My purpose is to serve my Lord Ragnar.
To eliminate his enemies. To soothe his worries. To be the silent, unseen blade that carves a path for his ambition.
Today, we are that blade.
We stand before the heart of Queen Alyssa’s domain: the Crystal Spire.
It is a thing of breathtaking, arrogant beauty. A single, impossibly tall tower of shimmering, flawless crystal that scrapes the artificial sky of her underground kingdom.
Light refracts through its thousand facets, casting rainbows across the cavern.
It is a monument to a queen’s vanity.
And we are here to tear it down.
My Shadow Strikers move with a silent, lethal purpose.
The outer defenses are gone, her armies shattered in our Lord’s brilliant trap. The path to the throne is clear.
We enter the Spire. The interior is a disorienting, beautiful maze of crystal stairways and floating platforms.
But it is empty. Silent.
"She knows we are coming," Grunt, my massive Kobold Warlord, growls beside me, his iron-shod maul held at the ready.
"She is waiting for us," I reply, my voice a quiet whisper. "At the top. In her throne room. This is where she will make her last stand."
We ascend. Floor after floor of silent, beautiful emptiness. The tension builds with every step.
This is too easy. Too quiet.
We reach the final level. A pair of massive, ornate doors carved from a single, giant diamond stand before us.
"Ready," I command my team.
Grunt nods, plants his feet, and swings his war maul, Earthshaker.
The ground itself seems to explode as the massive weapon connects with the diamond doors. The wind shrieks as the force of the blow ripples outwards.
A sound like a mountain breaking echoes through the spire. The diamond doors, which I’m sure cost Alyssa a fortune in Creation Points, shatter into a billion glittering shards.
A visible shockwave of force blasts through the doorway, and we step inside.
The throne room is a vast, circular chamber, the walls and ceiling made of a single, continuous curve of crystal.
And in the center, on a throne that looks like it was carved from a star, sits Queen Alyssa.
She is not what I expected.
She is tiny, no bigger than a human child, with long, silver hair and eyes the color of a winter sky. She wears a simple, elegant white dress.
She looks fragile. Delicate.
But the power radiating from her is a physical force. It presses down on us, a pressure that makes the air thick and hard to breathe.
Flanking her throne are four figures. They are her Royal Guard. They are not Golems or Elves. They are something else entirely. They look like angels, forged from pure, solidified light, their wings casting a brilliant, holy glow.
They are beautiful. They are terrifying.
I look at them, at the Queen on her throne, and I feel something I have not felt since my Lord Ragnar first created me.
Doubt. A cold, tiny sliver of it.
"So, the rabble has finally reached my sanctum," Queen Alyssa’s voice is not a child’s. It is ancient, cold, and filled with a power that makes my teeth ache. "The brute’s new pets. I am unimpressed."
Before I can give the order to attack, she raises a single, delicate hand.
"Shatter," she says, her voice bored.
Not with fire or force, but with light.
A wave of pure, white-hot energy erupts from her throne, moving faster than thought.
It is not a sound, but the feeling of reality being torn apart.
I feel a searing, agonizing pain as the holy light washes over me. My dark, vampiric nature screams in protest. It is like being dunked in acid.
My three Goblin Snipers, Zix among them, simply... evaporate. They are there one moment, and the next, they are just motes of dust in a beam of blinding light.
Grunt lets out a roar of agony.
The light slams into him, and the massive Kobold Warlord, a creature who can shatter stone with a single blow, is thrown backward like a ragdoll. The wind shrieks as he flies across the room, crashing into a crystal wall.
The wall shatters, and Grunt slumps to the floor, his body smoking, his iron-shod maul clattering from his numb fingers. He is alive, but he is out of the fight.
My entire team, my elite, evolved, battle-hardened Shadow Strikers, have been defeated in a single word.
"You see?" Alyssa says, her voice dripping with a condescending pity that is more painful than the burns covering my body. "There are levels to this game. You are a tool. I am a Queen. Now, die."
One of her angelic guards moves.
The ground cracks as it glides forward, a blur of golden light and righteous fury. It raises a spear made of pure, solidified sunlight.
I raise my swords, my mind a cold, clear space of absolute focus. I will not retreat. I will not fail my Lord. I will die here, but I will take one of them with me.
And then, a voice echoes in my mind. Not a command. A plea.
Chloe, retreat. That’s an order.
It is my Lord. His voice is tight with a fury and a desperation I have never heard before.
He knows we cannot win. He is ordering me to run. To save myself.
The thought of disobeying him is more painful than the holy fire searing my skin.
But the thought of failing him is worse.
"No," I whisper to the empty air. I will not run. I will hold the line.
The angel of light is upon me, its spear descending.
And then, I am falling.
A hand, massive and covered in rough fur, has grabbed me, pulling me back.
It is Grunt. He is on his feet, his body battered and broken, but his eyes burning with a loyalty that defies even a Queen’s power.
"We... go," he growls, his voice a pained rumble.
He turns and smashes his way through a crystal wall, creating an escape route. He is a shield, a living battering ram, buying me seconds with his own life.
The last thing I see before he shoves me through the opening is the angel’s spear of light piercing his back.
I am running. I am retreating. I have failed my Lord. I have lost my comrades.
And as I flee through the broken, beautiful, silent corridors of the Crystal Spire, a new emotion, cold and hard and sharp as a shard of glass, takes root in my soul.
It is hatred. A pure, perfect hatred for the Queen on the throne of stars.
I will return. And I will see her kingdom burn.