The Shattered Crowns

P.O.V. Maeliev Othoro

Long trumpets blared as Maeliev remained on his knees, unmoving despite the weight of humiliation pressing down on him. Above, the grand white tower loomed like an arrogant sentinel, its raindrop design glinting mockingly in the sun. It stared down at him and the others, as if the tower itself were alive and pleased with the spectacle unfolding beneath its shadow.

His two guards—his last semblance of defense—had been ripped from him and tossed aside with the kind of ease that spoke of overwhelming power. Their absence was as glaring as the deep dents and gashes carved into Maeliev's once-pristine armor. The intricate royal blues and silvers of his station, a symbol of protection and honor for his people, were smeared with blood—his blood. The sacred color of his Pride had been sullied by crimson, turning it into a cruel mockery of what it once represented.

A deep, world-weary sigh escaped his lips. Around him, five elves knelt in submission, their heads bowed low. They observed the sacred laws of the Prides—an act of obedience, of reverence, to avoid committing the grave sin of disrespect. Maeliev alone broke that silent submission. He alone lifted his head to meet the figure standing before them.

The elf's armor seemed to devour the light around it, its polished surface as dark as obsidian. Deep green accents wove through the black like veins of life threading through death, the sacred vibrance of the forest itself reflected in the design. Together, the colors whispered of omens: a suffocating darkness edged with fragile vitality. The craftsmanship was breathtaking, a seamless blend of artistry and menace.

The elf's helmet obscured his features, but Maeliev knew what stood behind him. The sound of cheering filled the air—a roaring, thunderous tide that rang with celebration. If Maeliev turned his head, he would see them: the crowd, vast and fervent, their voices rising in deafening approval. Yet their joy was a poison to him. They were blind to the truth of what was unfolding.

The elf removed his helmet, revealing a cascade of golden hair that gleamed in the sunlight. Beneath it was a face so angular, so perfect, it could have been carved from the marble of the elven ancestors' statues. Every feature was sharp, symmetrical, and imbued with an immortal grace. His face bore the unmistakable markings of a Prideborn elf.

But it was the eyes that struck Maeliev like a blade.

Glacial blue, cold and piercing, stared down at him with unrelenting intensity. Most Pureblood elves bore eyes of gold or emerald, yet this elf's rare, icy gaze set him apart. It wasn't just the color—it was the power within them, the kind of power that could crush mountains or freeze seas. Those eyes alone confirmed his identity.

Cendius Sorosh.

The next King of Lions. The Usurper Emperor. The Prideborn of Prideborns. His titles stretched endlessly, his name immortalized in the annals of elvish history. He was Emperor of the First Civilization, Leader of the Trie Empire, and, as some whispered in reverence and others in fear, the Usurper of the Creators themselves. But for Maeliev, he was simply Cendius—the brother who had once been his closest companion.

For a fleeting moment, sorrow flickered across Cendius' flawless face, softening the edges of his icy gaze. It was a fleeting expression, one so subtle that none but Maeliev would have noticed. His gloved hand, clad in an intricately crafted gauntlet from an Age long forgotten, reached out to touch Maeliev's helmet. There was no malice in the gesture, no cruelty, only an overwhelming sense of regret.

In another time, this might have been a moment of great honor. To have the King of Lions himself touch his armor was a privilege few would ever know. But here, in this solemn square, under the shadow of that arrogant tower, it was a ritual of disgrace.

Cendius' hand moved with deliberate care as he removed Maeliev's helmet. The crowd fell into silence, their thunderous cheers dying away as they watched. The soft scrape of metal as the helmet left his head felt deafening in the void left behind.

Maeliev's dark hair clung to his sweat-slick skin, the strands sticking to his face. His emerald eyes, vibrant even through the pain, locked onto Cendius' glacial ones. Neither brother looked away.

Emerald forests clashed against icy tundras, the two forces meeting in a silent war of wills.

"I wish with every fiber of my being that this could have gone another way, Maeliev," Cendius whispered, his voice low and resonant. It was impossibly smooth, a sound that could have been crafted from the finest silk. And that perfection infuriated Maeliev to his core. He grit his teeth, his jaw tightening against the indignation roiling in his chest.

Around them, alabaster-clad warriors stepped forward, their presence looming. These were the Hammers of the King, Cendius' personal guard. They moved in unison, circling the kneeling elves like wolves closing in on prey. Each warrior bore a warhammer at their side, a weapon heavy enough to crush bone with a single swing. Their armor gleamed with ancient magic, marking them as warriors chosen at birth and bound for life to the King of Lions.

