Chapter Text
His uncle is a genius.
Clive has always known this, has seen it, and heard of it, through both his uncle’s actions and the stories he would share with the family whenever he returned from a long voyage or trip.
But seeing him apply that same genius to war is a humbling thing.
His plan starts as soon as Drake’s Breath comes into view upon the darkened horizon, and as the order is given to drop anchor behind a small collection of islands Clive can feel a sick sort of anticipation that drowns out any of the reservations that have been plaguing his mind on the journey here.
His uncle must sense it from him, or he sees the slight tremors that have overtaken Clive’s hands as the eagerness to get started, to pay the Iron Blood back for all they took, to finally unleash his rage on a target that deserves it, even if it’s not the one he truly wishes to set ablaze and watch burn.
A smaller, more hopeful voice that he has been ignoring ever since it first began to whisper at the back of his mind, speaks up again; a chance to save Jill and everyone else that was taken.
He sees her now, as he closes his eyes and tries to take a steadying breath, grounded by the warm arm Uncle Byron has wrapped around his shoulders. Even after a year apart he can still picture her star like eyes and moonlit smile so easily, and he will be damned if he fails her.
Giving him the moment he needs to gather himself his uncle then asks, “are we ready to begin?”
“Yes,” Clive answers without hesitation.
The smile that overtakes his uncle’s face is a roguish thing.
“Right, Captain, time to see the prowess of the Empire’s famed mounts,” Uncle Byron addresses’ Captain Leon, and as he does so the sailors move to uncover the large crates that has been sitting ominously by the prow the entire trip here.
“It shall be an honour, Lord Rosfield,” Captain Leon intones with a perfect salute as his eyes light up at the sight of the crates. “With these, the Iron Blood’s vaunted fleet shall be little more than driftwood come morning.”
Uncle Byron nods but at the same time holds up a hand in warning. “Please do remember that these have never been tested like this, though I must thank you and your men for sparing me three of my ships, I was loathed at the prospect of having to choose which to sacrifice to deal such a decisive blow to the Iron Blood.”
Clive knows that’s a lie, his uncle had already quietly confided in him that the three ships that were going to be loaded with incendiary bombs and set aflame right as they were sailing toward the Iron Blood’s fleet would have been: The Duchess’ Smile, Mother of the Flame, and—Clive’s personal favourite—The Black Widow.
If the names aren’t enough of a give-a-way that Uncle Byron was vicariously setting Clive’s mother on fire, the fact that she had christened all three of these ships is. Secretly, Clive had very much been looking forward to setting them on fire himself, alas, they’ll have to find some other way to do that after they return.
Captain Leon salutes, as enthused as he has been since he was granted leave to take part in the attack. “I shall personally ensure that your preparations and planning do not go to waste, my Lord, Lord Marquese.” With a bow he turns to the two men that will be accompanying him on this mission. “Ser Macéo, Ser Laurent, with me.”
The ‘mounts’ that his uncle spoke of are hard to miss, considering the three that were summoned to Rosalith as soon as Captain Leon sent word that his unit would be participating in the invasion, take up almost the full deck of a ship each.
Dragons.
Not the Wyverns that Clive is so used to seeing in the wilds of Rosaria, but actual dragons.
When they had flown in over Rosalith, heading towards the harbour where a temporary landing pad and stable—one of the warehouses normally used as his uncle’s winter storage—they had blotted out the sky. Serpentine and completely at home in the air, the dragons had cut through the gathered clouds like dolphins surfing waves. They were a magnificent sight to see at a distance, but up close they were truly something special, large leathery wings lay folded against a back of silver scales that glinted in even the palest moonlight, and with each frosted breath the great beasts took their long whiskers shook, which required the dragons to occasionally shake their great twisted horn crowned heads, in an attempt to rid the sensitive hairs of the powdered ice that formed.
Many of the sailors who walked the decks give the creatures a wide berth, making the Dragoons on watch duty chuckle, Clive himself is not without his reservations, but a little teasing from Ser Richard had convinced him to approach the dragon half an hour into their journey. He’d stopped when the sleeping beast had opened one eye at the slow sound of his approach. A great sapphire with one cat slit pupil studied him with interest for a moment, but soon enough it was lost and as the eye closed the tail that had been lounging on the deck raised enough to sweep Clive’s legs out from under him.
