Calamities Cold Grip
Fen's P.O.V.
The Gelida Knights stand as if carved from the very glacier our kingdom, Septentriones, stands on—their holy armor shimmering with the otherworldly frost.
That's who I need to be.
Those are the people I need to surpass.
I will become a Gelida Knight.
"Arghh!" My bloodied hands grip the blade that's buried deep within my chest, pinning my body to the ice of the frozen lake.
They got me again! Damnit! How many times will my strength fail? My reflexes just aren't enough.
Everything freezes around me and fades to black, my body going limp and my mind losing consciousness.
I gasp awake the morning before. I growl in frustration, throw off the covers, and storm out of the barracks, heading straight for the training yard, ignoring the pleas of my fellow foot soldiers. I need to get better.
I don't want to die so easily.
I swing my sword ten times, a hundred times, or a thousand times until my arms ache and my hands bleed. It's not enough; there's never enough time.
I'm still lacking in my swordsmanship. I need to get better faster, and here comes my chance.
The war horn sounds off.
They're here.
Their blackened flags raised high, their chanting and screaming hordes rush us as we meet on the frozen lake. I dodge and dip beneath blades, letting an arrow whiz past my head.
That one killed one on my thirty-seventh restart.
I grin and see the soldier standing in my way, the one I've constantly died on a hundred fifty-four times too.
This time.
This time, I will kill him.
I dodge the first initial thrust of his sword and cleave my sword arc up and through his arm, severing his arm at the base of his elbow, before dodging the incoming arrow aimed for my chest and jumping the arc of the second sword. Planting my feet firmly into the chest of the giant brute, I kick him far back into the next crowd of soldiers rushing us. I watch him stumble to his feet; one good arm now grasps his steel greatsword in his other hand.
He staggers toward me before I dash forward, dipping below the first side-swiping arch of the greatsword. I rake my weapon up the side of his thighs and ribs before throwing myself back out of the range of a downward swipe.
That would have gotten me, like, trial run two hundred and seven.
This time, I have him.
I flash forward. I'm smaller than him; I'm quicker, and he misses his window of opportunity to raise his sword and block the next attack while I drive my sword to the hilt through his neck. I rip my sword out of his throat.
There's an unspoken rule on the battlefield: when the strongest die, the tides turn.
Their retreat horn blares painfully. The other footmen and I fill the gaps now opening in the retreating forces.
And after two hundred and eight deaths and three grueling hours of battle, I stand atop the bodies of those who wish to stop us—those who want to take away my chance.
My moment of triumph. I cut off the head of the deceased commander lying at my feet, the golden helmet with its red and black plume marking his rank perched atop my sword. I let out a shout and raise it high, and the remaining forces that chose to fight against us freeze in shock at the sight of their beloved commander's lifeless head.
That pause. That hesitation is all the other footmen needed.
With that hesitation, we claim yet another victory.
For Gelida.
For Septentriones.