Cendius drew a blade from his side, and the crowd held its collective breath. This was no ordinary dagger. Its edge shimmered faintly with a golden light, the silver resin along its surface gleaming like captured moonlight. This was Galthem, Lion's Rage.

Forged by orcish hands in the Age of Infinite Arcana, the blade was legendary—a weapon that could slice through nearly anything. Its twin, Gutlin, remained locked away in the Halls of Crotas, its history just as steeped in blood and legend.

The dagger pressed against Maeliev's shoulder, the cold metal biting into his flesh. He braced himself as Cendius began to carve, the blade cutting through flesh with swift precision. The pain was sharp, burning, but there was no cruelty in Cendius' movements—only a sense of pity. When the mark was finished, an inverted triangle with an incomplete base, blood seeped from the wound.

Maeliev clenched his jaw as the others cried out around him. Each of the five elves was marked in turn, but while Maeliev bore the hand of the King himself, the others were carved by the Hammers. Their marks were identical, yet the symbolism was not lost on anyone. Maeliev's punishment came from the Usurper Emperor himself.

As the dagger left his shoulder, Maeliev's strength faltered. His vision blurred at the edges, the world tilting as he began to collapse. But before he could fall, Cendius caught him, gripping his hair to hold him upright. Sweat dripped from Maeliev's temple, the salty tang of exertion sharp on his lips.

"Thou shalt not depart this world, Maeliev," Cendius murmured, his voice now carrying a weight of command. "The Contract remains unfulfilled."

The words hit Maeliev like a thunderclap. A Contract? A promise he could no longer remember?

The King of Lions rose to his full height, his voice booming across the square. "The punishment of these elves is now atoned. Maeliev, Menik, Lutharn, Singas, Volix, and Ruthedar—rise as Pureblood Deathwatch. Let Makeeth and Vibero guide you in your rage. Serve the throne of the First Empire with every breath until your last."

And so, they rose.

His heart sank as hope withered within him. She was gone.

The six condemned warriors were marched through the city streets, their escorts forming an unbroken line of alabaster and emerald that kept the crowd at bay. The streets themselves were pristine, as if the gods had polished them. Silver pathways shimmered in the light, their edges bordered by channels of water so clear they mirrored the sky above.

Jaeev, the capital of Trie, was the crown jewel of the empire. Its beauty was unparalleled, a city where architecture and nature were seamlessly intertwined. The buildings resembled raindrops frozen mid-descent, their vibrant blues blending with silvery hues to create structures that seemed almost alive. The pathways glistened, the rivers sang, and not a speck of dirt marred its perfection.

But none of this beauty could touch Maeliev. The cheers, the black flowers tossed at their feet, the reverence of the people—all of it was ash in his mouth. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his thoughts locked on the path he was being forced to walk.

The Hammers of the King marched them to the barracks of the Deathwatch, their presence a stark reminder of their role. To the crowd, the guards appeared as an honor guard escorting warriors destined for greatness. But Maeliev understood the truth. These were not protectors. They were executioners, their purpose clear: if any of the six tried to flee, they would die before they took a second step.

The barracks loomed before them, a stark and unfeeling structure compared to the beauty of the city surrounding it. It wasn't meant to inspire or comfort. It was a place of practicality, of cold efficiency, and death.

Inside, the barracks were nearly empty. Sparse furnishings filled the space, and the only occupant was an elf seated at a table near the far wall. He nursed a drink in his hand, his casual demeanor at odds with the gravity of the situation.

The elf raised his glass lazily as the six entered. "Another round then," he said, his voice thick with indifference. "A toast to the King."

One of the Hammers stopped, his tone sharp. "Careful, Archivist."

The elf smirked, swirling the liquid in his glass before setting it down. "I meant no offense. It's not every day we welcome new brothers to the fold."

The Hammer ignored the remark, his voice cutting through the silence as he addressed the Archivist. "These six are the first of many. Record their names and prepare the documents. The King of Lions has a vested interest in this group."

The Archivist raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He simply nodded, his smirk fading into a neutral expression. "It will be done."

The guards exited the room, their departure leaving behind a heavy silence. The six elves remained where they stood, unsure of what to do.

