Prologue
Snow blanketed the winding path that led toward the Glacier Kingdom. Jagged rocks jutted from the slope like broken teeth, their silent warning clear: one misstep could be fatal.
Five weary travelers climbed steadily, their breath fogging in the frigid air. The cold bit through their battle-worn clothes, and hunger churned in their stomachs, but reaching the summit didn’t ease the weight in their chests.
Above them, the palace emerged from the grey peaks—its pale stone facade carved directly from the mountain. Spires rose like frozen spears into the clouds. Long, narrow windows broke the walls, too slim for entry, designed to limit any weakness in the structure. Below them, white flags fluttered above carved balconies. From within the main archway, a faint warmth spilled out into the snow.
Tylak, tall and dark-haired, ran a gloved hand over his black felt coat and signaled for the group to halt. “Get down,” he murmured, gesturing toward a boulder thick with snow.
They dropped behind it, pressing close to the rock.
“The path’s clear,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean it’s safe.”
His hazel eyes locked on the front gate. The palace walls stretched to meet the surrounding cliffs, offering no way in except through that single entrance.
Meltek crouched beside him, his deep blue eyes scanning the windows. “No sign of movement,” he said, voice low. “But they’re in there. And I’d wager they already know we’re out here.”
He flicked a frozen twig from his boot tread and let his hand relax over the hilt of the silver sword strapped across his back.
“Well?” Scythe asked. She rose slightly, white hair stirring in the wind. “What are we waiting for? I’ve always wanted to fight a Crosser.”
Meltek caught her wrist and yanked her back down. “Don’t be reckless,” he snapped. “It’ll take all of us to bring one down. You rush in alone, and someone’s going to die.”
He let her go and softened his tone. “We need you focused.”
Scythe frowned, rubbing her wrist. Her eyes stayed fixed on the gate. “Fine. Let’s plan it, then.”
Tylak slammed his fist into the snow-covered rock. “Damn it,” he muttered. “I’ve run scenarios like this a hundred times—palace breach, hostile takeover, unknown threats—but I never thought we’d actually need them. Not without knowing what went wrong first.”
He sat back, drawing in a slow breath and exhaling a plume of mist into the wind.
Behind him, Purge stared down the path they’d climbed. Her voice was barely audible. “Those poor people…”
They all knew the sight she couldn’t forget—dozens of bodies scattered at the base of the mountain, uniforms still bearing the crest of the palace. Servants. Slaughtered and discarded.
“They were defenseless,” she said. A single tear tracked down her cheek. “I just hope the three of them made it out.”
Eulis drew his green coat tighter and stared into the snowy expanse, hoping to find clarity in the white. Eventually, he spoke, voice firm. “They weren’t among the bodies below. That means they’re still inside.” He looked to Meltek and Tylak. “What do we do?”
Meltek nodded slowly, face set. “It’s not much to go on, but it’s all we have. Tylak?” He glanced to him, then back to the group. “If they’re alive, we might still shift the odds. But once we enter, we don’t get to walk away.”
He scanned each of them, searching for doubt. If anyone wanted to back out, this was the time.
Scythe snorted. “We’ve faced worse. You really think we’re leaving now?” Her excitement cut through the cold like a blade—not with thrill, but with fury. She didn’t just want to fight a Crosser. She needed to. Someone had to pay.
Meltek allowed himself the smallest smile as the others nodded their agreement.
“Alright then,” Tylak said, rising. “None of us have fought a Crosser before. Don’t hesitate. Don’t let your guard drop. And don’t waste time if someone falls—we move. The throne room is the goal. If we get separated and you see a way forward, take it. No heroics.”
He turned to Scythe and gave her a half-smile. She rolled her eyes and laughed.
Together, they rose and advanced. The path broadened as it neared the entrance. The snow was thick, slowing them down, but the walls began to shield them from the worst of the wind. The massive doorway loomed just ahead.
Then a figure dropped between them and the gate.
He was pale, slender, and dressed in dark clothes. Black hair whipped about his face, and his coal-black eyes locked onto them with unsettling calm. He folded his arms, a twisted smile curling his lips.
