Trinity of Magic

The boos and jeers aimed at Polaris fell into stunned silence. Surrender? He was offering them a chance to surrender? Judging by the shocked and slightly angry expressions around her, it was clear the tribe didn’t take the offer well.

Gravitas took advantage of the brief lull to survey the Icefang tribe's defenses. Frost and his men held the center of the wall, with Elder Fang positioned nearby. Together, they formed a solid front, representing about half of their fighting force. Yet, it was clear not everyone was pleased with this setup.

Some of the Elders had visibly distanced themselves from Frost, forming their own separate forces. The eastern wall, in particular, was crowded with such factions. Disjointed and chaotic, they clearly hadn’t had enough time to devise a proper strategy or practice coordination. These were undoubtedly the warriors of the sanctum who had remained hidden until now. Altogether, they made up nearly half the fighting forces of the tribe.

Gravitas’s gaze swept along the wall, her frown deepening with each observation. This didn’t look good. She had never been fond of her homeland and had cursed Korrovan many times. Yet, despite her disdain, she had to admit its armies were formidable. The Slave Legions, the Lightning Corps, the Stormchasers—each independent branch was a well-defined part, working together seamlessly to form a cohesive whole, like a well-oiled machine with a unified purpose.

Unfortunately, none of that cohesion was visible here. The tribe was lacking in every aspect. Leadership was fragmented, roles were undefined, and there were no organized branches. Some tribesmen carried clubs, swords, or bows, while most were unarmed. There was no formation or strategy to their positioning. This was definitely not just because of Winters' absence. It was painfully clear they had little to no experience with large-scale conflicts.

Gravitas shifted her gaze to the Frostscale army. Their forces were loosely divided into nine battalions, likely each led by a Pureblood, with the final Pureblood serving as the overall commander. Every soldier carried a quiver of spears and showed signs of basic discipline. However, their unease in formation was evident, suggesting they had only recently been trained in such tactics.

This deepened her frown. It was clear that the Frostscale tribe hadn’t been idle. They were well-prepared for this fight, surpassing their enemies in discipline, weaponry, numbers, and leadership. And that was just from a quick assessment.

Gravitas felt the girl beside her trembling more intensely and gently squeezed her shoulder to offer reassurance. The girl looked up, searching for comfort in her eyes. But Gravitas had little to offer. At the moment, she was seriously contemplating abandoning the battle from the start.

Just then, Frost stepped forward to address the envoy from the enemy tribe. He moved to the edge of the battlements, directly above the heavy gate. Gravitas saw only his back, but he cut an imposing figure, with his long white hair flowing in the wind—fearless in the face of the enemy.

“There will be no surrender,” he replied simply. “If you want to take what belongs to us, you will have to pay in blood.”

There was no posturing, no threats, no empty bravado in his words. It was the demeanor of a warrior. Gravitas found his straightforwardness refreshing. Frost might be a terrible politician, but he was an excellent commander. It was easy to trust someone who always clearly stated their intentions.

“I am Razeth, son of Shassra,” the envoy replied. “Who am I speaking to?”

Frost stared at him for a long, drawn-out moment. “You know very well who I am, little snake.”

Razeth smiled, his mouth stretching unnaturally wide, giving his face an unsettling appearance. “Very well, Frost. If you prefer to skip the pleasantries, let’s get straight to it: surrender now, and we will let your people leave unharmed. What do you say?”

“My people?” Frost repeated. “Even my Father?”

Razeth smiled even wider. “That is what I said.”

Frost fell quiet once more, and every tribe member collectively held their breath, waiting for his reply. “I would accept that offer,” Frost began, “if I could trust that disgusting tongue of yours even a little bit. However, given the presence of my traitorous sister amongst your ranks, I will have to conclude that you have no good intentions.”

Razeth sighed theatrically. “You would condemn your people to death for such a petty reason?”

Frost raised his hands, gesturing toward either flank of the wall. “My people do not fear an honorable death. What they fear is that you might not have the courage to come.”

His words were met with a thundering roar from the tribesmen, and even Gravitas felt a surge of excitement. The Icefang tribe excelled in one area compared to their enemies: spirit. Despite their disorganization, the warriors on the wall looked eager for a fight, almost as if they had gathered a small army of Vulcanoses. She glanced over at the firey giant and saw him grinning ear to ear, already rubbing his knuckles.

“That's not how it went last time,” Razeth sneered. “I saw your people scampering up the hill with my own eyes.”

Frost shrugged. “Against your father, sure. But I don't see him among you now.”

At that moment, Polaris stepped out of the crowd and stood next to the envoy. Tilting her head back to look at Frost, her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Brother, please! I’ve begged for this deal. It’s the only way for our people to survive. You must accept it.”

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

“I must...” Frost repeated slowly. In a flash, he whipped his hand forward, forming an ice spike in his grasp. The projectile sailed toward Polaris, impaling the ground just inches from her feet. “The only thing I must do, ‘sister,’ is take your head and put it on a spike.”

With those words, he turned around and walked back to his people. It was evident that he was done talking. Razeth stared at his back with a cold expression, the mirth gone from his face. He also didn’t try to convince him any longer and returned to his people. After a short exchange of words, the gathered enemy Purebloods each joined their battalions.

“What should we do?” Vulcanos asked from the side.

“Nothing for now,” Ash replied. “We don’t have the strength to sway the battle, but if we time it right, we might tip the scales in a key moment.” That possibility seemed to appeal to Vulcanos as he began to nod frantically. Clearly, the idea of swooping in at the right time, intrigued him.