After a long pause, the Archivist spoke. "Grab a drink," he said, gesturing to the bottles and cups scattered on a nearby table. "Speak your given names. Tell me their meanings. Then confess your sins." He leaned back in his chair, his quill tapping idly against an open book. "I won't see any of you again, so let's make this quick."

The others hesitated at first, then began to shuffle toward the table, reaching for drinks or food to fill their stomachs. Maeliev, however, remained seated where he was, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

The Archivist gave him a pointed look before addressing the group. "Best to take a drink while you can. This is the last kindness you'll receive. Out there in the wastes, there will be no taverns, no wine, and no mercy. If you don't have a drink now, you'll regret it."

"I don't need it," Maeliev rasped, his voice hoarse from the strain of the day.

The Archivist shrugged, unfazed. "Your choice." He dipped his quill into ink and pointed it at the smallest elf among them. "Let's start with you. Speak your name."

The elf stiffened, clearly nervous. His dirty blonde hair and muted gray eyes betrayed his lowborn status, even among Purebloods. He looked barely more than a boy, though Maeliev knew better than to judge an elf by his appearance alone.

"My name is Menik," he said, his voice steady but soft.

The Archivist motioned for him to continue.

"There are two parts to it. 'Men,' which means One, and 'Ik,' which means Seeks."

The Archivist nodded, scribbling into his book. "One who Seeks. A decent name. What of your sin?"

"I joined of my own free will. I have no sin," Menik replied.

The Archivist chuckled, a sound that was both amused and pitying. "They all say that." He wrote the response without further comment, then turned his gaze to the elf beside Menik.

This one carried himself with an air of arrogance that immediately grated on Maeliev. His polished armor and finely groomed hair betrayed his self-importance.

"I am the great and mighty Singas," the elf declared, his voice dripping with haughty pride. "And this... this mistake of being sent to the Deathwatch will soon be corrected. I am no warrior; I am a poet."

The Archivist raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "A poet, you say? Interesting. What does your name mean?"

Singas sniffed as though the question was beneath him. "It means Gentle Teller. A soft name that does not suit me. Once I marry, my name will change to Singas Barthus. Then I will be known as Kingdom Breaker."

The Archivist didn't dignify his statement with a response, jotting down the name before asking, "And your sin?"

Singas' sneer faltered, but he quickly recovered. "There was no sin. This is all a misunderstanding."

"Of course it is," the Archivist replied dryly, moving on.

The Archivist turned to the next elf, his quill hovering impatiently over the page. This one looked far plainer than the others, his features simple and unremarkable save for the wiry beard he scratched absently. His armor was well-worn but lacked any of the pomp that marked Singas' attire.

"Ruthedar," the elf said, his voice level. "My name is made of two parts. 'Rut,' meaning First, and 'Hedar,' meaning Son."

The Archivist jotted it down without looking up. "Firstborn, then. A fitting name for one who's ended up here. And your sin?"

Ruthedar hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "I entered one of the Neph ruins. I didn't think it would lead me here."

The Archivist's quill paused briefly before scratching across the page again. His tone carried a faint edge of disapproval. "A fool's gamble, poking at things that should remain buried. Most who trespass in Neph ruins are executed on the spot. Consider yourself lucky that your punishment is only this."

Ruthedar offered no rebuttal, his silence doing little to lighten the weight of the moment.

The Archivist's gaze shifted to the scarred elf sitting to Maeliev's right. This one exuded danger, his large, calloused hands curled into fists even while sitting still. A vicious scar ran clean through one of his eyes, leaving it a pale, sightless white. His remaining eye, however, was sharp and filled with a simmering rage.

"And you?" the Archivist prompted.

The elf leaned forward, his one good eye narrowing. "Lutharn," he said, his voice a low growl. "Luth means Serpent, and Arn means Rage."

The Archivist dipped his quill and noted it down. "Serpent of Rage. A strong name, though not one that inspires trust. What of your sin?"

A grim smirk twisted Lutharn's lips. "I killed a Prideborn. He got in my way, so I put him down."

The Archivist's quill paused mid-stroke. For a brief moment, even his usually detached demeanor faltered. Prideborn elves were sacrosanct, considered untouchable by elvish law and tradition. To kill one was an unthinkable crime.

When he finally spoke, the Archivist's voice carried an edge of caution. "You are fortunate to still have your head. No one, not even the Deathwatch, often receives mercy for such an act."

Lutharn shrugged. "Mercy? No. This is just a slower death."

