The Frozen Throne

The Prince's Journey

A myriad of shadows writhed in the icy night air of the Citadel's courtyard. There were enemies everywhere, but the knowledge that he would have to fight the hordes every step of the way caused no surprise or confusion, not even the slightest trace of fear.

Step by step, he descended the grand staircase. Gunfire erupted, waves of bullets flying from the enemy cannons like swarms of angry insects. He pushed his way through them, sword flashing in his hand as other opponents began to run up the stairs. Each matchup ended as quickly as it began: one, then another, and another. Steel shrieked and ash-colored automatons rolled lifelessly down the steps they had just climbed.

But something was wrong. One person—people?—who should have been there with him wasn't. Did I always fight alone? Just when he felt that the memory might be within his grasp, a bullet grazed his ear, as if he wanted to stop him from remembering. He paid little attention to the wound, simply turning to face the next incoming enemy, his blade quickly sending it flying away.

The initial feeling of discomfort, of dislocation, grew. These things I'm struggling with. What are they?

Their armor was made of some kind of shiny dark metal.

As he continued to make his way through the endless rows of empty, soulless suits, it occurred to him that they shared neither tone nor design with the magitek troops he had known in the distant past. A black mist much like a cadent miasma emanated from their surfaces, an eerie aura like that of some ghostly apparition.

Most disconcerting of all was the smell of their weapons, a thick, acrid stench of gunpowder. The Niflheim infantry had never used weapons like these.

The members of the horde continued up the steps, their weapons firing violently. Again and again, he dispatched them with warp blows, a seemingly endless cycle of attack. He heard the thud of defeated enemies falling, as well as the crash as they fell down the stairs. That was also different, not the same sound made when defeating a MT. The only thing these new enemies seemed to share with the empire's automated infantry was an unpleasant degree of persistence.

A red flash, then another. Half a moment after seeing the muzzle flashes, the unmistakable sound of gunfire rang in his ears. But they were too slow, he thought scornfully, and their lack of aim made them little of a threat.

Where the hell am I? It looked like the courtyard of the Citadel, but there were many small differences.

The color of the place was wrong, or rather, it had no color at all, just cool streaks of monochrome gray. His discomfort was turning into alarm, into the clear feeling that this world was not his.

He turned on his heel, suddenly determined to confirm his suspicions. A few casual swipes of his weapon knocked down the enemies behind him, and then he headed back up the steps he had just descended.

Something was definitely not right about this place. As he entered the Citadel, it was dark and seemingly empty. There was no one but him in this place, and his feeling of apprehension worsened. This was the Citadel he knew and, at the same time, it wasn't.

He walked to the doors of the throne room, placed both hands on the huge handles and pushed them open. Inside, he met with even deeper darkness, pierced by a faint ray of light that landed on the throne. He was drawn to it. He climbed onto the throne and sat down: This does not belong to me, this throne belong to the chosen one by the Cristal.

Immediately after having that thought, a voice echoed in his mind, seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. A male voice with strength and gravity.

"Commander! Commander!"

The voice was loud disturbing his sleep, forcing him to open his eyes and focus on reality. His mismatched eyes scan his surroundings and realize he's sitting inside a car. With this small detail, he remembers that he had fallen asleep and everything until now was just a dream.