“Well, well,” he said, voice smooth and mocking. “An honour to meet you at last.” He bowed theatrically. “Welcome to the palace. Shall we begin the tour?”
They froze—just for a heartbeat—watching the figure’s stance, reading the terrain.
Then they moved.
Tylak lunged toward Meltek, gripping him with practiced precision—one hand on his collar, the other at his belt—and hurled him forward like a spear. It was a technique they’d rehearsed countless times.
Meltek didn’t resist. He twisted mid-air, sword flashing from its sheath as he flew toward the Crosser.
The blade came down fast.
The Crosser flicked his hand—once, effortlessly—and the sword was knocked clean from Meltek’s grip. Its point drove down through the snow and punched into the stone with a dull, final sound.
Meltek landed hard, tumbling through the snow and into the palace threshold. He rolled with the momentum and caught himself low on the thick red carpet just inside the hall, boots skidding across the plush surface. The rug bunched beneath him, dragging slightly as he slid. He glanced down. The edge was no longer flat. Noted. Something to watch if they had to move fast.
He looked up—and felt the absence in his hand.
No one had ever knocked the sword from his grip before. Not like that. Not with a flick.
They’d believed the opening would work. It was a move they’d drilled to perfection—fast, coordinated, overwhelming. A tactic meant to unbalance a Crosser before he could react.
Instead, it had separated him.
He was disarmed, exposed, too far from the others to support him—wasn’t he?
The Crosser turned to face him. No flourish. No mockery. Just the stillness of a predator ready to finish the stray first.
He stepped forward, hand beginning to rise—
—when Eulis crashed into his side.
He hadn’t been seen. Not by Meltek. Not by the Crosser.
It wasn’t a clean hit—more of a full-bodied lunge—but it was enough to stagger the Crosser mid-step.
The retaliation was instant. A backhanded strike drove straight into Eulis’s ribs, folding him in mid-air. He flew backward, hitting the snow with a choked breath and tumbling into Tylak, who caught him by the coat, braced hard, and shoved him back onto his feet—just as Scythe and Purge closed in.
They moved like a pair of blades—fast, honed, precise. The Crosser pivoted, parried Scythe’s first strike, ducked Purge’s follow-up, and weaved between them like smoke. His laughter echoed—sharp, almost delighted.
Scythe pressed forward, slashing low, then high. Purge mirrored her, their timing tight, their rhythm clean—but the Crosser didn’t break. His movements were faster than they should’ve been, each motion fluid, each counter exact.
Purge suddenly dropped into a roll, narrowly avoiding a strike aimed at her head. She popped up just behind him and lashed out with a high kick. Her boot grazed his nose—not meant to strike, but to blind. That had been the intent all along.
The Crosser flinched.
Tylak didn’t hesitate. He charged shoulder-first and slammed into him with full force, launching the Crosser sideways through the air.
Across the threshold, Meltek reached out.
The sword tore free from the stone and snapped back into his hand.
In one fluid motion, he turned and brought the blade across the Crosser’s path—clean, fast, and final.
The strike landed.
There was no scream. No blood.
The Crosser unraveled, his form dissolving into dark smoke that scattered into the cold.
“We did it!” Scythe shouted, voice sharp with adrenaline.
Tylak straightened. “We got lucky.”
Meltek didn’t take his eyes off the smoke. “He was holding back. If we stay in these fights too long, they’ll start learning—our patterns, our footwork, even our timing.”
Together, they moved swiftly and silently into the palace hall.
Meltek’s gaze swept across the wide chamber, checking corners, watching shadows.
Light from a crystal chandelier spilled across polished floorboards and a long red carpet. Portraits lined the white walls—noble faces frozen in moments of joy, their eyes seeming to follow the group as they passed. Marble pillars rose on either side, their reflections stretched across the lacquered floor, and at the far end stood the staircase. Two iron beasts crouched at its base—broad, sculpted things with claws curled tight and eyes fixed on the entrance behind them, as though still watching for intruders.
They climbed fast, boots thudding against stone and carpet.
