85.- Echoes of the Claw

Frostfang, carved into the depths of a colossal glacier, trembled under a bone-chilling cold, its tunnels and chambers of eternal ice resonating with a low hum that seemed to rise from the glacier's very heart. The Throne Hall, the city's core, was a vast, oppressive cavern, its stalactites hanging like wyvern fangs, dripping water that froze midair and shattered with a fragile chime that echoed off the walls. Stalagmites jutted from the floor like petrified claws, reflecting a flickering bluish light from the perpetual ice crystals embedded in the dark stone, some winking out with a dry crack that rang like a mournful cry. At the center, atop a platform of polished obsidian, the Ice Throne loomed: a massive block sculpted into a coiled dragon, its runes pulsing with a faint blue that bled into the shadows. The air smelled of frozen dampness, laced with a metallic tang that clung to the throat, and a faint but persistent tick-tock wove through the hum, an echo that had stilled the world's hearts months ago.

The hall was packed that night, months after the sky had bled and weeks since a silent enemy had fortified its unseen lair. Counselors formed a tense semicircle before the throne, their scales glinting under the dimming light: Brakon, the Veteran Warrior, his lance quivering in his claw; Klytheris, the Lesser Shaman, hunched over his rune-covered staff; Slyth, the Cunning Counselor, with his cold, calculating gaze; Zhara, the gray-scaled wise elder, and Vroth, the young warrior with fiery eyes. Beyond them, an audience of warriors, elders, and guards crowded the edges, their breaths forming frosty clouds that drifted like ghosts. Thrygar, the hall's overseer, a burly Frostscale with weathered armor, slammed his lance against the ice with a boom that silenced the murmurs, his deep voice cutting through the air like a war drum.

Thrassk commanded the Ice Throne, his colossal figure casting a shadow that swallowed the light. His white scales, streaked with bluish veins, gleamed like the glacier's core, and his yellow eyes sliced like icy spears. Barely a century old—young by his race's measure—his musculature was a living fortress, draped in a yeti pelt cloak with claws stitched as trophies. His thick tail struck the ice with a deep rhythm that shook the floor, and his breath formed frost spikes that hovered before crashing down. "Months since the sky wept blood, weeks since I sent the scouts!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap that rattled the stalactites, sending icy needles shattering to the ground with a crash. "The Crypt's a crater, Kraal an abomination, and now they bring answers. Let them show their findings!"

Thrygar stepped forward, his lance thudding against the ice. "Silence in the hall!" he commanded, his tone as solid as the glacier itself. "Brakon, you have the floor."

Brakon strode forward, his boots crunching over the fractured ice, and raised a shard of a mammoth-bone lance, its sharp tip glinting under the bluish light. In his other claw, he held an ice container cradling the black rose, its petals throbbing with a grotesque rhythm, dripping a thick black sap that hissed as it touched the frozen edge. "My King, the Rhokari of Rhok'thar!" he bellowed, his hoarse voice hacking through the air like an axe. "Bone lances like this, footprints of their beasts in the shattered ice around the crater! Those brutes defiled our legacy, smashed the Crypt, and left that cursed rose as a taunt!" His white scales quivered with rage, and he hurled the container into the center of the semicircle, where it rolled with a wet thud, the sap melting the ice with a sizzling sputter that filled the air with a sharp, acrid stench.

A murmur erupted from the audience—shouts of "War!" and "Vengeance!" echoed as a young warrior raised his lance and an elder banged his staff against the floor. Thrygar slammed his lance again, the boom quelling the chaos. "Order!" he roared. "Klytheris, speak!"

Klytheris shuffled forward, his hunched frame weighed by years, his faded blue scales glinting faintly beneath the ritual tattoos snaking across his skin. His clouded but sharp eyes fixed on the black rose, and his trembling claw gripped his staff with a creak. "Hold on, Brakon," he said, his shaky voice carrying a certainty that chilled the air. "I've studied the legends, the spirits' whispers for decades. The Rhokari are strong, yes—their horns shatter stone, their hooves crush ice—but destroying the entire Crypt? I don't believe it. That rose…" He paused, his breath forming a cloud that crystallized instantly. "The being that made blood rain months ago, that stopped our hearts with a tick-tock I still feel in my scales… that makes more sense. That tore our sanctuary from the world." His staff tapped the ice with a faint thud, and a crystal on the wall winked out with a crack, plunging a corner of the hall into deeper shadow.

