Cursed Crown

The battle still raged, but for Elara, the world had gone silent.

She stood motionless amid the chaos, her sword slack in her grip, her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes were locked on the pool of blood seeping into the snow-a deep crimson stain against the white.

It was all that was left of Thorne.

Her brother.

Her brother, who had laughed beside her just hours ago. Who had soared into battle with the fire of a warrior in his veins. Who had charged headlong into the sky, believing he could turn the tide-only to be ripped from the heavens, crushed within the Elder Dragon's jaws, devoured as if he had never been.

No body. No chance to bury him. Nothing left but blood in the snow.

A broken sound escaped her lips-half gasp, half strangled sob-as reality set in. It felt as if the air had been punched from her lungs. Thorne was gone.

Another roar split the night, the Elder Dragon looming above, its wings stirring the battlefield like a hurricane. Flames erupted in the distance, the screams of men and elves alike filling the frozen air. But Elara couldn't move.

Then, a rough, unyielding grip seized her shoulders, shaking her violently.

"Elara!"

Thrag's voice slammed through her daze, his piercing golden eyes locked onto hers, wild with urgency.

She barely registered his touch, barely heard his voice over the pounding in her skull.

"He's gone," she whispered, voice hollow. "He's gone, Thrag."

Thrag's hands tightened, fingers digging into her armor, forcing her to feel the pressure, to stay grounded. His own face was twisted with grief, but his voice was fierce.

"I know," he said. "I know, Elara. But you can't fall apart now."

Her heart twisted painfully. "Thrag-"

"Thorne wouldn't want this," he cut her off, his grip unwavering. "He wouldn't want you to stand here and die. You're our leader, Elara! We still have a battle to win!"

She squeezed her eyes shut. The weight of his words crashed over her like a tidal wave.

Thorne's death couldn't be for nothing.

If she crumbled now, if she let this pain break her, she'd be spitting on his sacrifice. She'd be letting that monster win.

Her eyes snapped open.

A fire blazed in her chest, the grief still there, but now twisted into something else-something sharper, something unstoppable.

She lifted her chin, sucked in a breath, and forced herself to look away from the blood.

Elara turned back to the battle.

Her mind, once drowning in sorrow, became razor-sharp.

The Elder Dragon hovered above, its wings blotting out the stars. A monster of legend, untouched by time. It was too powerful, its flames tearing through their forces like dry leaves.

But then her gaze landed on Thalior-the Elven King, perched atop the beast, his dark armor reflecting firelight, the Moon Staff crackling with raw energy in his grip.

Her breath caught.

That was it.

She turned back to Thrag, determination hardening her features.