Upon the frozen plains, the thunder of war drowned even the storm itself. Blades clashed against shields, spears met armor, arrows sang through the snow-filled air. The cries of men and Orcs mingled with the roars of beasts—a ceaseless, merciless symphony of death.
Caden and Mundar, surrounded by blood and steel, fought like wolves cornered by the tide. Against enemies many times their number, they held their ground, rallying their soldiers with every shout, every swing of blade and axe.
On both flanks, the cavalry struggled desperately. The horse-archers and heavy riders had fought with valor beyond mortal measure, but each charge grew weaker than the last. The Warg-riders, though broken when faced head-on, would circle wide through the chaos, tearing through the rear ranks before vanishing into the storm again.
Time and again, the mounted archers flung themselves between the heavy cavalry and the onrushing Wargs, sacrificing their lives to buy their brothers a chance to regroup and charge anew.
Each time one fell, his last cry rang through the din:
"For Eowenría!"
And then silence, as he took his killers with him into death.
The battle raged without mercy—neither side giving nor receiving quarter.
...
Then, from beyond the ruins, there came a roar that split the heavens.
The sound was vast, terrible, shaking the very marrow of all who heard it.
Caden paused mid-strike, cleaving a Troll's neck, and turned sharply toward the ruins. His eyes widened as the clouds above split apart.
Three colossal shapes burst from the swirling snow, dragons.
Their wings stretched wider than any sail, fifty meters across, their bodies armored in crystalline scales of frost and ice. The color of their hides shifted between silver and blue, glinting like frozen lightning beneath the pale sun. Their eyes burned with cold fire, narrow and bright as shards of sapphire.
As they rose, frost gathered in the air, swirling around their vast bodies like a storm given life. When they beat their wings, a thousand snowflakes became a blizzard, and the temperature fell as though winter itself had drawn breath.
"By the gods…" Caden murmured, his voice trembling.
Then one of the dragons screamed, a sound like cracking glaciers and dove.
"Down!" shouted Mundar, grabbing Caden and pulling him to the ground just as the beast swept overhead.
From its maw poured a torrent of frozen death. The air itself hardened into shards of ice—javelins and spears of crystal that rained down upon the battlefield, impaling men and Orcs alike. The blast froze soldiers where they stood; shattered armor rang out like glass breaking.
Mundar shielded Caden with his body, his shield raised above them. The frost hissed against the steel, biting deep, and when at last the storm ceased, his leg was pierced clean through by an icy spike.
"Brother! You're hurt!" Caden cried, wrenching the shard free and binding the wound with his own torn cloak. Blood soaked into the snow, steaming faintly.
Across the field, the three Cold-drakes descended upon the Eowenrían ranks, their roars echoing like thunder among the mountains. Soldiers scattered beneath them, terror-stricken. The dragons swept low, their breath leaving death wherever it touched.
Yet not all quailed.
Seeing the beasts' attacks slaughtering both sides, the captains and sergeants of Eowenría raised their voices, fierce and unafraid.
"Charge! Charge toward death!"
"Take them with you! For Eowenría!"
And the soldiers obeyed.
They hurled themselves at the enemy, even as frost consumed them, even as the dragons' breath turned men and Orcs alike into frozen statues. Some shattered under the beasts' claws, others brought down their foes with them in blazing final acts of defiance.
The plain became a grave of ice.
Caden knew retreat was death. There was no escape now. Better to die standing, to die as a warrior of Eowenría.
He pulled Mundar up by the arm, meeting his bloodied grin with one of his own. "Brother, it seems our time has come. Let us offer our lives to our king."
Mundar laughed through the pain. "Then we shall die well."
They clasped forearms, and then together they turned toward the enemy.
"Eowenría!" they roared, and charged once more into the storm.
...
Suddenly, a sharp whistling tore through the air.
"Thwack!"
A great silver arrow, longer than a spear, shot from the mist and struck one of the dragons full in the wing. The creature screamed, the sound shaking the earth, and plummeted from the sky, crashing into the snow with an explosion of ice and wind.
The battlefield froze—literally and figuratively.
All turned their eyes toward the southern mist, where the arrow had come from.
Then came more.
"Swish! Swish! Swish!"
Three more silver bolts streaked through the fog like lightning, aimed at the dragons. The two remaining beasts twisted violently in midair, their wings beating frantically as they soared higher, barely evading the deadly rain.
But the fallen one was not so fortunate. Both of its wings were pierced at the root; the enormous creature writhed upon the ground, bellowing in agony. Its body convulsed, and each thrash crushed men and Orcs alike into the snow.
Frost poured from its jaws, freezing everything within a hundred meters. Soldiers turned to statues in the blink of an eye, then shattered into glittering dust. Even the Orcs fled from their fallen master, terrified by the beast's death throes.
Then, from the south, a sound rose—a deep, resonant call.
A horn.
Caden looked up. Beyond the mist, golden light flickered. It grew brighter, spreading through the fog like dawn breaking after endless night.
Then came the rumble of hooves—hundreds, thousands—rolling like thunder across the plain.
And with it, a voice:
"Courage and glory!"
Another answered, a thousandfold:
"For Eowenría!"
The light burst forth, banishing the fog.
And there they came.
From the left flank, Sigilis led his armored cavalry in a charge of pure devastation. The earth trembled beneath their advance; the Warg-riders shattered like waves against stone. Lances of gleaming steel pierced through fur and flesh, and wherever they rode, death followed.
From the right, Aragorn's King's Guard thundered forward, the golden light of the Tree blazing from their armor. They were a living storm—unstoppable, radiant, divine. No Warg, no Orc, could stand before them.
The enemy's flanks collapsed, the snow running red beneath the iron hooves.
And then, through the center of the plain, came Kaen Eowenríel himself.
Upon his warhorse he rode, the air around him aflame with golden light. Behind him towered the shimmering phantom of the Golden Tree, its boughs stretching into the heavens. The King's Guard and Eowenría's legions followed in endless ranks, a tide of steel and light sweeping toward the heart of the dark host.
From somewhere within the ranks came Cathril's voice, clear and commanding:
"Archers—loose!"
The sky darkened once again, not with storm, but with arrows.
Tens of thousands of shafts rose and fell like rain, silver and gold flashing in the light. They rained upon the Orc legions like divine wrath, piercing armor, flesh, and bone. Trolls fell screaming, crushing their own kin beneath them.
The black horde buckled.
In a single moment, the tide of battle turned.
Where despair had reigned, now blazed hope. Where the dark had devoured the light, the light now consumed the dark.
And amid that storm of steel and glory, Kaen Eowenríel raised his sword high, its golden edge gleaming brighter than the sun itself, leading his people into victory's dawn.
...