The laughter of the crew and the soldiers had followed him all the way back to his uncle, but Clive didn’t mind as it seemed to break a lot of the tension that had slowly been gathering like a thick mist.
As Captain Leon now mounts his dragon in full armour, he directs his men that will remain on the ship to position the crates. As soon as they are in place the Captain commands his mount to stand, the dragon moves slowly to account for the little space she has to work with, when Captain Leon indicates the crates, she sniffs them cautiously, but when the Captain gives a soft encouragement, she easily but gently places her claws around the metal chain that links the two crates.
Uncle Byron moves in when he sees that the dragon has a good enough grip on the chain and begins to explain again the mechanics of the crates as a sailor hands the Captain what looks like a tow line which connects to the boxes, “there’s three compartments in each crate, the mechanisms inside should ensure that the next one won’t open until the first has been released, that gives you six runs. Are you sure that shall be enough?”
The nod that Captain Leon gives is fuelled by a confidence Clive wishes he could emulate. “What ships that will not be sunk by these bombs will be sealed in ice so thick they shall never be seaworthy again.”
With this last declaration the Captain dons his helm and takes flight.
It is the signal that the two other Dragoons have been waiting for.
The silence that descends upon the anchored fleet as the dragons disappear into the moonless night is all encompassing, and not a soul on board has the will to break it. This is why the first sounds of the attack roll over them like distant thunder. It’s nothing compared to the sight of it as fire catches and reflects off the brilliant crystal tower of Drake’s Breath itself, making it look as though the sun has decided to rise in the west.
Looking pleased, his uncle commands, “weigh anchor!”
The call is taken up by every Captain of the fleet and almost immediately after the sounds of chains clinking, as the anchors are dragged from the depths, rings throughout the night as more commands are issued and the fleet divides into two forces. Those that will support the Dragoon’s initial strike and the main force that will further divide once Drake’s Breath is less than a league from sight.
The plan is to completely encircle the islands and cut off any hope of support from the Iron Kingdom, while two ships make landfall, so their small host can quietly infiltrate the caverns that had acted as the escape tunnels for the Undying when the Crusaders had laid claim to Drake’s Breath.
The first and second parts of the plan go smoothly, the fleet easily navigates the rough currents and shallow sholes that surround the island unmolested as the dragons and their riders rain down fire, ice, and light upon the burning ships that were meant to be untouchable in the sheltered cove the Iron Blood used as their harbour.
Its up to their group now to ensure the distraction does not go to waste.
His uncle curses the low light as he pulls out the map to study it again and Clive can see his thoughts racing a mile a minute as he tries to compare the illustrations to the natural landmarks of the beach. Clive begins to do the same, looking for the natural markers that will give away the entrance to the tunnels.
“There!” Clive spots it when another flash of light reflects of Drake’s Breath, revealing the brief silhouette of the cave entrance they have been looking for, marked by a sea arch that looks like a folded wing.
Their company moves quickly, leaving the sailors to return the longboats to the safety of the ship. Traversing the pebbled beach in the dark is difficult, and Clive can hear many of the men behind him slipping and having to catch themselves as they go, but with the alert already having been sounded they cannot afford to cast light and draw attention to themselves.
Besides, the trek is short, and the relative safety of the cave soon conceals them from sight, but still, Clive refuses to summon his way light until they are so deep no other light can reach them.
As the gentle orb of light unfurls into existence, Clive has to take a step back as the sudden flash of white bone lying at his feet draws all of his attention. He’s not the only one to startle at the sight, the gasps of breath behind him and the sound of rattling armour makes that clear, but his uncle soon disperses the tension.
“Nothing to fear lads, the dead cannot harm us.” He walks up to the old bones, inspecting them for any sign of identification, he finds it in the tattered red fabric that clings to the shoulders of the skeleton. “An Undying, one failing to live up to the name,” he scoffs as he tosses the ragged cloth and tattered insignia back on the ground. “Which means…”
His uncle walks a little deeper, careful of the deep pools and low roof that makes up the passage, only to sigh when the sight of black metal bars greets them.
“Of course they found it,” Uncle Byron complains with disgruntled exasperation as he grabs one of the more rusted bars and gives it an experimental shake, the iron holds fast, despite the ware of time and tide upon it.
“Well, nothing a little brute force won’t handle, a few solid kicks should do the trick, care to do the honours with me Clive?”
