Chapter 19: Blood on the Snow
The sun never rose on the day of battle.
Gray clouds choked the sky, casting the northern cliffs in a pallid light that made everything appear drained of life. Snow drifted down like ash, and the wind howled through the peaks with mournful purpose. The sanctuary Kieran had made his temporary bastion now stood on the verge of siege.
From a high vantage point, Kieran stood beside Iris, surveying the narrow pass that led to their hideout. The scouts were right. A tide of steel and crimson banners surged toward them—five thousand soldiers in gleaming armor, led by the golden standard of the Cathedral. At the forefront rode Archbishop Caleor, clad not in ceremonial robes, but warplate engraved with divine runes.
Kieran's breath misted in the frigid air. "They're not here to negotiate."
"No," Iris said quietly. "This is retribution. They intend to erase us—to make an example."
Behind them, the sanctuary stirred with controlled chaos. Fighters armed themselves, mages wove final wards into stone, and lookouts whispered reports. Selene directed elite scouts to sabotage the flanks, while Veyra rallied the warriors, her voice a roar that shook the ancient walls.
Aleron stood at the heart of the camp, speaking calmly to defected knights. He wore his armor again—not the gleaming silver of a Cathedral champion, but a new set, blackened and marked with runes that Iris had crafted herself. His sword rested against his shoulder like it belonged there.
Aria approached him as he tightened his gauntlets.
"Do you regret it?" she asked.
"Regret?" he replied, then shook his head. "No. I regret how long it took me to see the truth. But not this."
She nodded, then reached into her cloak and produced a ring—simple, silver, etched with the sigil of her old order.
"I won't wear this anymore," she said, offering it to him. "But I don't want to forget what I once believed in either. Keep it… as a reminder that we chose to change."
He accepted the ring, closing his fingers around it. "Thank you."
---
As the enemy army drew within half a mile, Kieran called his inner circle together in the war chamber.
A map of the terrain was spread out on a stone table, lit by flickering lanterns. Kieran pointed to the narrow bottleneck that led into the sanctuary.
"They'll try to force the pass. Caleor will want a swift victory to keep morale high."
"And we'll bleed them for every step," Selene said, marking points for ambush squads.
"Veyra, you'll hold the center," Kieran continued. "I want their momentum broken before they reach the inner defenses."
The crimson-haired warrior cracked her knuckles. "They'll have to climb a mountain of their own dead if they want through me."
"Iris, cloak our backlines. I don't want any surprises from flankers or teleporting clerics."
She nodded. "I've already laid six disruption sigils. Their mages won't find footing here."
Aleron leaned over the map. "I'll take a vanguard of elite fighters and strike at Caleor's command unit. If we can kill him early…"
"No," Kieran said firmly. "Caleor is mine."
The room fell silent.
Kieran's voice was steel. "He's the spine of their order. I want to snap it myself."
Aleron didn't argue. He simply nodded.
---
The enemy arrived by midday.
Warhorns shattered the silence, echoing through the cliffs like funeral bells. Kieran stood atop the battlements as the first ranks formed—a sea of templars, blessed warriors, and golden-masked inquisitors.
Then came Caleor.
The Archbishop rode a white warhorse, his face exposed and composed. His golden eyes found Kieran through the distance, and he raised his hand.
"CURSED SOVEREIGN!" his voice boomed across the frozen expanse. "YOU DEFY THE WILL OF THE DIVINE! YOUR REBELLION ENDS TODAY!"
Kieran stepped forward, arms crossed, his voice like thunder against the snow.
"I DEFY TYRANNY, CALEOR! YOU MURDERED THOUSANDS FOR A LIE!"
Caleor's smile was cold. "Then let the gods judge us both."
He dropped his hand.
And the battle began.
---
They came like a wave of steel.
Templars charged the pass, but Veyra met them head-on. With a roar that echoed through the cliffs, she led her warriors into the fray. Her flaming axe cleaved through enchanted shields, and her presence became a rallying point for their outnumbered defenders.
Arrows rained from hidden ridges. Selene's scouts struck from the shadows, carving through enemy lines before vanishing like ghosts. Explosions of elemental magic ruptured the snow, sending templars flying in pieces.
Iris stood at the rear, her staff spinning as she layered enchantments across their forces—shielding barriers, restorative pulses, illusion veils that warped perception. Each spell was precise, each movement practiced.
Aleron led a contingent through a hidden pass, striking at the enemy's left flank. His sword gleamed with vengeance, and he cut down Cathedral champions who once called him brother. Aria followed close behind, her twin blades singing through the air.
Kieran moved with purpose, cutting through resistance as he pushed toward the heart of the enemy army. His eyes were locked on Caleor, who remained behind the front lines, surrounded by elite paladins.
Every step brought Kieran closer.
---
By dusk, the battlefield was a frozen graveyard.
Thousands lay dead or dying, and the snow had turned red.
Kieran finally reached the command unit. The paladins moved to intercept him, but he unleashed his curse.
With a surge of black and crimson energy, shadows erupted from beneath his feet, impaling and flinging enemies aside like ragdolls. Their screams were short-lived.
Caleor dismounted, drawing a blade forged in divine fire.
"You've become exactly what we feared," he said calmly. "A godless monster."
"No," Kieran replied. "I've become what you made me."
Their blades met with a clash that shook the mountain.
Caleor fought like a legend—every strike guided by divine force, every movement blessed by centuries of faith. But Kieran was no longer the outcast who woke up cursed and powerless. He met the Archbishop blow for blow, his aura twisting through shadows, devouring light.
They clashed beneath a dead sky, fire and darkness colliding.
"You were never meant to win," Caleor snarled, forcing Kieran back.
"And yet here I am," Kieran growled, his voice laced with venom. "Breaking your empire."
Caleor's blade pierced Kieran's side, but Kieran didn't falter. He seized the Archbishop's arm, unleashing a surge of corrupted energy into his body. Caleor screamed, staggering.
With a final swing, Kieran severed Caleor's arm, then plunged his blade through the man's chest.
"Let your gods save you now."
He twisted the blade.
Caleor crumpled.
The battle ended soon after.
---
Victory came at a price.
The defenders lost nearly half their number. The wounded filled the sanctuary halls. The air reeked of blood and burnt metal. But they had won. The Cathedral's army had been broken, its figurehead slain.
Kieran stood among the corpses, his blade dripping with divine blood.
Selene approached him quietly, her face streaked with ash. "It's done."
Kieran looked to the horizon, where the enemy had once stood.
"No," he said. "It's just beginning."
He turned to the survivors, to the warriors who had stood with him, bled for him. They looked to him not as a villain, but as a leader. A symbol.
The Cursed Sovereign.
And for the first time, Kieran embraced the title.
"Today," he said, voice rising, "we broke their chains. Tomorrow, we burn their throne."
Cheers erupted—raw, guttural, victorious.
And somewhere deep inside him, the shadow stirred.
Satisfied.