73.- The Void

Garraescarcha, the capital of the Frostscale Clan, sank into the depths of a colossal glacier, a labyrinth of tunnels and chambers carved into eternal ice that pulsed with relentless cold. It wasn't a city that defied the heavens like Eldoria's towering spires; it was an underground stronghold seeking the distant heartbeat of the planet's core, its walls aglow with perpetual ice crystals casting a frigid, bluish light. But that light, steady as an ancestral dragon's breath for millennia, had begun to falter. The crystals flickered, their glow wavering like a flame on the brink of extinction, and a low hum reverberated through the tunnels—a sound not born of wind or stone, but of something deeper, something that rattled the scales of those who heard it.

The Throne Hall, the heart of the city, was a vast, oppressive cavern. Sharp stalactites hung from the ceiling like wyvern fangs, dripping water that froze midair and shattered with a brittle chime, while stalagmites rose from the floor like petrified claws, reflecting the dimming light. At the center, atop a platform of polished obsidian, stood the Ice Throne: a massive block carved into the shape of a coiled dragon, its runes pulsing with a faint blue that seemed to bleed into the darkness. The air carried the scent of frozen dampness and an unplaceable metallic tang, a foreboding weight pressing down like a slab.

Thrassk commanded the throne, his colossal figure casting a shadow that devoured the light. His white scales, streaked with bluish veins, gleamed like the glacier's core, and his yellow eyes cut like icy spears. Barely a century old—young by his race's standards—his musculature was a living fortress, his presence a storm held in check. A yeti pelt cloak draped his shoulders, its claws stitched as trophies, and his thick tail struck the ice with a deep rhythm that echoed through the hall. "Silence!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap that shook the stalactites, sending icy needles crashing to the floor. The counselors, gathered in a tense semicircle, fell quiet, their arguments about the fading crystals snuffed out by his authority.

"The glacier groans as if wounded," growled Brakon, the Veteran Warrior, his lance striking the ice with a crack. "Something's killing it, my King." Slyth, the Cunning Counselor, frowned, his gray scales dull under the faltering light. "It's an ill omen, but we don't know its cause." Before Thrassk could reply, the ground shuddered, a tremor cracking the walls and snuffing out another crystal with a sharp snap, plunging the hall deeper into shadow.

A guard burst into the chamber, his boots pounding the fractured ice like a war drum. His armor was coated in frosty dust, and his yellow eyes were wide with a terror that stole his breath. "My King!" he announced, dropping to one knee with a quiver that betrayed his discipline. "Messengers… from the Crypt of the Frozen Claw. They bring dire news."

Thrassk straightened, the scales on his neck creaking under the strain. "The Crypt?" he snarled, his voice a blade slicing through the hum filling the hall. The Crypt of the Frozen Claw was the sacred sanctuary of the Frostscale Clan, the vault where the Frozen Claw—the cultural treasure embodying their legacy—had been guarded for millennia. "Bring them in."

The guard withdrew, and moments later, Rha'kash entered, flanked by Glar and Thark, a battered trio barely holding themselves upright. Rha'kash led, his white-scale armor intact but spiderwebbed with cracks, his face a mask of horror etched with frozen sweat that gleamed like shattered glass. Glar, his blue scales pale, limped beside him, clutching a deep gash on his arm that dripped icy blood, while Thark, sturdier, gripped his lance with a trembling claw, his ragged breaths forming clouds that crystallized. Rha'kash knelt before the throne, his hands leaving gouges in the ice, and in his right claw he held something wrapped in a filthy rag, a lump pulsing with a slow, grotesque rhythm.

"My King…" he gasped, his voice a broken whisper barely rising above the hum vibrating through the walls. "The Crypt… the Crypt of the Frozen Claw… is gone."

A thick silence filled the hall, shattered only by the creak of ice beneath Thrassk's claws. "Gone?" he repeated, his tone low but charged with a fury that shook the air. "Speak plainly, Rha'kash. Where's Kraal? Zyth? The Frozen Claw?"

