Atlas’s swing froze mid-arc, the Stormtalons locked inches from Corvus’s throat. His arms and legs stiffened, the poison in his veins flaring in agony as ice crept over his limbs, binding him in a prison of frost. The villagers gasped, stumbling back as the very square turned pale and crystalline in the sudden wave of cold.

  The soldiers dropped to one knee instinctively, as if a force greater than command compelled them. The torches sputtered and died, each flame swallowed in white frost that crackled and spread across the stone.

  Through the curtain of icy mist, a figure emerged. He walked slowly, with deliberate, heavy steps. Each footfall sent a ripple of frost crawling across the ground. His light blue dragon scale armor gleamed like polished glacier ice, and the dragon-shaped helmet he wore exhaled faint streams of white mist with every breath. An aura of winter surrounded him—unnatural, suffocating, absolute.

  FrostBane. Cristóval de la Riva, Second General to King David.

  His presence alone silenced the square. The villagers clung to each other in terror; the soldiers stood stiff as statues, afraid to even shift in their armor.

  Corvus, still on his knees, coughed blood but forced himself upright enough to bow. “General FrostBane,” he rasped, his voice trembling with both relief and awe. “You saved me. Forgive me—I underestimated the boy. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  The dragon-helmed head turned toward him. Frost curled from the edges of the helmet’s maw, and when FrostBane spoke, his voice was low, calm, and colder than the air itself.

  “It’s alright, Corvus.”

  The tension in the square eased slightly—until FrostBane added:

  “I know you won’t do it again.”

  With no hesitation, FrostBane’s gauntlet shot forward. Ice erupted from his hand, a jagged spike of frozen death that pierced straight through Corvus’s chest. The right-hand assassin’s eyes went wide with shock. He gasped once, crimson spilling against the white frost, before collapsing lifelessly at the general’s feet.

  The villagers screamed. The soldiers flinched. Atlas, frozen and helpless, could only stare as FrostBane executed his own man without a flicker of remorse.

  FrostBane’s icy aura rolled heavier now, every step toward Atlas leaving frost cracking along the stone. The villagers shrank back, clutching their mouths, the sight of Corvus’s lifeless body still staining their minds. Soldiers dared not move, their discipline rooted in fear more than loyalty.

  Atlas, frozen from the limbs, forced the words out through gritted teeth. “How… how could you kill your own man?”

  FrostBane stopped directly before him, the dragon-helm lowering as if considering the boy’s question. A soft hiss of mist escaped the frozen fangs of his helm.

  “Kill?” he said slowly, voice low and calm, echoing like the hollow of a glacier. “I showed him mercy. Failure is a disease, boy. And I do not let my men suffer.”

  His tone sharpened, each word cracking like ice splitting under weight. “Corvus thought himself strong because he could cut down farmers and hide behind venom. You think yourself strong because the wind answers when you scream. But power… real power… isn’t begged for. It’s taken. It bends the world to its will.”

  Atlas’s storm-gray eyes burned with fury, though his limbs were bound in frost. “You don’t scare me.”

  For the first time, FrostBane’s head tilted, the faintest amusement hidden beneath the cold steel. “Then let me teach you.”

  His gauntleted fist clenched, frost surging up his arm until shards of ice jutted like claws. Without another word, FrostBane drove his punch straight into Atlas’s chest.

  The impact exploded with a thunderclap of frost and wind.

  Atlas’s body rocketed backward, his Stormtalons slipping from his hands, the air ripped from his lungs as he smashed into the stone wall of the square. The force buried him into it, leaving a deep engraving of his body in the cracked stone. Shards rained down as dust filled the air, villagers screaming, soldiers staring in stunned silence.

  Atlas hung there in the wall, blood on his lips, his body shaking under the weight of the blow.

  Atlas’s chest burned, every breath a blade carving deeper into him. The poison numbed his limbs, the fight had drained his storm, and now FrostBane’s brutal strike left his bones screaming. His body was pinned in the wall, unable to move, eyelids heavy as lead.

  Through the haze of blood and exhaustion, his vision swam. The towering figure of FrostBane strode toward him with deliberate, crushing steps, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—Atlas swore he saw it:

  A dragon.

  Its translucent form coiled behind the general, wings of frost stretching wide, jaws dripping mist like venom. Every step FrostBane took was echoed by the phantom beast, a silhouette of the godless power he carried.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Atlas tried to raise his Stormtalons, but his fingers slipped, too weak to even hold the hilts. His heart thundered, then faltered. This is it. This is where I die.

  FrostBane stopped midway, tilting his dragon-helmed head as though considering whether to prolong the moment. Then, with an almost casual grace, he extended one hand.

  Ice crystallized instantly, forming into a long, jagged dagger, its surface glowing pale blue. He balanced it lightly between his fingers, then snapped his arm forward.

  The icy blade screamed through the air, aimed squarely for Atlas’s heart.

  The villagers cried out in horror. Soldiers leaned forward to witness the prince’s death. Atlas’s eyes widened, his last breath catching in his chest—

  THUD.

  The dagger shattered against a wall of packed dirt that had erupted from the ground in front of him, crumbling into frozen shards. Dust fell away to reveal the barrier standing firm where Atlas’s chest had been exposed.

  From the shadows of the ruined street, a voice rang out, sharp and defiant.

  “Guess I showed up just in time.”

  Atlas’s blurred eyes caught movement—a familiar figure stepping into the torchlight, knives glinting in his hands, a cocky smirk cutting across his face.

