The Frosted Expanse was a graveyard of ice and silence. Every step was a crunch, a crack beneath the brittle surface, like the fragile trust I once held with the Order. The relic we sought—a dragon-crystal older than the oldest tales—glowed faintly beneath a veil of frost, its ancient power humming in the cold air. Its humming sounded different; it didn't feel calm and peaceful like it usually did. It sounded like a warning, like there was a trap.
A trap for me, or maybe I'm just unthinking.
Torin's voice echoed sharp and cold inside my mind—the man I once called father had broken every pledge. Deals made in shadows, whispered words sold to the highest bidder. Elven extremists, fanatics who saw me as nothing more than a bargaining chip, waited beyond the crystalline ice.
When the ambush sprung, the silence shattered like glass.
Blades flashed, arrows hissed through the frozen air, and the frozen ground became slick with blood and betrayal. I didn't hesitate. Rage and betrayal roared in my veins, turning pain into power, fear into fury. I became The Crimson Dancer—swift and merciless.
Every movement was a deadly rhythm: a slash, a parry, a step into shadow. My melos flared, bending the icy wind and shattering the runes the extremists had laid as traps. The cold became my ally, biting and blinding those who dared to come close.
Faces I once trusted twisted in shock as I cut through them, every strike a message carved in fire and ice. The massacre was brutal, chaotic—a dance of survival and vengeance.
When the dust settled, the Order lay fractured.
With the few loyal to me by my side, we stormed the main stronghold, flames licking at ancient stone and banners.
I carved one message into the ash-covered gates, a declaration of what had to come next:
"No more crowns made of lies."
The fire burned away the old. From the ashes, something new would rise.