The Archivist didn't argue the point, choosing instead to finish writing before turning to the next elf. His gaze fell on the older one—a hybrid, if his features were anything to go by. The elf's gray hair, worn in a tight ponytail, was an unusual sight among Pureblood elves, who rarely aged so visibly. Then there was his mechanical arm, its dark bronze surface patterned with intricate orcish designs.

The Archivist's quill hovered over the page. "Your name?"

The hybrid took a slow sip from his drink before speaking. "Volix," he said, his voice carrying a gravelly, almost musical cadence. "Vo means Musician, and Lix means Age. Together, it means Musician of Old."

"Appropriate," the Archivist said. "And your sin?"

Volix gave a dry, humorless laugh, gesturing to himself. "Existing. What more sin does a hybrid need in this glorious empire of Purebloods?"

The Archivist said nothing, his quill scratching away in the silence. The prejudice against hybrids was no secret, and Volix clearly felt no need to elaborate.

At last, the Archivist turned to Maeliev. His quill paused, as though sensing the tension that suddenly filled the room. Maeliev's name had weight, far more than the others, and they all knew it.

Maeliev swallowed, the metallic taste of blood lingering on his tongue as he spoke. "Maeliev Othoro," he said, his voice low but steady. "Mae means Darkness. Liev means Consume. Othoro is Unholy Light."

The Archivist raised an eyebrow at the full translation but said nothing. His quill scratched furiously, filling the page with Maeliev's name and meaning. "And your sin?"

The room seemed to hold its breath. Even the arrogant Singas stopped fidgeting, his gaze flicking toward Maeliev with thinly veiled curiosity.

Maeliev hesitated. His sin wasn't one that needed explanation—not to elves, at least. Every Pureblood in the room understood the weight of a Cardinal Sin. But to say it aloud felt like stripping himself bare before these strangers. Still, there was no avoiding it.

"Cardinal Sin," he said simply, his words carrying the weight of finality.

The Archivist's quill froze for a heartbeat before continuing. He didn't press for details—none were needed. A Cardinal Sin was enough to doom anyone, even a Prideborn.

Before the Archivist could close the book, Singas sneered, his sharp tone cutting through the tension. "And what of your last name? Are you not proud of your Prideborn status?"

Maeliev's emerald eyes flicked toward him, but his expression remained cold, unreadable. Singas was nothing more than a petty annoyance, though one Maeliev suspected would test his patience further in the days to come.

The Archivist, however, tilted his head. "A full name carries the weight of one's Pride. If you choose not to include it, that is your right, but I will record none of it. Prideborn or not."

Grinding his teeth, Maeliev forced the words out. "Othoro," he repeated. "Unholy Light."

The Archivist nodded, writing the name in full before closing the book with a soft thud. He stood and stretched, his eyes flicking between the six warriors before him.

"Mukashi," he said, addressing them with the title that marked their rank in the Deathwatch. "That is what you are now. Warriors bound together in death, brothers by blood and service. Forget your old lives. None of that matters anymore."

He stepped toward the door, gripping the railing as he prepared to leave. "Enjoy this night while you can. Drink, rest, eat—whatever suits you. Tomorrow, you are no longer elves of Trie. You are Deathwatch. And the only freedom you will know is when you take your final breath."

He paused briefly, glancing over his shoulder. "Perhaps I'll see one of you again. Though I doubt it."

With that, the Archivist disappeared, leaving the six condemned warriors to their fate.

The barracks settled into an uneasy silence after the Archivist's departure. The six elves exchanged wary glances, none daring to speak first. The weight of what had just transpired—what they had just become—hung heavily in the air like a storm cloud.

Maeliev let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wooden wall as his shoulder throbbed. The wound from Cendius' dagger had stopped bleeding, but the phantom sting of the inverted triangle carved into his flesh refused to fade. His armor, now battered and bloodied, felt like a cage wrapped around his body.

Across the room, Lutharn poured himself a drink with a heavy hand. "So," he said, his voice a low rumble as he raised the cup to his lips. "This is it, huh? Deathwatch. The lowest of the low. The great expendables."

Menik flinched at the bitterness in Lutharn's tone but said nothing. The younger elf sat stiffly at the edge of the table, cradling a mug of water he hadn't touched. His wide eyes darted between the others, as if searching for some hidden reassurance that would never come.