  Jax.

  His brother had arrived.

  Atlas sagged against the imprint in the wall, his head heavy, his body trembling as he tried to form words. Blood traced the corner of his mouth.

  “Jax… I—”

  But Jax, standing firm between him and FrostBane, cut him off without looking back. His knives glinted in the faint firelight, dirt still crumbling from the barrier he had raised.

  “Save it, brother,” Jax said flatly, his voice laced with focus. “Elias told me where you were headed. He said you’d do something stupid if left alone.” He tilted his head slightly, just enough for Atlas to see the faint grin on his lips. “Guess the old man was right.”

  Jax’s smirk faded as his eyes locked onto FrostBane. The icy general stood unmoving, the dragon silhouette still faintly shimmering around him in Atlas’s fading vision. The frost in the air thickened, his presence colder than death itself.

  For a long moment, the two simply stared each other down: knives gleaming against dragon-scale armor, a storm of grit against a mountain of ice.

  Then—heat.

  The temperature shifted, faint but sharp, as Colby strode into the ruined square. His eyes burned like embers, his stride steady and unyielding. A faint flicker of flame danced along his fingers, defying FrostBane’s cold aura.

  The general tilted his head slightly, the dragon helm angling toward Colby. For the first time, his stillness broke—his gauntlet flexed, ice whispering faintly as if preparing to lash out.

  “So,” FrostBane murmured, his voice like cracking glaciers, “the fire one arrives.” He regarded Colby with a calculating pause, then let the frost ebb ever so slightly. “Of all the brothers… perhaps you alone might be worth my time.”

  The words were not praise—they were judgment. And yet, FrostBane did not attack.

  A ripple of icy mist spread at his feet, crawling outward in all directions. Soldiers stiffened, then vanished one by one into the frost. The dragon silhouette behind him coiled, wings stretching before dissolving into the haze.

  “You may keep this village,” FrostBane said coldly, his voice carrying across the square like a death sentence postponed. “But know this: fire gutters in the end, and storms break. When next we meet, I will show you what true power does to hope.”

  With that, the mist swallowed him whole—FrostBane and his remaining men vanishing into the freezing fog, leaving only silence, shattered stone, and the sting of bitter cold behind.

  Atlas sagged against his brothers, his breath shallow and ragged. His skin had gone pale, veins faintly dark where poison coursed through them. Jax had one arm hooked under his shoulder, practically dragging him forward, while Colby kept a steady flame pressed against his chest—not to burn, but to fight the frost’s lingering bite.

  “Stay awake, damn it,” Jax hissed, his usual smirk gone, his voice tight with urgency. “You don’t get to check out after all that, you hear me?”

  Colby’s jaw was set, fire flickering hotter in his palm as he muttered, “He’s colder than ice… if we don’t get him to the healers now, he might not—” He cut himself off, forcing the thought down as they pushed through the ruined streets, villagers parting to watch the princes disappear into the night.

  The urgency in their stride was not just fear—it was desperation. Atlas had risked his life for these people. Now, it was up to his brothers to keep his storm alive.

  Far away, in the rival kingdom, King David sat on his throne. A great spear leaned casually against the armrest, his other hand swirling a goblet of deep red wine. The torchlight painted shadows across his sharp features, his smirk both regal and cruel.

  He lifted the goblet to drink—but before the wine touched his lips, the surface rippled. Frost crept across the rim, hardening the liquid into a perfect scarlet crystal.

  David’s smirk deepened. “Ah. You’re back.”

  From the far end of the chamber, icy mist spilled inward, coiling along the stone floor. FrostBane emerged, towering, his dragon-shaped helm faintly steaming as shards of frost fell from his armor. He said nothing at first, only approached and bowed his head slightly, the frost whispering around him like chained spirits.

  “The boys are stronger than expected,” FrostBane intoned, his voice a low growl beneath the helm. “Gerald’s legacy burns brighter than even Nerios imagined. The storm one nearly touched something… greater.” His tone lingered with faint acknowledgment, but colder than respect.

  David swirled his frozen goblet until it cracked in his hand. “And yet you let them live.”

  “I let them see,” FrostBane corrected. “Hope is only useful when it can be crushed.”

  The king chuckled darkly, leaning on his spear. “Wise as ever, FrostBane. Tell me… which one do you think might break? Which of Gerald’s spawn could be bent, rather than burned?”

  Before FrostBane could answer, the chamber doors swung open with a heavy slam. A man strolled in, boots echoing against the stone, every step casual but confident.

  He was tall and lean, dressed like an outlaw in a medieval age—patched leather coat, tattered scarf, and a wide-brimmed hat tipped low over messy dark hair. Across his chest hung a bandolier stuffed with powder, bullets, and curious trinkets. At his hips, two finely crafted pistols gleamed in worn holsters, and slung over his back was a long-barreled rifle etched with strange runes.

  His grin was sharp, his eyes wild, and as he sauntered toward the throne, he twirled one pistol around his finger like it was a toy.

  “Now, now,” he drawled, his voice laced with mischief. “Talking about breaking princes without inviting me? That hurts, boss. You know I love a good family drama.”

  King David smirked, raising his goblet in greeting. “Welcome, Shawn Walker… my Third General.”

  Shawn snapped the pistol back into its holster with a flourish, tipped his hat, and let out a laugh that echoed strangely in the cold chamber. “Let’s go hunting, then.”