Chapter 7 - THE SIEGE OF FROSTHOLD
The sky above Frosthold City was choked with black smoke and crimson emergency lights.
The American Syndicate’s private military force had turned the grand, ancient metropolis into an armed fortress. Heavy barricades blocked every major street, while armored hovering tanks patrolled the skies alongside squads of gray-robed priests who maintained a massive, dark magic shield over the entire city.
Inside the grand hall of Frosthold Palace, Grand Trustee Vance sat on the throne, sipping wine while reviewing troop deployments on a glass screen. Beside him stood Lord Commander Alaric Vane, his knee now encased in a heavy mechanical brace, his eyes full of unhinged obsession.
"The drilling rigs are at eighty percent capacity," Vance reported coldly. "By tomorrow morning, we will have pierced the cavern ceiling of Aethelgard and extracted every ounce of dragon-stone."
"I don't care about the stone, Vance!" Alaric snapped, leaning heavily on his staff. "I want the boy's head! The Order cannot allow an Ashford to live! As long as he breathes, the royal bloodline threatens our authority!"
"The boy is dead, Alaric," Vance said smoothly. "He fell into a thermite pit beneath Black Ridge. Nobody survives that."
Suddenly, the floor beneath their feet trembled violently.
A deep, metallic boom echoed from the outer gates of Frosthold City.
Vance frowned, standing up and pulling up the security feeds. "What is that?"
On the screen, the grand iron gates of the city—a six-hundred-year-old monument—were bulging outward.
BOOM!
With a terrifying roar of tearing metal, the massive gates exploded inward.
A single figure stepped through the dust and fire into the main boulevard of Frosthold City.
Rowan Ashford stood alone, his dragon-scale armor shimmering with brilliant blue light, Valiance resting lightly on his shoulder.
Behind him, emerging from the mountain fog, was an army.
It was not an army of knights, but the People of the Lower District—thousands of ironworkers, miners, commoners, and rogue soldiers who had suffered under the Syndicate’s tyranny for decades, armed with heavy hammers, modified plasma rifles, and improvised armor. Leading them was Marcus Ashford, wielding his massive battle-hammer like a god of the forge.
"Citizens of Frosthold!" Rowan’s voice echoed across the entire city, magnified by royal magic. "Six hundred years ago, your kingdom was stolen by men who trade your lives for gold and dark magic! Today, we take it back!"
"Open fire!" the Syndicate commander on the front lines screamed.
A wall of plasma fire, heavy machine-gun rounds, and dark magic bolts rained down upon Rowan.
Rowan didn't dodge. He raised Valiance and swept it forward.
A massive wall of diamond-hard ice materialized out of thin air, absorbing the entire barrage without a single crack.
"Charge!" Marcus roared from behind the wall.
The rebellion slammed into the Syndicate lines like a tidal wave. The streets of Frosthold City transformed into a battlefield of high-tech weaponry and raw, righteous fury.
High above the city, the dark magic shield erected by the Order began to crack as a massive, white shadow descended through the clouds.
Vaelith swooped down, his giant ivory wings blowing away hovering tanks like toys, his blue dragon-fire shattering the Order's defensive towers one by one.
Lyra Vance moved through the high rooftops of the city with incredible agility, using a high-powered sniper rifle equipped with dragon-stone rounds to take out the Order's priests who were attempting to cast dark curses upon the rebelling citizens.
Rowan marched straight down the central avenue toward Frosthold Palace, carving through line after line of elite Syndicate war-frames and shadow-knights. His blade moved with effortless grace, freezing weapons, shattering shields, and leaving a trail of glowing blue light in his wake.
No soldier could stand against him. No machine could slow his advance.
By nightfall, the rebel forces had taken the lower city, driving the remaining Syndicate forces back into the courtyard of Frosthold Palace—the very place where Rowan’s journey had begun days earlier.
Rowan kicked open the heavy oak doors of the palace courtyard, stepping onto the marble stone where he had once stood barefoot and wearing a torn shirt.
Standing in the center of the ruined courtyard, waiting for him, were Lord Commander Alaric Vane and Grand Trustee Vance.
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Behind them stood a terrifying, ten-foot-tall monstrosity—a creature made of dark metallic armor fused with twisting dark shadow-magic, holding a massive scythe that bled crimson fire.
"Welcome back, blacksmith," Alaric sneered, his eyes completely black with corrupt magic. "Meet the Dread Monarch—the true power of the Order of Saint Caelum. It was forged from the dark magic of six hundred dead kings. And now, it will feast on your soul!"
