The howling wind sliced through the air like a thousand knives, its icy teeth sinking into exposed skin. Snow fell in wild, unrelenting spirals, a blizzard of blinding white that obscured every familiar trail, every footprint of man or beast. The Caelthorn Mountains, usually majestic in their grandeur, were now shrouded in a swirling veil of snow, their jagged peaks lost in the tempestuous fury of the storm. High above, the clouds churned like the bellies of enraged dragons, black and heavy with the promise of another, even more ferocious storm.
King Magnus narrowed his eyes against the biting wind, his thick fur cloak snapping behind him, the royal crest barely visible beneath layers of clinging frost. Behind him, over fifty of his most seasoned soldiers trudged through knee-deep snow, their armor dulled and weighed down by the relentless snowfall, their breaths short and labored. Some cursed under their breath, their frustration palpable, while others pressed onward in grim silence, their determination fueled by a mixture of loyalty and fear.
The King led them with an unwavering resolve, his gloved hand gripping the hilt of his sword – not as a weapon ready for immediate use, but as a symbol of authority, a source of reassurance in the face of overwhelming adversity.
"We are close," a raspy voice announced from beside him, cutting through the wind's howl. It was the shaman, his words carrying an unnerving certainty.
Magnus turned, his gaze falling upon the hunched figure of the ancient shaman. The old man's eyes were like swirling fog, glazed and seemingly blind, yet they possessed a strange, unsettling clarity, as if he could see far beyond the limitations of mortal sight. He walked barefoot through the snow, seemingly untouched by the biting cold, muttering incantations under his breath, his words lost in the wind's roar.
"The air stings differently here," the shaman murmured, his voice a low, guttural rumble. "The magic runs deep, old, buried. She is near."
Magnus frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. "The elf?" he asked, his voice barely audible above the wind.
The shaman nodded, his movements slow and deliberate. He stopped, pressing his palm against the rough bark of a frostbitten pine tree, his touch seeming to draw energy from the ancient wood. "The last daughter of Nythera…" he whispered, his voice barely a breath. "…she hides beyond the peak."
As the words left his lips, a low, guttural screech echoed from the cliffs above, a chilling sound that sent a ripple of unease through the ranks of the soldiers.
"Incoming!" a soldier shouted, his voice sharp and urgent.
Emerging from the swirling fog, monstrous shapes materialized – creatures on two legs, twisted and hunched, their grey skin resembling burnt leather, their jaws lined with rows of razor-sharp black teeth. Gambits. Ten of them, at least, leaped from the rocky outcrops, their movements swift and brutal, snarling and hissing as they descended upon the royal party, armed with rusted blades and iron claws.
The soldiers reacted instantly, raising their shields in a desperate defense, forming a protective wall against the onslaught. Swords clashed against iron claws, steel screaming against bone, the air filled with the sounds of battle – the clang of metal, the grunts of exertion, the guttural snarls of the gambits.
Magnus stepped back as a gambit lunged towards him, its claws outstretched, its intent clearly murderous. Before the creature could reach him, his captain, a veteran warrior with years of experience, drove a spear through its throat with deadly accuracy. The gambit collapsed, twitching violently in the snow, its lifeblood staining the white surface a gruesome crimson.
"Hold the line!" the captain roared, his voice commanding, his words cutting through the chaos.
The skirmish was brief but brutal. Blood stained the snow, a grim testament to the ferocity of the encounter. Two soldiers lay dead, their bodies lifeless in the snow, while five others lay wounded, their armor marred and their bodies bleeding. The gambits, momentarily repulsed, regrouped, their snarls echoing through the mountains. Then, a larger, more imposing figure stepped forward – a gambit with impressive horns curled like twisted branches, its eyes burning with a malevolent yellow light, like burning tar.
"Enough!" Magnus barked, his voice cutting through the din of battle.
He raised a hand, a gesture of unexpected peace, signaling a halt to the fighting. The soldiers hesitated, their confusion evident, their weapons still raised. The gambits, equally unsure, growled menacingly, their postures tense and wary.
"I am King Magnus of Caelthorn," Magnus announced, his voice resonating with authority. "I did not come to wage war against your kind."
The horned gambit hissed, its voice a guttural rasp. "You tread on cursed grounds, human."
"And I seek what the curse protects," Magnus replied, his gaze unwavering. "I was told you guard these mountains. I offer a deal."
The gambits stirred, their attention drawn to the King's unexpected proposal. The leader, the horned gambit, stepped closer, its eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"What deal?" it demanded, its voice a low growl.