“With pleasure,” Clive agrees as he moves to stand beside his uncle, his stance loose, his muscles primed.
The first kick is promising. “Just a little out of sync,” comments his uncle.
The second more so. “Are you actually putting any effort into this?” he jokes, as he and his uncle take a few steps back.
The third kick rips the gate from it worn fixtures within the cave and send the iron clattering into the shallow water of the cavern beyond.
Uncle Byron goes first, peaking into the lit darkness. “If there’s any beasts down here that sound will definitely have alerted them to our presence, we go carefully, but quickly.”
Every man here takes his uncle’s word as gospel as they all but crawl through the narrow passage that only allows one person at a time to pass.
The Dragoons have a harder time of it, all ten of them wear heavier armour of an ornate design that’s more likely to catch upon the jagged edges of the natural tunnel, but they bite their tongues and press ahead. Their determination is rewarded with a widened chamber, one by the looks of it that may have once been a secret storeroom, what with the clearly looted chests and discarded items that have been broken against the ground. Now though, the circular chamber serves as nothing more than a tomb, the bones lay scattered about the space, some splintered open and obviously chewed on. All of them clad in torn and decaying robes that may at one time have been the raiments of the Undying.
It all paints a very sad picture, either one of complete slaughter, where these people had no time to even try and defend themselves, or of willing sacrifice in order to buy their fellows enough time to escape, Clive isn’t sure which is worse.
“The third tunnel I believe,” his uncle speaks up from where he has been studying the map of the caverns that weave their way through the volcano cradling Drake’s Breath.
Moving closer, Clive naturally provides more light as the orb of flame follows him, leaving his uncle blinking slightly, before he turns the map and clears his throat. “Ahem, I mean, it’s this one, yes definitely this one,” his uncle corrects as he faces a different passage and proceeds with care.
The tunnel ends after a short while in what at first glance looks like a dead end, but the map proves itself as his uncle reaches for a crag in the wall and pulls free a rope. At the first tug the wall before them groans as dust and long held debris falls from the newly opened seam, before air tainted with the putrid smell of sulphur flows through the gap, which only grows wider as the hidden door reluctantly swings open.
The surprised cries that greet them are unintelligible to Clive, but recognisable enough for him to identify the two Crusaders that lay beyond the threshold of the passage.
Clive strikes first, quick enough to not even give the first warrior time to draw his steel, in a shift of flame he is before the man and his blade is buried up to the hilt in his throat.
Clive pulls back, ignoring the horrid sound the man makes as he tries to breath for the one instant that his airway is clear, but his own blood soon chokes him.
When Clive turns to face the other warrior that had been in the room, he finds him already dead and his uncle’s axe bloody.
Without a word they move to the door of the room they have found themselves in, a wine cellar now that Clive has time to observe his surroundings and can see the casks of wine and mead piled high against the stone brick walls. It puts Clive slightly at ease, as it means the Iron Blood have not seen fit to reinforce the defences here, beyond the iron gate, even after discovering the tunnel, most likely assuming that all those who knew of it laid buried in it.
It's a mistake Clive swears he shall make them pay for as the last of the Shields and Dragoons make it into the room, weapons drawn and ready for the carnage to come.
With a finger pressed to his lips, calling for silence, Uncle Byron eases the door to the cellar open, just enough to catch a glimpse of the empty stairs outside. Clive takes the opportunity to snuff his flame, plunging the room into near total darkness.
The sounds that flow from the room above are ones of agitation and unease that remind Clive all too well of the buzzing of a kicked hornets’ nest.
The air is thick with tension as his uncle holds up a hand, waiting for the perfect moment.
It comes when the voices above raise in anger, their anxiety boiling over into aggression.
His uncle’s hand drops, and they charge.
The first Crusaders fall with barely a noise, but with so many in the room, stealth is abandoned as the cry for war leaves the throat of every man storming up the stairs.
The Iron blood scramble for weapons that had been left idle at their sides in the supposed safety of the depths of their fortress, only to fail to grasp them as the steel wielded against them is brought down without mercy.
Shields and Dragoons surge forward like an oncoming tide, washing away the filth that is the Iron Blood Crusaders. They fight with a righteous fury unmatched by their unprepared opponents, until the enemy has no choice but to fall back, retreating into smaller halls and barring doors behind them, in the hopes of stalling their attackers long enough for them to regroup.
