honeyed with venom. "We'll meet again in Frostfang."
Ghaul stepped back, his gaze fixed on the camp rising on the plain—lances driven like fangs, frost barriers shimmering like a silent taunt. "Prepare yourself, lizard," he murmured, his voice an echo reverberating through the mountains. "If this fails, it won't be your trial that ends this war. It'll be my tusks."
Slyth turned to Baelar, dismissing the threat as the wind howled around them. "Make sure the camp's ready," he ordered, his voice sharp as ice. "Turn it into a fortress. I want them to feel our presence until we leave."
Baelar nodded, his lance striking the snow with a dry crunch. "Think they'll come in peace, Counselor?" he asked, his tone low but tinged with doubt.
"It doesn't matter if they come in peace," Slyth replied, his eyes gleaming with a cold certainty as the clock pulsed louder, a tick-tock thrumming in his blood. "They'll come. And when they do, the trial will be ours. She promised."
The camp grew beneath the gray sky, a white blot against the endless snow, its barriers humming with power that defied the wind. The Rhokari watched from the mountain shadows, their forms barely visible among the peaks, and Slyth felt the weight of their stares like a pressure on his back. But it wasn't fear that coursed through him—it was triumph. Ghaul would go to the trial, and with him, the war Aevia had commanded drew one step closer.
The clock cracked under his tunic, a sound echoing in his mind like a broken heartbeat, and for an instant, her red-sand eyes flashed in his vision—a reminder that time waited for no one, not even a master of deceit like him.