Death frost

---Back To Freya---

— "Death Frost, Drain the cursed blood" — One of Freya's spells forbidden by her elven race, consisting in using their own blood to uleash a wave of "Khaen" , a dark magic energy coming from the soul of the sacred race of Elves, used against vampires. This spell was forbidden by the elves for a very simple reason: It was deadly. Nobody except Freya had been capable of using this magic without dying.

The moment the words left her lips, the air plunged into stillness.

Then—cold.

A wave of unnatural frost exploded from Freya's body, surging backward in a pulse of shimmering blue light.

Where her skin met Sagast's touch, the black ichor on his hands froze solid, crawling up his arms like vines of jagged ice.

His crimson eyes widened.

"What the—?!" Sagast shouted, in panic.

Too late.

Freya spun out of his grip with fluid precision, reclaiming her daggers from the ground in a flash of motion.

The second her fingers touched the hilts, they ignited with white flame.

She slashed once—clean and sharp—across Sagast's chest, cutting his elegant dress and his flesh.

The cut didn't go deep… but it burned.

A line of glowing frostfire sliced across his pristine skin.

And for the first time, Sagast screamed.

"AARRRGH—!" He yelled, while his eyes widened.

He stumbled backward, clutching his chest, steam rising from the wound as his own cursed blood reacted violently to the ancient elven magic now flowing through it.

"Y-You… used magic inside your blood?!" he hissed, voice trembling, his body convulsing slightly.

Freya's breath was calm now. Measured.

She stood tall, her daggers glimmering with sacred frost, eyes glowing with resolve.

"You wanted to taste me, right?" she said with a cruel grin. "Enjoy your poison." She said, preparing to give him the last hit to eliminate his soul.

Sagast bared his fangs, enraged, humiliated, panting through clenched teeth.

His veins — once sleek and perfect — now throbbed with strange black-purple marks, as if infected by her spell.

He fell to one knee.

"You… absolute bitch," he growled, voice warping into something less human.

Freya walked toward him slowly, daggers ready, her tone low and sharp.

"For someone who claims to be a master of deception… you really suck at reading your prey." Freya teased, clearly enjoying the moment of humiliation.

Sagast raised a shaky hand, trying to focus, to summon his blood magic again — but the frost still crawled along his fingers, binding them with splinters of pain.

"I was… just getting started…" he muttered.

"Then start again," Freya said with a very cold and menacing voice, almost disgusted— and slammed her knee into his face.

The blow cracked through his perfect nose, flinging his body back with a dull crunch.

He hit the ground hard, blood flying across the dirt.

But he wasn't done.

Sagast rolled, coughing, and then let out a low, guttural growl.

His voice changed.

Distorted.

Bestial.

He didn't expect such a turn of events.

Moreover, he didn't expect Freya to be alive and healthy after casting such a dangerous spell.

"You think this is my final form?" he snarled.

Black ichor gushed from his mouth, and his spine arched like something inside him had snapped.

And then — the earth around him cracked.

Shadow poured out of him like liquid tar.

His body began to shift — limbs elongating, bones cracking, his once-regal coat burning away as his chest expanded grotesquely.

A second heartbeat began to echo from within his chest.

Freya's eyes narrowed.

"Here we go… I'll finally have some fun now." She said, licking her lips.

Sagast's skin split in places, revealing obsidian scales beneath — like a second form coiled inside him, armored and ancient.

His hair turned darker, wilder. His fangs lengthened. His fingers became claws.

A towering figure now stood before her — seven feet tall, drenched in black blood, muscles twitching under cracked skin and shadows.

No longer a gentleman.

No longer even close.

A pure predator.

"You really managed to hurt my pride, Bitch-Elf." Sagast said, voice echoing like multiple voices layered over each other. "Now I'll crush yours."

Freya smirked again, raising her daggers.

"You're slow, shapeshifter. Even like this. Let's see how well that monster body handles elven steel."

The two lunged at once — shadow and flame colliding.

Steel clashed with bone. Frost slammed into fire. Magic sang through the night like war drums.

And behind them — in the hut — Elarwen clutched Valtherion's hand tightly.

Her young eyes glowed faintly in the dark.

"He's changing…" she whispered.

Valtherion looked toward the door.

"Will she win…?"

Elarwen didn't answer.

But the small flicker of silver light that danced across her palm said everything:

She was ready to fight if Freya fell.

But for now…

The storm raged outside.

And Freya fought like she was the last light left in the world.