It is a chance that Clive does not intend to give them and one that the men fighting beside him agree with as swords and lances are brought to bear against the fortified door trapping them inside what must be the feasting hall of the fortress.
It is a fortress, though one that has been neglected in the most wasteful of ways, as half crumbling walls, painted with ash, and smashed effigies that at one point must have depicted the Phoenix make Clive wonder what the Iron Blood must do with the treasures they steal from the various lands of Valisthea.
That idle thought dies within the shadows of his mind as their first real challenge greets them once the first barrier breaks beneath the onslaught of armoured bodies and crystal enhanced lances.
The shock of blood suddenly coating his face has Clive flinching back as the Dragoon before him falls beneath the primed axe of the Iron Blood Fanatic that suddenly bars their way.
It’s a move that saves his life as the Iron Blood warrior lets out a guttural snarl and charges forward, diving into the fray of tight bodies that had been pressed together by the constraints of the small hall their fleeing prey had escaped down.
Blade after blade comes down upon the Fanatics back, but his thick armour endures the attacks, allowing him to continue sewing chaos from within their midst, buying his fellows enough time to retreat behind the large doors at the end of the hall. The sound of adamantite locks sealing the stone doors has Clive’s heart sinking even as he dodges, pulling men with him out of the path of the wild swings of the Fanatic who refuses to die even as a Shield’s sword bites through the thin seam of the armour protecting his stomach.
The brave Shield pays for the blow, as the Fanatic seizes him by the throat and begins to squeeze.
Too far away and caged in by the men that surround him in the small space, Clive has no choice but to watch as the Iron Blood pulls the Shield off his feet, the sound of his neck breaking is a ricocheting snap, that resounds even above the Fanatics own cry of pain as a Dragoon ambushes him from behind, causing both Shield and the Crusader to fall to the ground, lifeless.
There is no time to dwell on it, no time to mourn or lament the sacrifice of the men that have already fallen in the act of getting them this far, not when every moment wasted is another chance for the Iron Blood to reform and bolster their defences.
Many of the more experienced warriors are already acting on this fact, working together to find a weakness in the gate that blocks their path forward.
Clive himself has lost all patience for subtlety that only serves their enemy.
“Move!” It is the only warning he needs to give, one that is reinforced by the light that rushes over his form as the spectral wings of a dragon burst from his back.
They are heavier than the Phoenix’s wings ever have been, for where the feathers of the Phoenix feel like a warm cloak, the wings of Bahamut in contrast feel like armour that he is still growing into. It doesn’t stop him from spreading them wide as he focuses the light he can now summon into an attack that will devastate all that dares to stand before him.
Following the advice that Prince Dion was so kind to share, Clive curves the wings forward, a guide and a shield strong enough to channel the light he focuses upon the barrier before him, the heat of it is daunting, but not something he must fear.
Light concentrated and compressed into a keen edge of destruction rips through adamantite and iron as though it was never there to begin with. Only the echoing ring of the explosion speaks of the chaos Clive has just unleashed as the billowing smoke obscures the space beyond from sight.
It doesn’t stop the amalgam of knights from continuing their advance, cutting down the dazed and confused men that lay scattered on the bridge, before they have a chance to regain themselves.
“No, pull back! Pull back! Do not let the bloodlust take you!” shouts his uncle over scattered calls to advance and show no mercy.
Many listen, stopping in their tracks and falling back in line, but a small group is already too far to hear.
Clive sees regret and fear colour the men’s faces in the brief moment they have to realise the mistake they have made before the horde flooding the bridge behind the smoke descends upon them.
It’s a mixture of desperation and numbers that allows the Iron Blood to overcome the superior armour and equipment of the small band of Dragoons and Shields that chose to ignore his uncle’s orders, but it costs them, as at least three Crusaders die for every armoured knight that falls to them.
Even so, the Iron Blood still hold the advantage in numbers.
An advantage that shall not work upon the men who band behind his uncle and listen as he cries of “guard up, wedge shield!”
The Shields trained in this manoeuvre since the day a sword was placed in their hands follow the order on instinct, lining up shoulder to shoulder, his uncle in the lead, Clive at his side.
Only when the remaining Dragoon have been bullied behind the line of Shields and the last gap has been closed do they begin to advance upon his uncle’s command of, “forward!”