Rha'kash looked up, his eyes brimming with frozen tears that hung like fractured crystals, a sign of a wound beyond flesh. Glar and Thark swayed behind him, their pale faces mirroring the same dread. "Destroyed, my King," Rha'kash said, each word a struggle that seemed to rip the breath from him. "Nothing remains. Where the sanctuary stood… there's only a crater. A black abyss that swallows light, so deep the bottom's unseen." He paused, his hand trembling as he unwrapped the rag. "And Kraal…"

The rag fell, revealing a black rose, its thick stem pulsing like a living vein, its petals gaping like jagged maws dripping a thick, black sap that sizzled upon hitting the ice, melting it with an acidic hiss. "Kraal is… transformed," Rha'kash whispered, his voice cracking. "A statue at the crater's center. Dark vines coil around him, sprouting from his flesh as if they devoured him alive. The roses bloom from his chest, his eyes, his mouth… and they move, my King. They throb like they're breathing."

Thrassk leaned forward, his claws twitching on the throne's arms. "What are you saying?" he snarled, his breath forming frost spikes that hovered in the air. "The Crypt was our sanctuary, Rha'kash. The resting place of the Frozen Claw, our legacy… how can it vanish?"

"I don't know," Rha'kash admitted, letting the rose fall to the ice, where it rolled with a wet thud. Glar shuddered, his icy blood dripping onto the floor, while Thark tightened his grip on his lance. "We were hunting yetis when the earth shook," Rha'kash continued. "We ran to the sanctuary… but it was gone. The altars, the spires, everything… vanished. Just that crater remains, with Kraal's statue at its heart, a defiled corpse. The vines twist like snakes, and the roses bleed that black sap. We felt a hum, a sound that pierced our bones."

The council held their breath, eyes locked on the black rose lying on the ice, its petals opening and closing with a grotesque rhythm. The hum in the hall swelled, an echo that rattled the crystals and shook the floor, a foreboding that sliced through the soul.

Brakon broke the silence first, his lance slamming the ice with a boom that echoed like thunder. "This is an abomination!" he roared, his voice an avalanche that dislodged icy needles from the ceiling. He lunged toward the black rose, claw outstretched, but recoiled with a shout, his hand shaking as if the cold had seared him to the bone. "Kraal! The Crypt! Who dares defile our heritage?"

Slyth slumped against a stalagmite, his gray scales paling to a sickly white. "No… it can't be," he muttered, his voice quaking as his eyes fixed on the rose. "The sanctuary… the Frozen Claw… lost?" His claws twitched, grasping at a reality crumbling beneath him.

The Lesser Shaman raised his staff, but the motion was feeble, his hunched form trembling under the weight of the news. "The black roses…" he whispered, his voice a thread cutting through the chaos. "Ancient chants speak of a shadow blooming in death, a power that consumes the sacred. But I never believed…" His staff clattered to the floor, and he knelt, his faded blue scales dulled by terror.

"Silence!" Thrassk roared, rising with a motion that cracked the Ice Throne. His fury was an unleashed tempest, his scales pulsing with a deep blue that lit the hall like frozen lightning. "The sanctuary destroyed? Kraal defiled?" His gaze pierced Rha'kash, Glar, and Thark, then settled on the black rose, and a primal bellow erupted from his throat—a "Glacial Roar" that froze the air into a whirlwind of sharp spikes. The spikes burst from the floor, piercing stalagmites and shattering the ice into fragments that flew like shrapnel, one grazing Brakon's armor with a metallic screech.

"This isn't the work of mortal foes!" Brakon shouted, his lance quivering in his hands as he turned on the council. "It's a force we don't know! We must march now, tear that abomination from the crater!"

"Caution!" the Lesser Shaman countered, crawling forward, his staff forgotten. "If the Crypt fell, if Kraal fell, what hope have we without knowing what we face? The spirits must speak!" But his voice drowned in the chaos, smothered by the counselors' rising shouts.