Magnus pulled a heavy pouch from his belt, its weight surprisingly substantial, and tossed it into the snow between them. The fabric burst open, revealing a glittering array of rubies and chunks of gold, their brilliance a stark contrast to the bleak landscape.
"That is a mere sample," Magnus declared. "Aid me in finding the elf beyond this range, and I will give you tenfold more."
The gambits eyed the gems with undisguised interest. Some licked their lips, their greed evident, while others glanced towards their leader, seeking guidance.
"We do not serve humans," the leader responded, its voice still laced with suspicion.
"You serve power," Magnus countered, his voice firm and unwavering. "Gold is power. With it, your kind will never kneel again."
The leader looked down at the glittering gold, then back at Magnus, its gaze intense and calculating. A long, heavy silence followed, the only sound the relentless snowfall.
"There is a barrier," the gambit finally said, its voice low and gravelly. "A wall of stone and spell, marked with the sigil of Nythera. No man can pass."
"Then break it," Magnus commanded, his voice filled with an unwavering determination.
The gambits exchanged uneasy looks, their hesitation palpable.
"One among us…" the leader said, its voice hesitant. "…knows some of their tongue. Old words. Forbidden magic."
"Then lead me there," Magnus insisted. "Show me the wall."
Hours later, the snow had intensified into a raging blizzard. Gusts of wind howled through the skeletal trees, their branches laden with ice, as the group reached the base of the mountain. There, half-buried in ice and snow, stood a towering stone wall, its surface covered in glowing runes – an ancient language pulsing with a faint blue light. At its center, etched deeply into the stone, was the unmistakable mark of the elves – a stylized tree with seven roots, encircled by a ring of stars.
The moment they neared the wall, the wind stilled, an unnatural quiet descending upon them. A heavy silence pressed down, a palpable sense of ancient power emanating from the barrier.
Magnus stepped forward, his courage unwavering, and placed his hand on the cold, smooth surface of the wall. The runes glowed brighter, then sparked, sending a jolt of energy through his arm, throwing him back into the snow.
"Sire!" his captain cried out, rushing to his side.
Magnus stood, gritting his teeth, the shock still coursing through his body.
"No one touches it," the gambit leader warned, its voice laced with a chilling authority. "It rejects those not of the blood."
"Then your magic," Magnus growled, his voice strained but resolute. "Do it. Now."
One of the gambits stepped forward, a cloaked figure wielding a crooked staff, its eyes clouded with age and power. The air shimmered as the gambit raised its hands, beginning to chant in a language as ancient as the wall itself. The runes on the wall flickered, responding to the gambit's incantations. A sound like cracking ice echoed through the air.
Then, a fracture appeared – small, almost imperceptible, but undeniably there.
"Again," Magnus commanded, his voice filled with a renewed determination.
The gambit mage chanted louder, its voice strained with the effort. Another crack appeared, a sliver of stone flaking away from the ancient wall.
The wall would not fall today, not completely, but it had weakened. And that was enough for now.
Magnus stared at the ancient sigil, his gaze intense and unwavering.
"You're running out of places to hide, little elf," he murmured, his voice a low growl.
He turned to his captain, his voice sharp and commanding. "Set camp here," he ordered. "Guard this place day and night. No one enters, no one leaves."
As his soldiers began to set up tents and torches along the snowy perimeter, establishing a perimeter of defense, Magnus moved aside, standing alone at the ridge, his gaze fixed on the ancient wall. His thoughts drifted back to Queen Margot, her cryptic smile when he had declared his intention to embark on this perilous journey. Was it approval, or mockery? Was she hiding something, concealing more than she revealed?
He glanced at the shaman, now crouching near a small fire, humming ancient songs to the dancing flames. The old man had spoken of only one elf, one lone survivor.
Yet, a growing doubt gnawed at Magnus's mind. What if the curse wasn't solely tied to this one elf girl? What if there were others – scattered, hidden, beyond his grasp?
Suddenly, the gambit mage let out a sharp shriek of pain, its body contorting as the ancient magic took its toll. More of the wall shimmered, a vein of light cracking through the surface like a wound slowly opening. The effort was draining the gambit's life force, its shoulders hunched, its hands trembling. But the wall had changed. The barrier was no longer unbreakable.
Just before he returned to the relative safety of the camp, Magnus murmured to himself, his voice barely audible above the wind's howl. "The girl will fall. Whether by steel or spell, I will have my kingdom back."
He did not know that Serena and her kin lived far from this place, untouched by the curse, their existence a secret hidden deep within the heart of the enchanted forest. The real elf he sought, the source of the curse that plagued his kingdom, was not behind that wall. The truth, as it often does, remained elusive, hidden behind a veil of ancient magic and long-forgotten secrets.