The first Iron Blood to step within range attacks in a blind fury, he dies just as quickly as Uncle Byron buries his axe to the hilt in the mans undefended chest.
The Crusader behind his fellow tries to lunge while Uncle Byron extricates his weapon from between his opponent’s ribs, only to be met with Clive’s own blade and another courtesy of the Shield on his uncle’s left, and as the Crusader dies at their feet, again they advance.
The Shields of Rosaria.
Many always question the title when they first see the knights of Rosaria standing in formation sans the weapon they are named for.
Their enemies would often joke that Rosarian troops were merely fodder. meant to sacrifice themselves, kindling for the flames of the Phoenix who was the true defender of the Duchy.
They are wrong, but father had always advised him that deception was its own form of protection in war, a point that they are all proving now as the Iron Blood continue to throw themselves against the true Shield of Rosaria that has never known defeat.
“Advance!” his uncle calls again.
In reply, the line whistles, sharp and piercing in a way that’s meant to emulate the song of the Firebird.
Three steps forward before the call of “hold!” rings out as the next line of scattered, ill prepared Crusaders crash against them.
It’s slow, painfully so, to the point where Clive can feel his blood begin to boil with the need for blood and fire, but to give into this urge would be to abandon his brothers-in-arms, would be to break the Shield that defends them all, for one weak link, one crack, is all it would take.
“Advance!”
They whistle as one and Clive sees true fear in the Iron Bloods eyes.
The end of the bridge is in sight, the last of the defenders, lay pressed against the gate that blocks the entry to the sanctuary of the Mother Crystal’s Heart.
One final barrier they need to overcome.
The hope that rises at that thought flickers upon the gale of glacial winds that suddenly flood the chamber, cooling even the harsh heat of the lava pits below.
Ice, crystalline and so pure that the light created by Drake’s Breath refracts through it to cast pink and deep rose shadows across the entire chamber, even as the aether spins in a blizzard of white crystals, only for the diamond of ice to shatter upon a silent command and unveil the Glacian, Shiva, in all her ice crowned glory.
The men around Clive can do nothing but brace, even as they refuse to abandon their positions.
But Clive has another option.
Shifting forward he reaches for Ifrit and finds him; teeth bared and flames eager to answer in a way that he never was before the vision (the nightmare) he was shown at Phoenix Gate.
Flame and obsidian armour encase him even as he summons the Phoenix’s wings to beat back the wall of ice that is crashing along the bridge towards them.
It just so happens that he doesn’t have to.
In a shock move that leaves Clive blinking even as he holds his flames ready and his wings spread wide, the sheer ice wall bends and warps around them, creating a dome of clouded rime that is all but impossible to see through even as glacial lances spread from the point of impact.
Lances that form a treacherous path across the sure death that is the lava below.
Clive doesn’t give himself the chance to question it, for he knows with a sense that he cannot explain that if he does, he will die, so instead he leaps and feels his courage plummet for that one instant where gravity has no pull on him.
The landing is jarring and treacherous, his feet sliding against the thick ice beneath him as steam rises around him in thick clouds. His hope that it will act as a screen to hide his approach is short lived as Shiva herself circles.
Clive readies a Phoenix shift, already knowing he will have to time this perfectly, he locks eyes with the Eikon and feels his heart freeze upon the gaze filled with hope and recognition.
“Jill?” he questions as he reaches out to the Glacian, his own hope burning out the flames that cover his form until the cooled obsidian armour falls away.
“Clive.” The song of tinkling ice brings a strange echo to Jill’s voice, but it doesn’t change the fact that it is her, nor does the ice that forms across the leather of his glove in twisting patterns as she reaches out to take his offered hand.
Colossal as she is in this form, she still moves with the grace of a winter nymph, delicate and ethereal in a way that only freshly fallen snow can replicate.
“They have hostages.” The pain that overtakes her words makes it so clear that she has no choice, and Clive knows what he has to do.
“I’ll save them,” he doesn’t have to say anything else, not when the smile that breaks across her face is so full of trust.
With a wave of her hand, she makes a bridge that clings to the edge of the volcanic columns, just below the jagged boundary of the platform that leads to the sanctuary.
It won’t last long, already the side that hangs above the ravine is beginning to melt but it is enough.
He runs, saving his Phoenix shift and the levitation that comes with Bahamut’s wings for later, as he clings to the long shadows cast by the natural walls of layered volcanic steps that defend the sanctuary.