Volix chuckled darkly, the sound rough and sharp. He swirled the remaining liquid in his glass, the bronze plating of his mechanical arm catching the faint light. "You sound surprised, Lutharn. What did you expect? A feast? A parade in our honor? We're the empire's leftovers. The only purpose we serve now is dying for people who won't even remember our names."

"You're wrong." Singas, who had been adjusting his spotless armor as though trying to remind everyone of his refinement, leaned forward. "Our names are in that book. They will be remembered. Even in death, the great and mighty Singas will endure."

Volix snorted into his drink. "The great and mighty Singas? You're about as great as a pebble on the side of the road. One gust of wind, and you're dust."

Singas' face twisted into a sneer, his arrogance flaring. "And what are you, hybrid? A mongrel who thinks he can speak to me with disrespect? Your blood is a stain on this empire."

Before anyone could react, Lutharn slammed his cup down, the force of it rattling the table. "Shut up, both of you." His good eye burned as he glared at Singas. "Keep running that mouth of yours, and I'll carve the other half of your face to match Volix's scars. We're all the same here now—pureblood, hybrid, Prideborn, lowborn. Deathwatch doesn't care where you came from."

For a moment, it seemed Singas might retort, but one look at the rage coiled in Lutharn's frame convinced him otherwise. He huffed and sat back in his chair, muttering under his breath as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves.

Ruthedar finally spoke, his voice calm and steady, breaking the tension. "Lutharn is right. Our pasts mean nothing here. Whether we live or die, whether we succeed or fail, none of that will matter. We are Deathwatch. That's the only truth we have left."

The words hung in the air, their cold finality striking each of them differently. Maeliev said nothing, his gaze fixed on the faint grooves in the wooden table. A small part of him wanted to lash out, to scream at the injustice of it all. But there was no point. His fate had been sealed the moment he knelt before Cendius Sorosh.

After a moment, the door creaked open, and an elf entered the room, his presence commanding despite his unassuming appearance. His armor, though finely crafted, bore the scars of countless battles, the once-bright silver dulled to a muted gray. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept across the room, lingering briefly on each of the six recruits.

He didn't introduce himself immediately, instead letting the weight of his presence settle over them. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. "So, you're the new Deathwatch recruits."

The six elves stiffened slightly, their attention snapping to the newcomer.

"I am Chaplin-Commander Drevaris," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Your commanding officer. For however long you survive, that is."

His words were blunt, delivered without hesitation or sympathy. It was clear he wasn't here to coddle them or offer comfort.

"I don't care where you came from," Drevaris continued. "I don't care about your sins, your ranks, or your bloodlines. All I care about is whether you can follow orders and stay alive long enough to carry them out. If you can't, then you'll die, and someone else will take your place. That's the only rule in the Deathwatch: Do your duty, or die trying."

Lutharn snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Comforting."

Drevaris' sharp eyes fixed on Lutharn, and for a moment, the tension in the room thickened. "If you're looking for comfort, you're in the wrong place. The Deathwatch isn't about glory or honor. It's about survival. You will be sent to the places no one else dares to go. You will fight the battles no one else can win. And when you die—and you will die—it will be far from home, with no one to mourn you."

His gaze shifted to Maeliev, lingering for a fraction longer than on the others. There was no recognition in Drevaris' expression, no deference to Maeliev's Prideborn status. He saw only another recruit, another tool to be wielded.

"You leave at dawn," Drevaris said. "Get some sleep. You'll need it."

He turned on his heel and left the barracks without another word, the door slamming shut behind him.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The silence felt heavier now, filled with the grim reality of what lay ahead.

Volix broke it first, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Well, he seems like a joy to work with."

Lutharn smirked faintly, though it didn't reach his eye. "Better than Singas barking orders, I suppose."

"I would make an excellent leader," Singas muttered, his tone indignant.

Ruthedar shook his head, his calm voice cutting through the rising tension. "Rest while you can. Tomorrow will come whether we're ready or not."

The six elves fell into an uneasy silence, each retreating into their own thoughts. Maeliev remained seated, his emerald eyes fixed on the faint light filtering through a crack in the wall.

The words of Cendius echoed in his mind, a bitter reminder of the path ahead: "Thou shalt not depart this world, Maeliev. The Contract remains unfulfilled."

What contract? What promise had bound him so tightly to this wretched fate? He couldn't remember. And yet, the weight of it crushed him, suffocating him with the knowledge that his life was no longer his own.

For now, all he could do was wait for the dawn.