Prologue

That spring morning, the world feigned perfection. The rivers and lakes of the Aragon Empire had shed their icy shells, and the ground was firming under a warm sun. New buds bloomed into a riot of color, and birdsong once again filled the air. A gentle breeze whispered over the Imperial city of Regensburg, a calm façade for the anxiety churning within.

The city’s heart, the market square, was a frantic sea of people. Whispers turned to frantic chatter, all centered on a single, terrifying truth: war with the Kingdom of Ingvaeon was no longer a threat, but a certainty.

Then came the sound—a rhythmic, heavy pounding that shook the dust from the cobblestones. From the barrack doors emerged towering figures in shining plate armor, long muskets resting on their shoulders. On their backs, the emblem of a crimson sun on a blood-red field was stark and menacing. They were the tercios, the elite Imperial army, feared across the continent. Like giant, inexorable ants, they marched in their vaunted square formations, leaving Regensburg behind as they began their long trek to the border.

The Emperor's decree was absolute, a holy mandate fueled by generations of indoctrinated hatred. Raze Prüm, the sacred city of the elves, to the ground. Spill blood in Aureo, the elven capital. The royal bloodline must be extinguished. No mercy. No compassion. This was not a war; it was a crusade of annihilation.

As the last soldier departed, cheers erupted, shaking the very foundations of Regensburg. Flags fluttered and war hymns echoed, the people’s fervor a terrifying spectacle. They saw not conquest, but righteous vengeance and the promise of elven slaves. The red sun of the empire would soon fly over the ashes of the elven kingdom.

Six months later, the vibrant red leaves of autumn fell across a broken land. The warm days had bled away, replaced by the encroaching chill of winter. Six months since the Aragon army had set foot in the elven kingdom and unleashed hell.

Prüm, once the City of Light, was now a monument to darkness. The ruins of its Great Temple clawed at the sky, its white stones fractured and stained with blood. The World Tree, a majestic font of life, was now a blackened, smoldering stump. From its dead branches hung the head of the Grand Patriarch Parseval, his eyes wide in a final, frozen scream of terror. The wind whispered through the ruins, carrying the stench of charred wood and old blood. The people of Prüm were either dead or enslaved, their harmony with nature shattered forever.

Far to the north, in the capital city of Aureo, a fragile illusion of peace remained. Yet, behind the beauty of the palace gardens, a creeping dread had taken root. News from the front lines spoke only of destruction and suffering. The King had dispatched his Crown Prince with seventy thousand elves to the border, but no news of victory ever returned. In the royal council, the King and his ministers could only stare at their maps in despair, believing the very heavens had turned against them.

But not all hope was lost.

In a quiet study within the royal castle of Königsburg, a single ray of sunlight pierced a stained-glass window. It illuminated a young princess bent over a desk cluttered with maps and scrolls. Silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the light like spun moonlight. Her sharp, blue eyes darted from one document to another, her focus absolute. After months of tireless work, a faint smile graced her lips—a smile that held a secret powerful enough to turn the tide of the war.

"Will you meet His Majesty after this?" a soft voice asked.

The princess didn't look up. "Of course," she replied, her tone flat and cool. "This is the perfect opportunity for me to become the savior of Ingvaeon."

Across the table sat her younger sister, Ermenfleda, a vision of classical elven beauty with her shimmering golden hair and porcelain skin. She sipped her tea, her gaze never leaving her sister. Their relationship was one of few words, built on a foundation of shared history and calculated ambition.

"How are the preparations, Fleda?"

The younger sister’s smile was bright. "Everything is proceeding smoothly, Sister. His Majesty has approved our request for two hundred royal guards. Furthermore, the dark elf contingent will arrive within the week."

The princess, Adele, finally looked up, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. "Excellent. And the new muskets for them?"

"Ready and waiting. Stored safely in the armory."

"Good." Adele’s gaze shifted to the window, overlooking the city of Aureo below. "After this, Aragon will be nothing but a stepping stone. A stepping stone for me to seize the throne of Ingvaeon. And I will make them pay for what they did in Karavuto."

Ermenfleda’s expression shifted to one of pure admiration. "I have no doubt we will succeed, Sister. With the dark elves and… the others… nothing can stop us."

"I know," Adele said, and the smile that returned to her face was less a smile and more a smirk. Cold, sharp, and hungry.

***

The vast expanse of snow stood as a silent witness to the frozen conflict. The long winter had drained the spirit of both armies, transforming the borderlands into a white graveyard where soldiers huddled in their forts, praying for a reprieve from the biting cold.