He resists looking back, though it is a near thing as the sound of clashing magic explodes behind him, ice shattering upon the light wielded by the Dragoon’s that have broken free of the dome they did not know was protecting them.
As he nears the Mother Crystal itself, black basalt and granite give way to crimson quartz spires that pulse with so much aether Clive can hear the ring of it. He shakes his head, knowing that he cannot afford to be distracted, and trains his eyes upon the group that stands at the pinacol of the steps at the feet of the Mother Crystal.
From a single glance it is easy to tell the hostages apart from the Iron Blood, but the problem lies with the three that have been separated from the main group. He recognises young Biggs and Lady Florence, but the figure that concerns him most is the young babe with the blade levelled at his chest.
Clive will only have one chance at this, one instant that will determine the fate of three of his people. His only advantages lie with his abilities and the fact that all eyes within the sanctuary are fixed upon the dancing figure of Shiva as she weaves between the attacks of the Dragoon’s, occasionally throwing back attacks that soon fizzle out of existence in the heat of the volcano, becoming nothing more than harmless steam that further obscures the staged battle.
It is all the advantage he needs.
He shifts behind the leader and steal flashes the moment his flames part, having already cleared the last distance between them.
The red that douses his blade is far darker than the crimson glow of the Mother Crystal, so dark it almost appears like ink. It dyes the stone beneath their feet a glittering onyx, but Clive pays it little mind as he pries the severed hand from the blankets of the crying child.
“Don’t move!”
His command can barely be heard over the screams of the man who kneels at his feet, clutching the stump Clive has made of his arm, but it is still understood, especially when Clive places the edge of his blade against the exposed flesh of the back of the priest’s neck.
The acolyte closest to him pulls back on Lady Florences hair and shouts, “heretic! Release our Father!”
He emphasizes his command by pressing the blade he has against Lady Florence’s throat until blood flows across her skin, but in order to make this demand he takes his eyes off where they had been so carefully tracking Shiva.
Just as Clive had hoped.
The Sirens call of mercilessly chilling winter winds heralds Shiva as she falls upon them.
The diamond dust mist that envelops the field as she steps forward literally freezes the horde of Crusaders around her and with a flick of her wrist, she erects a barrier of ice spears that divide the Rosarian’s from the few Iron Blood that remain, most of them at least.
Lady Florence and Biggs still lay within the grasp of their captives, and at the blatant display of power both men try to use that fact to save themselves, brandishing the knives and threats in equal measure as they use the hostages as shields.
It serves them little, as the icy winds wielded by Shiva are selective, and held tight within her grasp.
The breath the men use to spit their vitriol curls into whisps of red tinged fog as their lungs freeze from within.
Bigg’s runs instantly as soon as his captor falls, uncaring as the man’s body smashes like glass on the steps behind him. As he approaches, the ice wall opens a small gap that allows him to press through and join the others.
Lady Florence instead scrambles to get to Clive’s side, uncaring of the blood that still flows freely down her neck as she reaches for her son.
The man at Clive’s feet lurches up at her approach, trying to grab her with the sole arm that remains to him.
Clive does not allow it.
Stepping between the priest and the Lady he delivers a brutal kick that sends him tumbling down the stairs, before turning and finally returning the boy to his mother’s awaiting arms.
“Thank you, Lord Marquess, thank you,” Lady Florence cries as she embraces her child, tears of fear turning instantly to gasps of relief and joy.
Clive nods in acknowledgement of her gratitude, but his focus soon turns back to the events playing out at the bottom of the stairs.
The priest is trying to stand, but with the imbalance that comes with suddenly missing a limb all he can manage is a shallow crouch as his body curls in to try and shield what remains of his arm.
He clutches desperately at the stump, trying to quell the blood rushing from the wound, it makes him ignorant of the true threat that slowly approaches, at least until she calls his name.
“Imreann.”
The man flinches at the sound of his name spoken in that pure echo of frozen air.
When Shiva steps forth from the cloud of steam and frost, she looks like the Warden she is, her crown of black ice and her cape of hoarfrost divine in a way that no mortal adornment could ever match.
“Monster, you called me.” She raises a porcelain white arm and rime creeps forward at her silent command. Imreann screams when it touches him, when it encases him, and freezes his legs to the floor.