At the top, the corridor bent sharply to the right. They turned the corner—
and saw him.
A Crosser, waiting at the far end, leaning casually against the wall. His eyes drifted over them, pausing on the narrow walls as if measuring how tightly they’d be forced to bunch.
He didn’t get to speak.
Scythe lunged. Her daggers flashed into her hands as she closed the distance—low, high, fast—but the Crosser blocked each strike with ease, then stepped forward and slammed her into the wall. The stone cracked on impact, swallowing her in a cloud of dust and broken brick.
“Scythe!” Eulis shouted, taking a step forward.
“Keep it down, Kimmak,” came a voice from behind.
The second Crosser strolled forward, popping a grape into his mouth. He gave the hole in the wall a glance, then turned to Eulis with a smirk.
“Missed a spot, didn’t you?” he said. “I thought the interior was supposed to be your specialty.”
He flicked a knuckle against the corner wall, chipped the plaster, and sighed like a disappointed critic.
They still had the numbers—five against two—but it didn’t matter. The Crossers had the power, and every one of them could feel it. The corridor forced them into a line, nullifying any advantage of formation or teamwork.
Another crash split the corridor—Scythe burst through the far wall, catching the second Crosser off guard with a solid punch to the jaw. He staggered, barely catching himself.
Purge followed without pause.
Mana surged beneath her skin, lighting her limbs with a soft blue glow. She struck fast, no windup—just a sharp hook to the first Crosser’s guard. He stepped in to intercept, but his arm shattered under the force.
Smoke poured from the break. He retreated, clutching the ruin of his limb. “Impossible,” he spat.
Eulis reached her side, eyes wide. “Purge, that’s too much—”
“I’m fine,” she said—and launched a kick that cracked the wall beside her.
Kimmak ducked, slipped inside her reach, and slammed a foot into her chest. She gasped, but grabbed his leg and pulled. Together, they crashed backward down the corridor.
Tylak moved to catch her, but Eulis yanked him aside at the last second.
Meltek didn’t pause.
He grabbed Scythe, dropped low, and kicked off the wall, sliding them both clear.
Ahead, Kimmak’s eyes gleamed as he raised a hand toward Purge.
Then the corridor detonated.
A blast of blue light ripped through the walls. Cracks raced outward. Dust poured from the ceiling. The group hit the floor as the shockwave rolled over them.
“NO!” Tylak’s voice cut through the ringing. He scrambled to the edge of the crater, scanning the rubble. Smoke still rose. There was no sign of Purge. No sign of either Crosser.
He turned, rage overtaking him, and grabbed Eulis by the throat. “Why did you stop me? I could’ve caught her!”
“She did it on purpose,” Meltek said quietly.
Tylak didn’t move.
“She released everything she had.”
Meltek stepped forward and took hold of his wrist.
“If you’d touched her, it would’ve killed you. Eulis saved your life.”
Tylak’s grip tightened—then slowly let go.
The silence that followed sat heavy in the wreckage.
“She… she sacrificed herself to defeat them both… I… I couldn’t…” Scythe murmured, her voice thin and uneven. Her expression twisted—first with grief, then anger. She shook her head, jaw clenched. “We did nothing,” she said sharply. “We just stood there.”
“Enough!” Tylak’s voice cut through across the corridor like a whip. He locked eyes with Eulis, then looked away as he loosened his grip. Eulis collapsed to the ground, coughing, dragging in ragged breaths.
“We barely managed to deal with one at the entrance,” Tylak said, his voice steady but weighted. “The corridor nullified our numbers.” He extended a hand to Eulis and pulled him to his feet. “But we’re learning.”
The group—now four—moved together, slower, tighter. No one rushed ahead. The weight of what they’d lost followed them like a shadow.
It wasn’t long before they found the next pair of Crossers standing on either side of the double doors to the throne room. Neither moved. One looked up, brow furrowed in faint confusion. “What do we have here then?” he asked. Not mocking. Almost curious.
The other Crosser twitched, his body glitching with small, uncontrolled jolts. “They made it this far?” he said, disbelieving. “Well. No witnesses, right?”
