Sword of Ice (A Throne of Glass Fanfiction)

7

7

Rowan Whitethorn stood in the middle of the destruction.

The brunt of the carnage still haunted the ramshackle city, the memory of darkness and fire fresh, cutting deeper than any wound Doranelle had obtained over the last few centuries. In a matter of moments, their sense of safety within their homeland faltered completely, which any barrier or wall could never rebuild again.

In the aftermath, the smoke lingered, wafting through every cracks, twists and turns of the city, leaving no space left untouched by the Valgs' unleashing. Ashes and dregs couldn't be swept off the ground. Both remained there, sticking permanent and reminding the people of what the ashes and dregs were made of. They were the remnants of the fallen hosts and the demons who still posed a threat beyond the ground. Beyond the air, the skies, and even beyond this realm.

The cobblestones had become the silent grave.

And no one wanted to step on them.

Even so, the people had no choice. The dust clung to their feet, footprints etching on the ground as they returned to their homes. Within each four walls, there was no safety. Darkness beckoned in their heads and the fire was long extinguished. No high a wall or big a roof could ever remedy that.

It was only the start of a new war ahead of them, the promise of darkness more ominous coming soon.

The rivers surrounding the city wept, rippling apart from loss and fear that could never be obliterated with a cleaning surge of a wave. Despite the clear and bright sky, the waters reflected a surface of darkness, expanding through the smallest tributaries.

Rowan forced himself to see all sights and remember them down to the smallest details. He had seen worse sights than this. A warrior who fought through bloodshed after bloodshed would know that. But the damage was all the same, the memory vivid and unforgiving with its infesting.

All those sights haunt him still. This was no different.

He continued trudging through the streets, acutely aware of the ashes and dregs that clung to his boots, the dust a puffing trail as he propelled forward. It took valiant effort to make those steps, knowing how many had fallen beneath his feet. They were the ones who couldn't be saved from the darkness, the unwilling hosts who'd become prisoners in their own bodies. In the end they succumb to the demons, witnessing how they rot within with no one to help them.

Bile rose up to Rowan's throat, his stomach curdling with dread.

Even warriors had the compelling urge to heave the contents of their stomachs after surviving a disgusting sight like this. There was no heart that was ever too hard to not feel a twinge of pain from the loss.

Scattered bones and tattered flesh were charred, resting on a corner leading to a hidden alley. Rowan took a step closer to observe the remains, the fractured bones unusually small and the flesh smelling pungent.

"That was a girl," someone said.

Rowan turned to look at who it was.

A woman in her prime, clad in red tattered robes, stared back at him with arched eyebrows, crossing her arms. Her eyes were pitch black, flecked with specks of gold that glinted in the sun. And her full lips were already curled into a smirk when she continued, "Not a lot of Valgs would want to find a host within a little girl. They always tend to pick the strongest, the most experienced in the battlefield. Soldiers, if you will. That way it's easier to let the host do the killing with its own accord. The Valgs simply have to sit back and wait until the bodies are too damaged to be of any use to them. Sometimes, if the host is unwilling, it would need more summoning of power to make it obey."

Rowan stilled, tipping his head towards the remains. "Then why this one?"

The woman sneered. "It's a taunt, prince. What better way to make someone so reluctant to kill the host if not for an innocent child being possessed? It's a mean to remind us what the Valgs are capable of. The slaughter of youth spills more blood than the rest."

"That means the Valgs could create a host army of children," Rowan said more to himself. The image of children slaughtering and being slaughtered in the battlefield flashed through his mind, vivid and foreboding. Their blood was a high price, one that costs far more than anything else.

The woman simply nodded. "They would do it. If it comes to that point, they'd make no qualms about raising an army that hard to kill. Not because they are skilled, but because they are children, innocent lives who don't have enough strength to fight the parasites." A pause. "What would you do, prince, if a host like her faces you? Do you kill the girl or do you choose to let the demon remain if only it would spare her a few more moments?"

Before he could answer, the woman had disappeared.

A frown creased his features, but Rowan stalked back away from the alley into the streets. He passed by dilapidated stalls, abandoned carts and stopped when he saw the last remnants of the platform, where the dead witch once stood, lightning striking the stake to create the blazing fire that had served as their arsenal to fight the first band of Valgs.

He stood among the charred wood and cinders, staring coldly at the vestiges. The witch's words echoed still, growing louder and louder as something beckoned Rowan to come closer to the ruin.

And there, obscured by the rubble, was something faintly gleaming.

Iron, Rowan realized and made to clear the fragments of wood to grab it.

It was a small, iron plate, and on it were engravings etched and understood only by the witches.

He lifted his arms, the engraving on the vambraces donning similar swirls and strokes of the western tongue, a language that had rotten with the fallen lands across the other side of the continent. If he'd want to understand what the new engravings on the plate meant, he'd have to find Gallavan in the midst of the destruction. The wise man had likely fled off to somewhere, perhaps trekking across the mountains, never to return to a ramshackle city. There was nothing left for him here. And anyone who wasn't a fool would know the threat posed after today.

But even then, it seemed Rowan didn't need to find him.

This is all for show.

Even the iron plate seemed to be saying the same.

_______________

Some would say that a carnage this grand would never be for show.

To display such pageantry that would cost the lives of many and turn the kingdom into a living residue of cruelty couldn't possibly be a price worth paying.

Doranelle had been the sanctuary of the people, mortal and fae alike. For three millennia, it had stayed that way under the fae queen's protection. She was as much as a seeker of peace and safety like the kingdom she ruled over.

A place to call home. That's what the queen said before as she welcomed the people with open arms to her rich expanse of mountains, valleys and rivers.

All life grew throughout Doranelle, living up to its promise of becoming the home people would call. They'd preserved that promise until now. They've barely survived the wrath of the Valgs, but they survived all the same.

It wasn't a victory worth celebrating. It was a proof of resilience Doranelle had in the face of unforeseen adversity. And a proof of the fae queen's power and unbroken oath to protect their home.

But today, no one knew if Maeve ever wept for the loss.

And if she was the disease after all.