Chapter 12: Thorns of the False Maiden

Before the sun rose over Frostfang, the enemy struck.

Shadowhide’s legion poured through the southern gate like ink over snow—cloaked in bone-stitched armor, their chants laced with curse-laced breath. Screams echoed from the lower barracks as Garrick’s sabotage took effect. Dozens fell before drawing blades.

At the Citadel’s highest tower, Eirene stood with wind tugging at her white-plated cloak. She held a single vial in her gloved hand—deep crimson and pulsing with faint silver veins.

Blood-Sap, enhanced from Freya’s father’s long-buried research.

She poured it down the shaft of her serrated glaive, murmuring an old Shadowhide incantation.

“Let her see what her blood truly creates.”

Then she descended into war.

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At the foot of the city, Freya’s army arrived as screams broke through the mountain mist. She stopped short as dark smoke bloomed above the gates.

“They’ve already begun,” Lark said, sword drawn.

Freya looked toward the rising Citadel.