The distant clang of a war horn echoed through the mountain pass, signaling the end of diplomacy. As the sound reverberated through the cold, still air, it was met with a rumbling response from the Icefang warriors. Their howls and chants resonated across the walls, a primal symphony of defiance.

The tension, thick as the mountain air, broke all at once.

A sudden torrent of movement rippled through the Frostscale battalions. With serpentine grace, they moved forward, their tails slithering across the frozen ground. The advance was methodical, quiet even, as they carried their poisoned spears in one hand, shields in the other. Despite the blizzarding winds and the biting cold, they approached with unnerving calm. Every warrior of the Frostscale tribe wore a determined expression, their reptilian eyes reflecting the frost-glittered light as they approached the walls.

From her perch, Gravitas’s eyes narrowed. She watched as the Frostscale battalions began to surround the wall. The front lines readied their spears, tipping them back to prepare for their first strike.

“Hold, brothers!” Frost’s voice boomed from the center of the wall. His blood red eyes glinted like shards of glass, scanning his tribe’s defenses. “Let them come to us.”

The tribesmen, despite their lack of formal training, responded to their leader’s calm demeanor. They gripped their weapons or clenched their fists, letting the cold mountain air seep into their bones. Ice crystals shimmered on the fort's ramparts, reflecting the determination in their eyes.

A sharp whistle cut through the air, and suddenly, the Frostscale battalions surged forward. Like a tidal wave of serpents, the front line launched their spears in unison, the poisoned tips glinting in the pale sunlight. The sky was suddenly dark with a rain of deadly projectiles.

"Shields!" Frost shouted.

Most of the Icefang tribesmen who had been empty-handed just a moment ago now hid behind sheets of ice. Spears slammed into the frozen barriers with bone-jarring force, but a few slipped through the cracks, embedding into the flesh of unlucky warriors. Cries of pain echoed along the wall as poisoned tips pierced skin, the venom spreading like wildfire through their veins. The affected soldiers staggered, struggling to maintain their footing as the poison sapped their strength.

“Return fire!” Frost commanded, raising his arm high.

A volley of ice spears soared from the battlements, their blue-glowing tips cutting through the frigid air. As the projectiles descended on the Frostscale tribe, their snake-like tails allowed them to twist and coil with unnatural agility, dodging many of the incoming missiles. Yet, some found their mark, puncturing scaled armor and drawing hisses of pain from the snake warriors below.

It was then that the real assault began. The Purebloods at the head of each battalion gave a signal, and the Frostscale warriors used their serpentine lower halves to launch themselves toward the fort’s walls. Dozens of them leaped upward at alarming speed, slamming against the stone with a sickening thud as they tried to grip the icy surface, using their tails to coil around the ledges and hoist themselves up. Most, however, slid uselessly down the battlements. They clearly hadn’t anticipated the increased height of the walls, and there was no way to adjust their plans. Only the strongest had any chance of reaching the ledge in a single leap.

"Here they come!" Vulcanos roared, his massive fist glowing with molten heat. The fiery giant had been itching for this moment, and now that it was here, he let loose a deep, guttural laugh. He slashed his hand downward, sending a wave of heat over the battlements. The air sizzled as the ground beneath melted into slick slush. Instantly, he had cleared a good section of enemies. They had all chosen to run the moment the unknown attack came sailing towards them. Their panicked reaction only encouraged Vulcanos further, as he began to launch one attack after the other.

Gravitas could only smile wryly at the sight. At least, the man was content to stay out of danger… for now.

Meanwhile, Elder Fang dashed along the western flank. He conjured ice from the ground beneath his feet, molding it into deadly spikes that he hurled at the scaling enemies. His strikes were precise, piercing through the necks and chests of Frostscale warriors as they tried to climb. The old man proved with every minute why he deserved his position as an Elder and one of the most trusted members of the tribe. Each time one of them fell, they let out a strangled hiss, their bodies plummeting back to the snow below. Still, more came, relentless and driven.

On the central wall, Frost himself stood tall, his hands raised as a swirling vortex of ice formed above his palms. He unleashed a frozen wind upon the attackers, driving them back down the wall with brutal efficiency. Each gust was like a thousand daggers slicing through the air, freezing the hands of those who attempted to cling to the battlements.

But the Frostscale tribe had come prepared. Razeth, standing at the rear, barked an order, and the Purebloods channeled their own Magic. A pale blue mist began to seep from the ground, winding through the air like a venomous fog. It coiled around the battlements, seeping into the cracks of the fort and causing the Icefang warriors to cough and stagger. Their breaths came in ragged gasps as the poison fog took hold.

Gravitas cursed under her breath, glad of the choice to stay out of range. This fog wasn’t enough to take any single warrior out of the battle, but it would be a constant nuisance for the coming fight. She glanced down at the Frostscale forces and saw Razeth standing there, watching the battle unfold with a calm, calculating gaze. The venomous smile on his face had returned.

As the Icefang tribe struggled to fend off the assault, the Frostscale warriors pressed on, more of them making it to the top of the walls. Claws and fangs met steel and bones as the two tribes collided in a brutal melee. The Icefang warriors, despite their disorganization, fought with savage ferocity. Their Magic, though unrefined, was devastating, freezing flesh and shattering bones with a single touch. But the Frostscale warriors were no less deadly, their poisoned spears leaving deep, festering wounds in their opponents.

The fort had become a frozen battlefield, and in the snow and ice, the future of the tribe would be decided.