Usurper of flames

A Union of Fire and Frost

Chapter 1: Union of fire and frost

 Slowly, my eyes open to pitch darkness, a damp chill seeping through my bones. I try to lift my arms, but they won't move—iron digs into my wrists, and it takes a few agonising seconds to realise why. Shackles. Cold, heavy, and biting into my skin with every movement.

My head throbs, and when I turn to look around, the world spins. Blinking hard, I make out the rough texture of stone walls, slick with some kind of moss. There's a faint, sickly smell, a mix of rot and iron that makes my stomach churn. Somewhere nearby, water drips, the sound bouncing off the walls in mocking rhythm.

Panic kicks in as I strain against the restraints. Every rattle of the chains echoes in the silence, and I freeze, listening. Silence—then footsteps, slow and deliberate, heading toward me. I can't see anything but shadows, but I know they're coming for me. My heart pounds harder, and the pain in my wrists becomes a distant ache compared to the sick dread settling in my chest.

I rack my brain for how I got here, but it's all just fragments. A key scrapes in the lock, followed by the low creak of the door opening. A figure stands in the doorway, their face obscured but eyes sharp, reflecting firelight.

"Do you know why you're here?" the figure asks, voice flat and cold.

My mouth is dry, but the words come anyway, unsteady and hoarse. "It's over, Albion has fallen."

The great kingdom of Albion, once the rulers of the seas, had fallen. For centuries, Albion's banners had flown high, casting shadows over continents and drawing borders with the blade. We had ruled with unyielding pride and iron command, our navy unchallenged, our pockets overflowing with the spoils of conquered lands. But now, the mighty walls of Harlech Castle lay in ruin, its cerulean banners tarnished and torn.

And who had brought this empire to its knees?

Not a force of nature nor an army of thousands, but a single woman—a woman from a land Albion had once crushed under its heel, a land Albion's generals had dismissed as a mere footnote of history. Yet she had returned from the ashes of her homeland, with flames in her eyes and a vengeance that had turned Albion's might against itself.

With calculated precision and relentless ambition, she had shattered Albion's defences, stripped us of our power, and claimed the throne as her own. The very empire that had once subjugated her people now answered to her command.

Silence stretches between us, tense as the chains holding me. In that moment, I know I have two choices: I can beg, plead for mercy... or I can fight, whatever that might mean in this pit. The figure shifts, waiting for me to speak.

The figure steps closer, and I instinctively pull back, but there's nowhere to go, nothing but stone at my back. The torchlight catches their face just enough for me to make out the hard lines, the cold, assessing look in their eyes. Without a word, they grip my chains and—impossibly—snap them free as if they're no more than twine.

I fall forward, my arms suddenly weightless, pins and needles prickling painfully up my wrists as blood rushes back. I try to steady myself, but the world spins. The figure reaches out to hold me upright, their grip firm, almost impatient.

"On your feet," they say, voice low and edged with something that could be disdain or amusement. "You have an audience with the queen."

The words hang in the air, and I stare at them, uncomprehending. The queen? My mind races, fighting through the haze of hunger and exhaustion. Its not yet been a week since the fall of albions crown and this harlot has declared herself queen.