It was into this bleak landscape that news of the First Princess's arrival spread. When her forces finally appeared, the weary elven soldiers at the frontline fortress could only stare. This was no ordinary relief force.

At the head of the column marched Princess Adele and her sister Ermenfleda, their white cloaks brilliant against the snow. Behind them, two hundred Royal Guards marched in perfect formation, their gleaming armor and the sacred Mímameiðr tree emblazoned on their cloaks a symbol of royal authority. But it was the force behind the guards that stole every soldier's breath.

There, standing in silent, disciplined ranks, were the dark elves. Beings of legend, with skin and hair the color of jet, and piercing, luminous yellow eyes. Clad in black bratt cloaks that seemed to drink the light, they radiated a mysterious and dangerous aura. And in their hands, each carried a long, black musket of a design none of the royal soldiers had ever seen.

The fortress commander, a grizzled veteran named Gervasius, greeted them at the gate, his face a mask of grim respect. "Your Highnesses," he bowed. "Your arrival is a light in the darkness. But I must be honest, our situation is critical."

Inside the fortress’s main hall, Adele, Ermenfleda, and Gervasius engaged in a hushed, intense discussion. Outside, their forces began to mobilize. The Royal Guards moved with crisp discipline to their barracks. The dark elves, however, moved with a fluid, predatory grace, setting up their own camp with practiced efficiency. The royal soldiers, their initial fear replaced by a burgeoning hope, watched them with a newfound respect.

News of the elven reinforcements quickly reached Fort Steinwacht, the imperial stronghold seized from the kingdom months prior. Yet, the news was met not with caution, but with arrogance.

"The Princess herself?" sneered an imperial captain to his fellows. "Is she bringing us flowers?"

Laughter echoed in the smoky mess hall. A string of victories had bred a lethal sense of superiority within the Imperial army. Their generals, confident in the supremacy of the Tercio, saw no need to hide behind fortress walls. The order was given: they would march out and crush this pathetic relief force on open ground.

The next morning, the sun hid behind a thick blanket of gray clouds. A biting wind whipped across the plains as fifteen thousand Imperial soldiers formed their iconic square formation. Pikemen formed a dense, bristling core, flanked by ranks of musketeers. On the wings, heavy cavalry in full plate armor sat astride their chargers, their carabins ready. They were an invincible machine of war, and they knew it.

They marched onto a vast plain flanked by low hills and dense forest. Across the snowy expanse, they saw the enemy. The elven army, barely seven thousand strong, seemed pitifully small. At their forefront stood a long, thin line of the dark elves in their black cloaks.

"Look at them," an imperial soldier scoffed. "They have no depth. No pikemen to protect their shooters. We will ride right through them."

Markgraf Erik von Jürgen, the commander of the Imperial forces, shared his men's confidence. He had shattered elven armies before. These mysterious dark elves were a curiosity, nothing more. He raised his hand, the signal to begin the advance.

And then the sky began to tremble.

It started as a low hum, growing into the sound of immense, leathery wings. From behind the gray clouds, a flock of creatures dove into view, forming a perfect V. They were griffins—magnificent beasts with the bodies of lions and the heads of eagles, their feathers shimmering like polished steel.

A wave of confusion rolled through the Imperial ranks. "What are they?" a soldier cried. Griffins were monsters, followers of the Dragon Lord. They were not allies one could command.

But von Jürgen saw the chilling truth. Their coordinated flight, their deliberate path, their utter lack of aggression towards the elves—this was no random attack. This was a calculated strategy.

"They are with the elves!" he roared, his voice laced with the first hint of fear. "BRING UP THE CANNONS!"

His warning came too late. As the realization sunk in, the griffin flock dispersed, their talons releasing dozens of small, iron spheres. The balls plummeted into the heart of the Tercio formation, and the world exploded.

Jagged fragmentation bombs tore the Imperial lines to shreds. The once-impenetrable square of pikes became a deathtrap. Men screamed as shrapnel ripped through armor and flesh. Horses panicked, trampling the wounded. The neatly ordered ranks dissolved into a writhing mass of chaos and terror. Musketeers fired wildly into the sky, but the griffins were too fast, their movements too erratic, their forms obscured by the black smoke of the explosions.

Before von Jürgen could regain any semblance of control, a new threat emerged. From the forests on their flanks, a wave of black-clad cavalry burst forth. Dark elves on swift, dark steeds, wielding black carbines. They moved with impossible speed, encircling the shattered Imperial army.

