Chapter 49
Elsewhere in the Frostlands, every faction gathered for the coming conflict felt the omen strike.
The Goblins had mobilized nearly their entire race.
What exactly the omen would bring, they didn't know; for now their sole concern was the Vampires.
The strategy was simple — before the sealed power emerged, clear away as many competitors as possible — and the Vampires had been marked as the first target before the army ever left home.
Led by the Archpriest and supported by several High Priests, the Goblin casters worked together on a runic circle designed to draw the Vampires into an ambush, while the rest of the army scattered across the surrounding terrain and settled into concealed positions.
According to the Archpriest's investigation, the Vampires possessed exactly one Elite-ranked leader. The Goblins had brought nearly everything they had. Victory, as far as they were concerned, was already decided.
When the circle was complete, thin streams of crimson energy rose from its surface and dissolved into the air. The young High Priest approached the massive Goblin Chieftain and bowed.
"Chieftain, the Bloodlure Circle is ready. The Vampires will not be able to resist its scent. They should arrive soon."
The Chieftain grinned, baring a mouthful of yellowed fangs. "Good. Once the Vampires are dead, the remaining factions pose no threat." He raised his weapon. "Whatever lies beneath the seal will belong to the Goblins!"
The Frostlands began to shake before he finished the sentence.
"What's happening?"
Most of the Goblin army was Recruit-ranked, and the sudden upheaval threw the formation into chaos. The young High Priest looked into the distance, and his expression changed.
"No..."
A pillar of white light erupted into the sky — impossible for anyone to miss. The hunched Archpriest stepped forward, his voice dry and cracked.
"The final seal has been broken ahead of schedule."
It caught the entire Goblin faction flat-footed, and there was no time to respond. Pale lines spread across the sky like a web and blanketed their position within seconds, white light swallowing every warrior, every caster, and the carefully prepared runic circle with them.
"Get off me!"
The Chieftain roared and fought — and his body refused to move. An invisible force seized him and dragged him into the light. Hundreds of Goblins vanished without a trace.
...
At the Frost Sabertooth stronghold, the Werewolves were readying their final assault.
Fenrir had brought every warrior under his command. After days of searching he had at last located the Frost Sabertooths' central settlement, and he'd offered their leader the chance to submit.
Rimefang had refused. That left one solution: kill the Frost Sabertooth Chieftain, force the survivors to their knees, and wield them in the struggle to come.
Blood dripped from Fenrir's claws where he stood atop the ruins of an outer stronghold, and he lifted his head and loosed a triumphant howl. Frost Sabertooth corpses lay strewn around him, their blood staining the snow, its metallic tang riding the wind.
A cold, oppressive aura answered from across the battlefield. Rimefang stood at the head of his remaining warriors — he'd anticipated the attack and gathered his strongest warriors for one last battle.
"Werewolves may be powerful," Rimefang said, frost gathering along his claws, "but this is not your mountain country. These are my Frostlands."
Fenrir sneered, raking him over with open contempt. "You think that gives you a chance against me? You're nothing but a half-blooded house cat who lucked his way into Elite Rank." Matching Ranks or not, Fenrir had never once considered Rimefang his equal.
"Arrogance has a price," Rimefang growled.
There was nothing left to say. Both Chieftains unleashed the full pressure of Elite Rank, and the battle hung a breath from beginning —
Then the omen erupted.
Every Werewolf and Frost Sabertooth froze as the earth convulsed beneath them.
Their leaders did not. Fenrir and Rimefang lunged at each other without a flicker of hesitation, and before either could land a blow, the strange light spread across the sky.
White radiance engulfed both armies, and every Werewolf and Frost Sabertooth vanished from the Frostlands.
...
At the same hour, in the eastern Frostlands, a temporary fortress of black obsidian.
Lucian sat upon a throne, slowly swirling a crystal goblet of dark-red liquid, his expression serene — a man who seemed to have been expecting the disaster all along.
"The final omen, at last," he said, taking a small sip. "Earlier than expected." A faint smile. "The other factions must be scrambling."
He drained the goblet and rose, and the languid air around him fell away, replaced by something sharp and commanding.
"Everyone, prepare yourselves." His voice carried through the fortress. "What awaits us is going to be a bloodbath."
Crimson figures materialized throughout the throne hall, and within seconds the chamber was packed with Vampire warriors.
The Vampires had brought far more troops than the Werewolves — which was precisely why Fenrir had been so determined to absorb the Frost Sabertooths before the final conflict began.
In a shadowed corner at the back of the hall stood a Veteran-ranked Vampire with worry etched into his face, the others beside him carrying similarly impure auras.
They were neither true Vampires nor powerful nobles — defeated captives Lucian had forcibly remade into Blood Thralls.
And among them stood the Vampiric Undead who secretly belonged to Lilith.
"Damn it," one whispered. "The omen is about to begin. We won't have time to warn our Lord."
They had found no opening to send a message. Now all they could do was wait.
The omen erupted moments later. White light poured into the fortress and swallowed every Vampire inside — and before consciousness faded, each of them heard Lucian laugh.
"The hunt has begun."
...
The omen had triggered early because of two Royal Knights of the Stormcrown Empire.
A man and a woman stood at the true heart of the Frostlands, and they understood this region far better than any of the native factions circling it.
Nysia stared at the powder scattered across the snow. "I didn't expect the old mages at the Academy to hand us something that useful."
Neither knight had the magical means to break the seal early on their own. They'd relied on an artifact the governor had obtained from the Academy — a nameless stone tablet that crumbled to dust after a single use.
Her companion laughed. "Those old scholars may be insufferable, but they know their magic."
Both knights turned toward the enormous arch behind them. It was little more than a towering stone frame, white energy filling the empty space within and rippling like liquid.
"Those idiots still think there's some legendary treasure inside," the man said with a sneer. "It's only a corpse."
His contempt for every race outside humanity was total. They might walk, speak, raise cities — as far as he was concerned, they were animals playing at civilization.
Nysia frowned slightly. "The major powers may not care about it, but the corpse would still benefit an Elite. Should we compete for it?"
The man pointed at the gate. "Of course." Then he smiled. "But we don't need to compete directly. We wait here, and let the prize come to us."
They'd entered the Frostlands to secure gains for the governor; whatever they could quietly pocket along the way was a bonus. The situation had grown messier than expected, but it remained well within their power to control — and there was no reason to take risks they didn't need.
"We broke the seal early," the man said. "Let the animals tear each other apart first."