The hall exploded again. A warrior from the crowd shouted, "Those rhinos don't need magic to kill!" while an elder countered, "The shaman's right, something bigger stalks us!" Thrygar struck the ice with fury, the sound reverberating like a drum. "Silence! Zhara, you have the floor!"

Zhara, her gray scales dull and her eyes clouded, stepped forward with measured steps, her voice calm but firm, slicing through the tumult like an icy breeze. "Empty words, Klytheris," she said, her gaze locked on the Rhokari lance. "Where's your proof? The lances are real, the footprints are real. I've seen Rhokari raze villages with less. Why doubt what's right in front of us?" Her claws clenched with a creak, and a faint tremor ran through her, as if the loss of the Frozen Claw still crushed her spirit.

Vroth, the young warrior with gleaming white scales, didn't wait his turn. He lunged forward, his lance shaking in his claws, his fiery eyes blazing with a rage that seemed to melt the ice around him. "Enough talk!" he roared, his youthful voice cracking with a fury that made a nearby guard flinch. "The Rhokari killed Kraal, smashed the Crypt! Blood for blood, that's what matters! What more do we need? Let's march now!" His tail slammed the floor with a crack that echoed, and the audience erupted in cheers, lances rising as elders muttered in dissent.

Thrygar raised his lance, the boom silencing the chaos once more. "Order! Vroth, wait your turn! Klytheris, finish your point!"

Klytheris lifted his head, his eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and fear that made the air feel colder. "You don't get it," he said, his voice rising, trembling like ice on the verge of breaking. "I felt that tick-tock in my blood, saw the shadows stretch like needles when the sky wept blood. The Rhokari don't have that power. Something bigger ripped the Crypt from the world, something still watching us. We can't blame the rhinos without knowing!" His staff struck the ice with a weak thud, and another crystal on the ceiling winked out with a crack, deepening the hall's gloom.

Slyth, who'd stayed silent, stepped forward, his dull gray scales catching the flickering light, his voice soft but sharp as an icy dagger. "You're wrong, Klytheris," he said, his calm tone laced with an authority that hushed even Vroth for a moment. "That blood rain, that tick-tock you claim to feel… it wasn't some 'being.' It was the gods, furious because Rhok'thar stole the Frozen Claw. The lances, the footprints, the rose—all point to those brutes. The gods punished their blasphemy, and we must follow their lead." His cold eyes glinted with a cunning that made Zhara narrow hers, and a murmur of approval rippled through several warriors in the crowd.

Brakon growled, his lance quivering in his claw as he stepped toward Slyth. "Then let's march on Rhok'thar!" he shouted, his voice a roar that shook the air. "Let the gods guide us, let their wrath fall on those rhinos! No more words!" His scales bristled with a creak, and the heat of his breath formed a cloud that clashed with the cold, crystallizing midair.

Zhara raised a claw, her voice cutting through Brakon's roar like a frigid gust. "And what if Slyth's wrong?" she asked, her tone steady but heavy with a weight that made several in the audience hold their breath. "What if Klytheris is right? What if we march on Rhok'thar and leave the real enemy in the shadows? I don't feel the gods' wrath in that rose, only… something alive, something breathing." Her clouded eyes fixed on the container, and a shiver ran through her, as if the black sap whispered in her mind.

Vroth stepped forward, his lance slamming the ice with a crack that echoed like thunder. "Doubts will kill us!" he yelled, his voice breaking with a mix of fury and desperation. "Kraal's dead, the Claw's gone! The Rhokari did it, and while we waver, they're laughing in their bone fortresses! I want their horns broken under my boots!" His scales flared with a fierce white, and the audience erupted again, a chorus of "War!" and "Death to Rhok'thar!" filling the hall until Thrygar struck his lance so hard a nearby stalagmite shattered, crashing with a boom.

"Silence!" Thrygar roared, his voice a drum that crushed the chaos. "Slyth, you have the floor!"

Slyth smiled, a subtle curve that didn't reach his cold eyes, and stepped forward with slow steps, his claws crossing before him as if weaving a plan in the air. "A trial, my King," he said, his voice soft but ringing with a clarity that silenced even the farthest murmurs. "Let Rha'kash and the scouts speak in the Hall of Justice, let the people see the lance and the rose. We'll say Rhok'thar stole the Frozen Claw, and the gods, enraged by their blasphemy, brought the blood rain months ago. It's not a 'being,' Klytheris—it's divine justice." He paused, his gaze sweeping Brakon, Vroth, Zhara, and the audience, each word falling like ice on fire. "We unite our people, give them a clear enemy. And meanwhile, we sharpen our claws to crush Rhok'thar."