"No time for spirits!" a guard bellowed from the back, his armor creaking as he stepped forward. "The Frozen Claw was our pride! Without it, we're exposed!" Others joined, their voices a chorus of panic and rage echoing off the walls, rattling the remaining crystals until another snuffed out with a sharp crack.

Thrassk raised a claw, and the hum in the hall surged, thrumming in the bones of all present. "Enough!" His voice was a thunderclap that silenced the uproar, but his rage didn't stop. He seized the throne's arm with both hands and tore it free with a roar, the eternal ice splintering into shards that crashed with a deafening boom. The carved dragon groaned, its runes flickering out for a moment before flaring with a blinding blue, as if the ancestral spirit answered its king.

"The Crypt was our sanctuary," he snarled, his breath forming frost clouds that crystallized in the air. "The haven of the Frozen Claw, the soul of our people. Kraal, our Guardian…" His voice wavered for an instant—not from weakness, but from a rage burning like a glacier aflame. "Whoever did this will pay with their existence."

Brakon stepped forward, lance raised. "Then let's march, my King! Crush that crater and everything in it!" But Slyth stopped him with a trembling claw. "We don't know what it is, Brakon. What if it destroys us like the Crypt?" His voice was a whisper, but it cut like a dagger.

"I don't care what it is!" Thrassk roared, turning to the black rose. He crushed it underfoot, his boot sinking the ice into a small crater, the black sap splattering and corroding the floor with a hiss. "I'll rip it out with my own claws!" The council recoiled, their faces a mix of terror and awe at their king's fury, the ground trembling beneath his power as frost spikes continued sprouting around him.

The silence returned, but it was a fractured silence, laden with the echo of the hum that now shook the walls like a distant heartbeat. Thrassk took a deep breath, his chest heaving with restrained fury, the frost spikes dissolving into the air like icy dust. His yellow eyes swept the hall, lingering on each counselor, on Rha'kash, Glar, and Thark, on the remnants of the black rose scattered across the corroded ice.

"Brakon," he said, his voice now cold as the edge of an icy lance, slicing through the hum with a clarity that chilled the blood. "Gather the Frostguard. Ready the warriors. We march at dawn."

"To where, my King?" Brakon asked, his tail striking the floor with grim eagerness, his lance still quivering in his grip.

"To the Frosted Mountain," Thrassk replied, his gaze fixed on an unseen point beyond the fractured walls. "To the crater where the Crypt once stood. We'll see this with our own eyes. And then…" His claws clenched into fists, the ice beneath his feet cracking with a dry snap. "I'll tear that darkness from the earth, even if I have to shred the glacier itself."

He turned to the Lesser Shaman, his shadow falling like a silent avalanche. "You, consult the spirits. Search the legends. Find what power can erase our sanctuary and defile Kraal. I won't rest until I know."

The Lesser Shaman bowed his head, his body shaking as he retrieved his staff with feeble hands. "Yes, my King," he murmured, his eyes locked on the black rose's remains, as if fearing they might stir again.

The counselors dispersed, their footsteps echoing through the hall like a blend of defeat and resolve. Glar and Thark leaned on each other, their wounds dripping icy blood that crystallized on the floor, while Rha'kash remained kneeling, his gaze lost in the crater still vivid in his mind. Thrassk stood before the broken Ice Throne, his colossal figure silhouetted against the runes pulsing with a faint glow, a silent cry from the ancestral dragon. The hum swelled, a sound that thrummed in his chest, his scales, his blood—an echo not from the hall or the glacier, but from something beyond, something watching from the world's shadows.

He took a step forward, and the ground shuddered again, a tremor dislodging a crystal from the ceiling, the icy glass shattering against the floor with a crack that rang like a lament. Thrassk looked up, his yellow eyes blazing with a fury that could split mountains, and a thought crossed his mind, a silent oath: Whoever did this will find no refuge, not in this world or any other.

The hum intensified, a cosmic pulse that shook the hall one last time, snuffing out another crystal with a sharp crack. Darkness closed in tighter around Garraescarcha, and deep within the mountain, something ancient and ravenous listened, waiting.