"ATTACK!" a cry echoed, and the cavalry charged.

They didn't crash into the imperial lines; they flowed around them, firing their carbines with deadly precision, picking off officers and panicked soldiers. The once-proud Imperial heavy cavalry, now trapped and disoriented, were cut down before they could even mount a proper charge. When their ammunition was spent, the dark elves drew curved swords and carved their way through the remnants.

Having completed their devastating task, the griffins vanished back into the clouds as quickly as they had appeared, leaving a broken army in their wake. Not a single griffin had been so much as scratched.

For the first time that day, the bugle of the elven army sounded—the signal to advance. The long, thin line of dark elf infantry stepped forward, their pace steady and relentless. Snow crunched under their boots, but their formation was perfect. They raised their long, black muskets and, at an ideal range, unleashed a devastating volley.

The sound was a single, deafening crack.

The front rank of the imperial forces was obliterated. Before the survivors could even process the horror, the elves fired again. Their rate of fire was impossibly fast, their accuracy terrifying. The imperial muskets, powerful but clumsy, were no match. Every shot from the elven line found a target, while the imperial soldiers' panicked return fire went wide.

Von Jürgen watched in abject horror as his world came apart. He saw a young officer's head vaporized by a musket ball. He saw a cavalryman fall, his intestines spilling onto the blood-soaked snow, only to be trampled by his own panicked steed. The smoke of gunpowder was thick with the coppery tang of blood and the sickening smell of burnt flesh.

He tried to shout the order to retreat, but the word caught in his throat. Retreat where? The path back was cut off by the dark elf cavalry, who were now dismounting, methodically executing any who tried to flee.

This was no longer a battle. This was a systematic slaughter.

Von Jürgen’s legs gave out. He sank to his knees in the red slush, a searing pain in his chest where a musket ball had found him. His gaze fell upon the Imperial banner—the proud red sun—now torn, trampled, and sinking into the mud.

What have we done to deserve this? he thought, his final breath a bloody bubble. The roars of battle faded, replaced by the triumphant cheers of the elven soldiers. The glorious victory he had promised his Emperor was now a mass grave for fifteen thousand men.

The aftermath was a painting from hell. The pristine snow was a canvas of crimson, littered with the twisted wreckage of men and horses. The air was thick with smoke and the metallic scent of death.

Through this scene of carnage, two figures walked with an unnerving calm.

Princess Adele Theudifara Aureo, her silver hair a stark contrast to the gore at her feet, stepped gracefully over the severed arm of an Imperial soldier. Her blue eyes were alight with a terrifying brilliance. Behind her, Ermenfleda followed like a silent shadow, her expression unreadable.

"Hahahaha! Did you see that, Fleda!?" Adele’s laughter cut through the groans of the dying. "They didn't even last an hour!"

Ermenfleda allowed herself a small, serene smile. "If you are happy, Sister, then so am I."

They stopped before the corpse of Markgraf von Jürgen. Adele nudged his body with the toe of her boot. "They die holding weapons they never had a chance to properly fire. Obedience is a language sharper than steel."

"You are right," Ermenfleda murmured, her gaze distant.

In the distance, the cheers of their victorious army echoed from the captured Fort Steinwacht. Adele laughed again, a deeper, darker sound this time. "That isn't just a cheer, my dear sister. That is the sound of this land breathing again, finally free of their filth."

She turned and drew close to Ermenfleda, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Before summer ends, there will not be a single imperial soldier left on Ingvaeon soil. And this…" She gestured to the field of death around them. "This will only be the beginning."

The night wind lifted strands of Adele’s silver hair, creating the silhouette of a thorny crown against the rising crescent moon. Ermenfleda’s eyes widened slightly. This was the sister she had sworn to follow into any darkness. She remembered their past—two starving children in a dilapitated hut, dreaming of a lavish life. Now, her sister stood with her feet on the enemy's red sun, her hands grasping a destiny she was forging herself.

"And when we finally march into their capital," Adele continued, her smile as sharp and cold as the moon above, "I will dress you in a cloak made from their finest silk, Fleda. Red, like the blood we spilled today."

Ermenfleda chuckled softly, a rare and beautiful sound amidst the desolation. "Red is a color that fades easily, Sister."

Adele’s smile widened. "Then, how about the purple of their emperors?"

They continued their walk, their calm conversation a chilling counterpoint to the surrounding massacre, leaving the field of death to be swallowed by the night.

***