“Abomination and beast, you claimed as you brought down your whip and bound me with chains.”
The ice continues to grow, slowly at a rate that will ensure that Imreann doesn’t die…yet.
“But who’s the real monster? Me? Or you who revelled in the suffering and death of innocents who you dragged from their homes!”
The thin layer of ice suddenly thickens at her words, becoming jagged and crushing. Imreann screams again, even as he shivers from shock and cold, but he still has enough breath left within him to speak, “i-innocents y-you s-ss-say? H-how could anyone stained by the evil of aether b-bbe called innocent? I merely c-cleansed them of their ssins,” he stutters, even as he cringes beneath the continued progress of the ice.
Something colder than the rime adorning the raiments of the Glacian overtakes Shiva’s eyes at these words.
“Father,” the title is whispered almost gently, almost kindly, “may the blessings of the Crystals go with you.”
The lances of Ice that erupts directly from the floor beneath him give Imreann no chance to cry out or beg, they instead leave him frozen mid-breath, eyes glazed with fear and pain as the image of Shiva’s smile casts him from this world.
Shiva walks past the diamond coffin, not even looking as she allows her ice tipped fingers to trail along its surface, sending cracks and fissures racing across its surface until the entire construct shatters, reducing everything within to diamond dust that shall soon fade in the heat of the Heart of Drake’s Breath.
As Shiva ascends the first step, the ice begins to melt from her form, white mist and blue aether disperse like snow in a storm, revealing Jill.
Clive runs.
She meets him halfway, throwing her arms around his middle even as he pulls her close, holding her as he never dared before, tight and without restraint.
It feels like regaining a piece of home he thought lost forever.
Pulling back, he cups her face and pushes back the curtain of her hair to ensure he gets the best look. She seems tired, worn and beaten to the point that it’s a miracle she’s still standing.
Rummaging through the small pack on his belt he fishes out the elixir his uncle gave him for emergencies and presses it into her hand, only to find her grip unwavering as she looks up into his eyes.
“You came for me,” she whispers, tears welling in her eyes as the dam holding back her emotions finally breaks.
He thinks back to the night they had said their goodbyes, to the promises that were exchanged, and finds himself leaning in, resting his head against hers as he clasps her hands and stares back into her starlit eyes.
“I always will.”
She smiles, and Clive can feel himself mirroring the expression, only for it to fall as all colour begins to fade from the world.
“No,” he breathes as Jill grows cold and still in his arms.
“No, no, no, Jill? Jill?” He ignores it as the now familiar pain begins to take over his senses and the shift in the shades of grey as the cloaked figure wearing his face appears behind Jill, looming over them even as he stands below them.
Clive is only forced to abandon his efforts to wake Jill when the figure disappears in a veil of flames, just for heat to flare across Clive’s back as the man manifests behind him.
Ready this time despite the pain, Clive strikes out, his blade sheathed in flame.
Will and fire both die upon the command fuelled by overwhelming power as Clive’s mind goes blank.
He sees nothing, he feels nothing, he merely hears the words that speaks directly into his mind as he falls away from everything.
"̸̯̼̮̣͋̈́W̸̛̭͎̘͐̊ͅĕ̴̮͍͊ ̷̩̦̲͓͍̔̋̀ḩ̸̦͌̀͛͘ȃ̸̙̘͔̩̌̔̃̃ṿ̸̫̩͂͑̒́ę̴͖̲̐̓͗ ̶͇̤̥̀̃͘n̸̢͎̒̓͝e̴̪̠͚͒͝e̷̗̺̿d̷̳̼̻̘̳̉ ̸̳̎͊͊͋ö̶̲͙͎̂͘f̷̜͖̫̙͌ ̷̡͔͙̇͐̉̈́ỳ̶̠̤̣̹̯́ơ̴̢͚̫͖͈̇͝ú̸̱̆̿͊,̴̾̂ͅ ̶͚̼͍̞̓͌ọ̸͈̲͂̄ͅu̴̜͜͝r̵̬͇͎̜̀̇ ̶̛̛̥̄͋M̵̤̥̳̯͂̉͘y̶̧̠̮͂͋̕͠ţ̸͇͎̈́̑͌h̴̘̐̐̊ỏ̵̮́̈ş̵͔̘̲̿͜.̷̱̲͈͉͆̃"̴͈͕̙̉̄̅̏