Brakon growled, his lance trembling in his claw, but his eyes sparked with grudging approval. "A trial?" he said, his voice low but thick with a hunger that made the air quiver. "I want blood, Slyth, not words. But if this gets us to Rhok'thar faster, so be it."

Klytheris raised his staff, his voice shaking with a contained fury that clashed with his frail frame. "That's a lie!" he cried, his clouded eyes blazing with a fire few had seen. "The tick-tock lives in my blood, it's not from the gods. Something tore the Crypt apart, something breathing, watching. Blaming Rhok'thar without knowing dooms us!" His staff struck the ice with a thud that echoed, and a crystal overhead winked out with a final crack, plunging the hall into thicker gloom.

Thrassk leaned forward, his claws gripping the Ice Throne's arms until the ice groaned under the strain. "What do we gain, Slyth?" he asked, his voice a low roar that thrummed in everyone's chest, his breath forming frost spikes that hovered and shattered against the floor.

Slyth turned to him, his smile vanishing, replaced by a cold certainty that sliced the air. "A clear enemy, a united people, and time to crush Rhok'thar without mistakes, my King," he said, his tone firm as eternal ice. "The blood rain was the gods' cry, not a hidden foe. Let's wield their wrath, not fear it." His eyes met Thrassk's, and a tense silence filled the hall, the hum and tick-tock pulsing like a heartbeat quickening every pulse.

The audience held its breath, warriors gripping their lances, elders whispering prayers to the spirits. Zhara crossed her claws, her face tight with a doubt she couldn't voice, while Vroth growled under his breath, his tail lashing the ice with impatience. Brakon lifted his head, his scales creaking with a hunger that seemed to warm the frigid air, and Klytheris trembled, his eyes locked on the black rose as if seeing beyond its grotesque form.

Thrassk stood, his colossal figure casting a shadow that devoured the remaining light, and his tail slammed the ice with a boom that shook the hall. "So be it!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap that rattled the stalactites, sending icy needles crashing down with a clamor. "A trial in the Hall of Justice. Rha'kash and the scouts will speak. Brakon, ready the Frostguard—if this leads to war, they'll be prepared. Klytheris, consult the spirits—I want answers, not tales." His gaze fell on Slyth, a glint of restrained fury flashing in his yellow eyes. "And you, Slyth, make sure this trial works. If Rhok'thar falls, it'll be by my claw."

Klytheris stepped forward, his voice quaking but resolute, cutting through the echo of Thrassk's roar. "Yes, my King," he said, his clouded eyes blazing with a mix of fear and resolve. "But that tick-tock… it's not divine. Something watches us, something alive. I'll find it, even if it costs my blood." His staff struck the ice one last time, and a final crystal winked out with a crack, deepening the hall's darkness.

Brakon raised his lance, his voice booming with a fury that made the air tremble. "Let the Rhokari come!" he shouted, his breath forming a cloud that crystallized instantly. "Trial or not, their horns are mine!" The audience erupted in cheers, lances clashing against the ice in a chaotic chorus that Thrygar didn't try to silence this time.

The hall began to empty, counselors scattering amid murmurs and footsteps crunching over the fractured ice. Zhara lingered a moment, her eyes fixed on the black rose, a shiver running through her as if the sap whispered her name. Vroth stormed out with quick strides, his lance trembling in his grip, while Brakon barked orders to nearby guards. Klytheris shuffled away slowly, his staff leaving a trail in the ice, his mind lost in the echo of the tick-tock still thrumming in his scales.

Thrassk remained at the Ice Throne, his solitary figure silhouetted against the pulsing runes, the container with the black rose at his feet throbbing with a subtle rhythm that seemed to answer the glacier's hum. A crystal on the wall winked out with a dry crack, and the gloom tightened, the air thick with the sap's stench and the cold that bit the skin. His claws clenched into fists, the ice beneath his feet cracking with a snap that echoed like a challenge. Rhok'thar will pay, he thought, his mind a whirlwind of fury and resolve, and if the gods or something else is behind this, I'll rip it from the ice with my own hands.

The hum and tick-tock merged into a pulse that vibrated through the empty hall, an echo that seemed to rise not just from the glacier, but from something beyond, something watching from the shadows of time. Thrassk lifted his gaze, his yellow eyes blazing with a fury that could split mountains, and the ice around him quaked as if it felt the weight of his oath.