He pushed off the wall, slow and lazy—then vanished into a black blur.
Eulis didn’t even see the hit coming. A fist slammed into his gut, folding him in half and launching him down the hallway. He smashed through a wooden door and disappeared into the splinters.
Meltek turned to react—too slow. A hand grabbed him from behind and yanked him to the floor. He hit hard, pain exploding through his shoulder as something cracked deep. The sword flew from his hand as if struck by lightning, his fingers forced open by the shock. It was the second time now he’d lost it—twice, in front of Crossers. His scream tore through the corridor. He rolled onto his side, gasping, and struggled up onto his knees, just in time to feel the pressure of fingers closing around his throat.
The gaunt Crosser, watching it all unfold, barely moved. “Let’s not make this worse than it has to be,” he said.
Scythe was already circling, daggers drawn. But she was boxed in. Her eyes locked with Meltek’s. One Crosser had him by the throat, lifting him steadily off the ground.
Eulis had managed to sit up, still dazed. He saw the scene and froze—one wrong move, and Meltek would be dead. The balance of the entire fight tilted on that one held breath.
“Let him go,” Tylak said, his voice tight with fury.
The Crosser holding Meltek tutted and gave a little shake of the head. “You’re not going to deprive me of this, are you?” he said, lifting Meltek higher. “One of the King’s lapdogs… ah well. Let’s end it properly.”
Scythe moved.
She rolled, snatched the sword from where it had fallen, and whipped it around—not at the Crosser, but through Meltek.
The blade shattered on impact, fragments exploding outward. For a second, it seemed like madness. Then the shards reversed course—pulling back, reforming mid-air, and slicing clean through the Crosser.
He disintegrated on the spot.
Scythe was already at Meltek’s side, catching him as he sagged. She gave him a smile, soft and sharp at once—until her expression shifted.
Her eyes went wide.
Meltek’s stomach dropped. He didn’t have to look.
The words echoed in his head—“Angel’s magical blade, hey? That must make you Meltek.” But they meant nothing now. All he could feel was the cold, the stillness.
The Crosser had driven his hand straight through Scythe’s chest.
He felt her weight go slack in his arms. Her eyes, wide and full of light only moments before, now stared through him, empty.
“Why?” Meltek whispered. “Why did you leave yourself open? I wasn’t worth it.”
The Crosser tilted his head. “Touching,” he said. With no ceremony, he slid his hand free and let her drop.
He looked around the corridor, wiped the blood on his sleeve. “Didn’t know we were dealing with Royal Guards,” he muttered, almost amused. “Weren’t there five of you?”
An outburst of raw fury echoed through the corridor as Eulis found his strength, pushing himself up from the wreckage. With a surge of energy, he thrust his arm forward.
The Crosser, poised and ready to intercept what he expected to be a physical attack, was caught off guard. His eyes widened at the green energy surging toward him. “Wha—?” he started, but the beam struck him before he could finish. It tore through him with lethal precision, and his body disintegrated into swirling black mist. The dark cloud lingered only a moment before it scattered, leaving nothing behind.
Meltek, still cradling his shoulder, stared at Eulis. “Eulis… how did you—?” His voice trailed off, caught between awe and disbelief.
Only their breathing filled the corridor. Not long ago, they’d been on a boat from Saddul, sharing laughter. Now, they stood among silence and ash. Two friends gone.
Eulis approached slowly, each step dragging under the weight of what they’d lost. Meltek bent, wincing, and retrieved his sword with his good arm. Words had no place here. Once a solid five—now a broken three.
Tylak knelt beside Scythe. He took her hand, jaw clenched, holding back the tide behind his eyes. Gently, he set her against the wall and closed her eyes. For a fleeting moment, she looked at peace.
A shout echoed from below. Then explosions. Tylak’s head snapped up.
“What’s that?” he asked, rising.
Meltek shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
“Servants fighting back?” Eulis guessed.
“Maybe,” Meltek said. “But we can’t wait to find out. They’ll be on us any moment.” He turned toward the door.
“Let’s finish this.”
He pushed it open and led them into the throne room.
